Assignment — Stella Marni Read online

  "Sam, dear."

  He kissed her and said, "Isn't Art here yet?"

  "Was he supposed to join us?"

  "He said he would. Never mind. We'll have dinner right here."

  "I'm sorry," Deirdre told him. "I must get the next train back. I'm a working woman, you know, and something came up, a story with Congressman Jordan's wife that I have to cover tonight. I'm really terribly sorry."

  "I thought you might stay over," he said.

  Her blue eyes met his, remembering nights that only the two of them knew, remembering passion and tenderness, joys and fears they had shared. She was beautiful in a way that made the breath catch in his throat, beautiful all over, from lustrous dark hair to her toes. He knew her as intimately as she knew him, and he would never tire of her and never stop wanting her. There was a breathless electricity between them always.

  She patted his arm. "Take me to Penn Station. Didn't you get anywhere today, Sam? You look so angry. Didn't you see Stella Marni? Didn't I tell you she was lovely?"

  "I haven't met her yet. I hope to, tonight."

  "In public, I trust," she said smiling.

  "Jealous?"

  "Always."

  "You're the one who asked me to help her. You and Art."

  "I know. But if you're a scamp and a Lothario, I might as well know it now as later." She said very earnestly, very quietly: "I love you, Sam."

  He had no need to answer.

  "Will you ring General McFee in the morning and tell him I'm taking a few days up here?" he asked. "On my own, of course. There's going to be some trouble about it, but the General will get the brunt of the squawks, from the White House on down."

  "Is it that serious?" Deirdre asked.

  "Worse."

  He did not tell her more about it. She understood how it was with him now, although in the early days when they were together they had sometimes come to the verge of breakup because of the nature of his work, his secrecy, his taciturn refusal to discuss any aspect of his job with her. And she did not press him now.

  He ate in a restaurant on Seventh Avenue after leaving Deirdre at the train gate. He felt curiously let down, empty and frustrated. He had hoped for and looked forward to this evening with Deirdre in New York, where few people knew them and they could do as they pleased. For one reason or another, it had been a long time since they had spent the night together, with that candid, sweet freedom of giving and loving that was unique with Deirdre. Restlessness moved in him, and he felt tense and frustrated. He wondered how legitimate Deirdre's new assignment was. Then he felt guilty for doubting her. But there was no denying that he needed and wanted her.

  He phoned his hotel to inquire if Art was there, but Art had not come in and there was no message. He phoned Senator Hubert for an interview, presuming on a brief acquaintance he had made with the man in Washington; but the Senator was not available. He stepped outside the booth and looked up Frank Greenwald's address in the phone book. He was registered at a small apartment-hotel on Central Park West. Durell dialed the number and let it ring half a dozen times before he gave up. He consulted the business directory for Greenwald's name, using the "photog supplies whls" after his name as a key. He found Greenwald's name under "Chemical Wholesalers" at an address on Fourth Avenue, debated for a moment whether to try to phone there, decided it would be futile, and went out for a cab.

  It was still raining. The chill November night made the city seem bleak and dark. For once, the cab driver was not garrulous. Durell did not know whether or not he was chasing a will-o'-the wisp; it was possible he might have been better off refusing Art's plea to mix into this, Frank certainly didn't want any help.

  His mind drifted back to days and nights in New York when he studied law at Yale, his dates with girls here and in Connecticut. He recalled several in particular in those free, wanton days when he had been a dealer in a New Haven joint, earning his tuition at the poker table and using the skills Grandpa Jonathan had taught him as a boy in Bayou Peche Rouge. He pushed those days and nights from his mind. He wanted Deirdre now, tonight, not memories of long ago.

