“
You are traveling in circles, Mr. Lesko.” Her voice was cool but he heard a tremor in it. “Furthermore you know
nothing, sir. Nothing.”
“
Corbin won't think so,” he said pleasantly. “Put what
I know with what he knows, mix in what the Sturdevant
guy is digging up, I think we'll pretty much dope out what happened. If you want me to guess right now, I'd say some
time around January of 1944, your old man, the one who looks like a snake, got a look at Tilden's will. I think old
snake-face was going to get cut out, and you and your
indisposed brother right along with him.”
Lesko noted with satisfaction that Ella had stopped
breathing again.
“
That is absolutely absurd,” Dancer sputtered.
“
Lawrence,” Ella hissed, “shut up.”
“
How could you permit this cretin—”
'
‘Shut up!'
' she shrieked..
Dancer flinched at her sudden vehemence. Even Lesko
was startled. And on the other side of the door that Dancer
had latched, the wild-eyed old man who had followed Til
den's ghost through the streets of New York sank to his
knees with a silent wail. He pressed both palms against his
mouth and held them there to stop the bile he felt rising in
his throat.
Shut up.
The words echoed in his head. Always
shut up.
Shut up, Tillie. Go away, Tillie. Grow up, Tillie.
Don't be a fool, Tillie. The man is dead. He can't hurt you.
Bigelow must have been wrong, you say. But you found
out, didn't you, Ella? You're always so smart. Ella always
knows everything.
There are no ghosts, Tillie.
And yet it's
you who stays up on this hill with your doors and windows
locked and the drapes pulled tight when it's dark. You
knew. You knew all the time. You knew one day you
would look out your window and you would see him stand
ing there looking back at you and you finally did. I told
you.
Ella's brother climbed to his feet with the aid of a chair
and leaned against the door frame until his breathing had
slowed and he was sure he would not sob aloud. The voices
inside were softer now. Hard to hear. It didn't matter be
cause he knew what they would be saying in the end. Kill
this one, kill that one, and everything will be fine. We are protecting what is ours by right. He deserved what he got.
They all deserved it for what he did to your poor grand
mother. For all the shame and humiliation he tried to bring
upon us. Never a smile for you or me or your father. Every
thing for that slut and her bastard. He deserved to die. He
still deserves to die. Ah, yes, Ella, but don't you see? He
can't die. He keeps coming back. Now he's found us the
way he found Bigelow. He will do to us what he did to
him. You can't kill him. But you can talk to him. No. You
can't. But I can. I can explain. None of it was my fault. I
couldn't help it that they gave me his name.
Tilden Beckwith II straightened until he could stand
without the aid of the door frame. He tried to remember
where he had set down his drink. The trophy room. He
lurched in that direction, his movements silent on the thick
blue carpeting. The spring of the carpet and the lightness
of his head gave him a floating feeling. He felt
weightless.
Free. It was such a good idea and it was he, not Ella, who
had thought of it. Of course, she couldn't though, could
she? He would never listen to her. But the two Tildens
could have a talk. They could have a drink together and
thrash this out like gentlemen. He does enjoy a drink, you know. Scotch. Glenlivet The Plaza always had a bottle for
him. All his clubs as well. There was probably a bottle in
the trophy room bar. Bring it. Show him you mean him no
harm. Even bring one of the guns from that cabinet the
Burke fellow was rummaging through. An excellent idea.
Ella Beckwith's right hand had begun to convulse. She
reached to quiet it with the other, then raised both hands toward Lesko as if to say Never mind that outburst, stay
where you are, I am collecting my thoughts. I am fine now.
“
You speak of...” She paused and swallowed. “You
speak of sharing your theories with Mr. Corbin. May I ask
how that would be to your advantage?”
Lesko shrugged. “It might be worth a piece of the action
when you and Corbin settle up.”
She looked like she was going to explode again. To
scream
Never.
But she swallowed the word before it could
get out and took a breath. “It seems to me, sir,” Ella said quietly, “that you've already been given a substantial sum
for services not yet rendered.”
Dancer waved at her across the room. He cupped a finger to his ear, reminding her of the possibility that Lesko might
be wired.
The ex-cop smiled, patting his inside coat pocket, which
still held the envelope of fifteen thousand dollars. “All Dancer here said was I should do something dramatic for
it. I figure I qualified when I put two of your security guys
in the hospital instead of in the lock-up.”
Ella stared at him, at the bulge on his chest. She had that snake look, he realized, that they all seem to have. Not that
he was worried, but Lesko knew he would have been
smarter not to let her know he had it on him.
“
So be it.” Ella dismissed the fifteen thousand dollars
with a flip of her fingers. She glanced at Dancer, then back
at Lesko. “Is Lawrence's concern legitimate, sir? Are you recording this interview?”
Lesko shook his head. “Scout's honor. Dancer here can
pat me down as long as he doesn't get affectionate.”
Ella nodded to Dancer who, his face reddened, crossed
to Lesko and ran his fingers lightly over his body. He
turned to her as he stepped away and shook his head. Ella held his gaze. That look again. She seemed to be asking
Dancer some other question with her eyes.