  The address he sought was a twelve-story office-and-loft in the lower Twenties. It looked closed and empty except for a dim light in the lobby. The entrance was deserted and the elevator doors were closed, with a worn, printed sign indicating that no service was available after six p.m. It was almost eight o'clock now. If there was a watchman assigned to the building, he was not in sight. Shrugging, Durell consulted the directory and learned that Frank Greenwald's business quarters occupied the entire twelfth floor. There was a penthouse-studio in the tower above that, rented to a professional photographer named J. Krame. The elevator doors were locked and he had no choice but to walk up.

  He did not know why he persisted. It was probably a fool's errand, since the place was certain to be closed. Yet he felt the tingling of a hunch that had served him in the past, a feeling of something left undone and unchecked, and he could not ignore it. He began the slow climb up the dimly lighted, bare, dirty staircase to the twelfth floor.

  There was that haunted, echoing feel to the building that comes after business hours, Durell moved soundlessly, saving his breath as he climbed, and when he reached the small corridor at his goal, his respiration was light and even.

  The name painted on the pebbled glass door was faded and peeling. A dim light shone behind the frosted glass. He listened, but there was no sound, nothing but the wind in the stone gargoyle ornaments at the corners of the building. A red light shone over the stairway entrance, and he saw the steel spiral of another stairway going up into the darkness of the lower above. The wind whimpered through an open window lost in the black up there. An arrowed sign pointed to the photographer's studio, apparently closed at this hour.

  Durell tried Frank Greenwald's door. It was not locked.

  He pushed it open two inches, listened, waited. Nothing. But he had the feeling he was not alone.

  He pushed the door all the way open, stepped inside quickly, flattened against the wall. He was in a shabby little receptionist's office, containing a secretary's desk, filing cabinets, a case of sample bottles of photographic chemicals and gadgets, all dusty and long untouched. A yellow raincoat hung on an old-fashioned clothes tree. He touched it and found it dry and brittle. The dim light he had seen from the hall came from a second glass door beyond the office entrance.

  There was an idealized photograph of the building on the wall, showing a conical Gothic tower above the twelfth floor. Under the photograph was Frank Greenwald's name and the word "owner." Durell's mouth tightened. Obviously, Frank was not the small-time, struggling businessman he seemed to be.

  Beyond the receptionist's office was another, cluttered and with a dark, rain-spattered window. Durell wasted no time here. He went beyond and found himself in a vast stockroom, filled with cartons and shelves of camera equipment and a series of wrapping and sorting tables to the rear.

  "Frank?" he called softly.

  His voice echoed through the still emptiness.

  "Frank, are you here?"

  There was no answer. Yet the feeling persisted that he was not alone.

  He heard it then. A faint thump, a muffled cry. He could not tell where it came from. He stood and listened. He heard the rain, dim traffic sounds far below on the street. Nothing else. He took the short-barreled .38 revolver that he carried in his dark blue suit, held it ready in his hand.

  Something clanged and rattled out beyond the entrance door, in the outer hall. He moved fast, a dark shadow sliding through other shadows. Beyond the closed elevators he paused again and stared up at the iron circular stairway going up into the tower. He felt roweled by uneasiness, a queer apprehension. And then he took the spiral stairs two at a time, climbing into the darkness above.

  The girl was just starting down from the top landing. She was only a tall shadow, a white face staring down as he ascended. He saw her eyes go big; he heard the sound of terror she made; and then her skirts swirled
as she swung and ran back.

  "Miss Marni!" he called.

  He heard another sound from her, then her high heels clattered up the rest of the steel treads. He was only a few feet behind her when a door slammed. He hit the panel at the top of the steps hard, felt a bolt snap, heard the girl give a muffled scream of fright, and then it burst inward. He stumbled in to darkness, recovered, straightened.

  Cloth rustled. Something creaked. He heard her quick, terrified breathing. For a moment there was nothing to see, and then as his eyes adjusted he sensed the faint outer light that came from circular windows high overhead, at least another story above, and an artist's studio window opposite him, dimly outlined from the night glow of the city. Vague patterns of easels, platforms, photographer's props became defined.

  "It's all right, Miss Marni," he called. "You won't get hurt."

  He heard her breathing. He could not see her.

  "Who are you?" she finally asked. Her voice was oddly hard, contradicting her frightened breath. "What do you want?"

  He told her his name and mentioned Art and Frank Greenwald. He could see her now. She stood under one of the high porthole windows, opposite him. Her hands were at her sides. Her pale hair looked burnished.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "Looking for Frank. And looking for you."

  "You have no business with either of us."

  "I'm making it my business, Miss Marni."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're in trouble. You need help."

  Her voice was cutting. "A good Samaritan?"

  "Call it what you like."

  "But I don't want your help. I don't need you. Or anyone. Please get out. Is that a gun you have in your hand?"

  "Yes," Durell said.

  "I am unarmed," she said scornfully. "I can't hurt you."

  "We'll see."

  He found a light switch and blinked in the glare of baby spots and fluorescent tube fixtures pendent from wires in the ceiling above. The room was fantastic. It was enormous, comprising the entire tower of the building, soaring over two stories high to the pointed ceiling lost in shadows. There was a feeling of silent isolation up here, of windy vastness, of a room designed for a giant's habitation. There were huge blown-up photo murals on the wall, a model's dais, cameras, a whole wall of painted flats and props.

  "Well?" the girl said. Her voice was a challenge. "Satisfied?"

  "Where is Frank?"

  "I'm sure I don't know."

  "Didn't you call him at your apartment?"

  Something retreated in her pale green eyes. "I? No."

  "What are you doing up here?"

  "I don't have to answer your questions." She had a faint, intriguing accent, but there was precision to her English inflections. Her mouth looked cool, tight at the corners, and there was the trembling of a tiny muscle there and he saw her pulse jump in her long, soft throat. "But I suppose," she said wearily, "I had better let you know, so you will not bother me. I often come up here to Mr. Krame's studio. He is in Florida now, so don't bother trying to check with him. I used to work for him. He gave me my first modeling jobs when I came to America. I met Frank here. His office and business place is downstairs. We used to see each other quite often in the building corridor, and finally he introduced himself to me."

  "Why are you here tonight, if Krame is away in Florida?"

  She looked away, toward the tall dark studio window. "I wanted to talk to Frank. I was supposed to meet him downstairs, but no one was there and I just walked up to look around. For old times' sake, perhaps."

  "Why did you scream just a moment ago?"

  "I... I heard someone calling. I didn't know who it was. I suppose it was you, wasn't it? But suddenly I felt frightened."

  "And you're still frightened. Why?"

  "Please put away your gun." she whispered.

  He pocketed the .38 revolver.

  "Have you a cigarette?" she asked.

  "You look as if you could use some brandy."

  "Perhaps. Krame has a liquor cabinet here. In that walnut chest." She gestured. Her movement was neither fluid nor graceful. "Please. I could use a drink."

  "Get it yourself," he said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I don't want you running out on me the way Frank did."

  She didn't move. One hand was behind her. and she might have been holding something, but Durell wasn't sure. There was a strange tension in her, a silently screaming hysteria. He could see nothing in the studio that could cause her terror. There was something wrong in the way she stood, in her large green eyes. Even with Deirdre fresh in his mind, be had to concede that Stella Marni was one of the most desirable women he had ever seen. Under her cold façade, he knew this woman to be unusual. There were few men who wouldn't follow at a flick of her finger. And he wasn't totally immune himself.

  Their eyes clashed, hers reflecting fear and a knowledge of what he had been thinking. Her smile was a tremulous, fragile effort.

  "I'm so sorry," she said quietly. "You must think I am an awful fool. But I've had a trying day. I'm sure you know all about me. And I do hope you won't ask any questions about my decision to go back to Hungary."

  "No, I won't ask about that," Durell said. "The choice is yours. Or maybe it isn't yours, entirely, but you can't help yourself." He paused. "I understand your father has disappeared."

  She made no reply.