She cleared her throat and looked again toward Lesko.
“You speak of casting your lot with Mr. Corbin and com
pany. That seems rather a long-term investment, Mr.
Lesko.”
“
On the other hand, they're a nicer class of people and
they probably won't be looking to kill me first chance they
get.”
Ella snorted. Lesko wasn't sure at what. She chewed her
lip. “Mr. Lesko,” she asked slowly, “if you were to with
hold your theories ... and otherwise protect me against fur
ther annoyance in these matters ... what would you regard
as a fair consideration?”
“
Fifty grand a year, every year,” he answered at once.
“
Not really.” He shook his head. “It's not even black
mail. What I want is a lifetime contract as a security con
sultant with Beckwith Enterprises. That's a hell of a lot less than you pay either Burke or Dancer here, and they're both
mutts.”
“
And you'll want it in cash, I presume.”
“
Nope. On the payroll. All legal.”
“
And your contribution to the firm's security will be
what, exactly?”
”
I discourage Corbin but I don't kill him.” Lesko took
a step closer to the desk. “The main thing is, you don't
either. Anything happens to him, I go to the cops and the
papers. Anything happens to me, my notes and a deposition
go to the cops, the papers, and to Harry Sturdevant. Beyond
this Corbin thing, which you leave strictly to me, I'll do as
much or as little for my keep as you want. Within reason,
of course.”
An unsettling smile pulled at the dried-out comers
of Ella
Beckwith's mouth. “And this deposition you mention, sir,” she asked innocently, ' ‘do I assume that it is in safe hands,
as they say in the mystery films, with instructions that it
go to the authorities should anything happen to you?”
“
You got the picture, lady.”
“
Since you assure me that this is not blackmail, Mr.
Lesko”—the smile brightened—“it must be a question of
competitive bidding. What is it exactly that you have to sell
this Mr. Corbin? Since you can prove nothing of a criminal
nature against any of us, you must have it in mind to help
him draw up some sort of family tree.”
A buzz sounded on her telephone. Ella Beckwith ignored
it.
“
Do you propose, sir, to endear yourself to Jonathan
Corbin by establishing that his sainted great-grandmother
was a former prostitute? And if that does not sour him on
the worth of your services, imagine when he learns that his
very upright great-grandfather was in fact a murderer. He
was, you know. He murdered the woman whose name I
bear.”
“
Lady ...” Lesko shook his head wearily. The buzzer
sounded twice more. She glanced at it and then at Dancer,
who crossed to take the call. Ella rose to her feet and,
propped up on her cane, leaned into Lesko's face. The
smile now had a wildness to it.
“
Oh, bear with me, Mr. Lesko. I have saved the best for
last. Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”
Lesko closed his eyes. “You're going to tell me your
brother does. I've already seen that, lady.'' He looked past her at Dancer. Whatever he was hearing on the other end was making him blink.
“
My brother, that wreck of a man whom you saw fol
lowing Corbin through the streets of New York yesterday,
has believed for twenty years that he is being stalked by
the ghost of his namesake. He had never seen him, mind
you. He had only the word of a dying man that the ghost
of Tilden Beckwith had become flesh. That he was not only
alive, but alive in his full, youthful, saloon-brawling and
homicidal vigor.” She bit off and spat these last words.
“
Miss Beckwith!” Dancer cupped a hand over the
phone. Lesko saw that his face was flushed. His head kept
pivoting between Ella's back and the window looking down
on the driveway. She flicked a hand, waving him off.
Lesko could see at once where this was heading. Some
one had run into Jonathan Corbin twenty years before.
Someone who knew what Tilden looked like when he
wasn't a whole lot older than Corbin must have been at the
time. But she said the guy was dying when he told the
story. Saloon-brawling and homicidal?
“
Dying from what?” he asked. “Corbin did a number on him?”
“
Corbin beat him to death. Jonathan Corbin murdered a
man named George Bigelow and another man named How
ard Flack. Flack died at once, Bigelow a day later.” Her
voice was rising into a snarl. She was beginning to spray
spittle. “He stomped them, clubbed them, broke their knees
and elbows—”
“
Ella!” Dancer snapped. “We have a problem.”
Go solve it, Lesko wished in his mind. This is getting
too interesting to stop. He could see from Dancer's ex
pression, however, that the problem at hand was even more
urgent than getting his boss to stop shooting off her mouth.
Ella began backing in his direction.
”
A nicer class of people, you say,” she hooted. “If we
have killed, sir, as you claim we have, it has been to defend
what is ours. To survive. To see justice done. But how do
your nice people kill, Mr. Lesko? They will murder a beau
tiful young mother out of injured pride and leave her poor
body to freeze on a dark New York street. They will sadisti
cally and systematically crush the bones of two men—not
young men, by the way, men approaching their sixties—and
leave them for dead in a hotel garage—
What is it?”
She
spun on Dancer, who was trying to seize her arm.