  "And you were to marry Frank Greenwald soon."

  She shook her head. "No."

  "Was Frank lying, or simply misled?"

  "He misled himself. I am not in love with Frank. I never have been. He's been good to me and we are good friends, and he presumed too much, he wanted it to be more and in his mind it became more. I tried to tell him I couldn't love him." She paused and bit her lip. Unaccountably, tears starred her green eyes. "I'm so sorry about it all," she whispered.

  "Sorry? You're driving him crazy with worry over you."

  "I've told him not to worry."

  He said suddenly, "What are you holding behind your back?"

  She made a small sound. She had not moved toward him from her position near the big studio window. She shook her head. "Nothing."

  "Did something happen here before I came?"

  "No, no!" She was a shade too vehement. "Nothing happened."

  "Are you sure Frank isn't here?"

  "I... No. He isn't. He's gone."

  "He was here?"

  "Oh, please," she whispered. "Please get me some brandy."

  "Show me your left hand."

  "No."

  He advanced toward her. Her head came up, defiance in her cool jade eyes. And then as he reached for her she suddenly crumpled, all at once. Something clattered from her hidden hand to the floor and he caught her wrist and flung her aside. She stumbled and caught at his arm for support. Her delicate perfume touched him. He ignored it, looked at the object she had dropped.

  It was a piece of strap iron, a mechanic's tool, dark and clotted with blood.

  He did not touch it.

  He straightened slowly, looking at her. She had changed. Her haughty pride and defiance were gone. In that instant, she looked small and frightened and helpless.

  His voice was a lash, striking at her.

  "Where is he?"

  She gestured vaguely. "Out there. The studio window. On the terrace."

  "Frank?"

  "And your friend. His brother Art. They're both dead."

  Chapter Four

  Durell said: "Come out there with me."

  "No. No, I couldn't."

  "I don't want you out of my sight." He opened the big studio window, felt rain slash in at his face. It was dark, wet, and blowing out there, on the dimly outlined terrace. He gestured impatiently. "Go on."

  "M-must I?"

  "Yes."

  She squeezed past him as if reluctant to make physical contact with him again, giving him one quick, frightened look from the corner of her eye. She stood still at once
, just beyond the threshold. In the light that flowed out of the studio, her face looked rigid, carved in a pattern of revulsion. Durell went by her and ignored the rain that struck at him as he searched the terrace that completely encircled the tower studio. He saw the dim outline of a few deck chairs, a metal table, the grinning beaked shapes of limestone gargoyles leering at the street from their corner pedestals twelve stories above the sidewalk. There was an ornate iron railing that looked flimsy and of little protection at the edge of the drop.

  "Where?" he asked the girl.

  Stella Marni moved her hand. "At the corner. I was to meet Frank here. Your friend Art — Frank's brother — was following me from the courthouse, he said."

  "Art spoke to you?"

  "I deliberately went into a bar. I knew he'd come in, too. I spoke to him first. He told me who he was. He said he was Frank's brother and wanted to talk to me. And so I called Frank at my place and told him to come here. And Art insisted on coming here, too. Then an FBI man named Blossom picked me up and questioned me for half an hour — the same old things — and when he let me go I came here and — f-found them. Both of them. Out here in the dark. In the rain I couldn't — I was sick. And then I heard you..." Her voice was thin, spiraling up to the limits of her control.

  Durell spoke more gently. "Take it easy, Stella. Stay where you are."

  "I won't run away."

  "See to that."

  He moved outward into the rain. Beyond the small grouping of chairs and the metal table with its ragged little umbrella, the terrace seemed bare and unused, slick with running water. The wind was cold, the rain felt like ice pellets against his cheek. He couldn't see anything. When he looked back, the girl's figure was outlined against the bright light beyond the studio window; she was standing rigidly, hands behind her against the wall, head turned to watch him. The light outlined the soft curve of her cheek, touched a highlight on her parted lips.