“Across from Washington Park,” she said.
“You know it?” he said. “I mean did you know she had an apartment there?”
Singe slowly shook her head. “No. I didn’t.”
“And you were her lawyer, her confidante, her friend. Didn’t she ever invite you over?”
“Just to the duplex. I was over there quite a few times. I told her I thought it looked a little bare, even a little sterile. That it didn’t look like her. She said she wasn’t there much because she was spending most of her free nights with Colder.”
“Felicity tell you about Mrs. Colder?”
Singe nodded and looked away. “He committed her.”
“You know why?”
“Because she drank too much.”
“That’s not quite it. He committed her because she threatened to kill Felicity, not just once, but often.”
“Felicity never told me that,” Singe said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
Dill picked up the key Colder had given him. He held it up for Singe to see. “I want to use this tomorrow after the funeral. I want to go see where Felicity really lived. I want you to go with me.”
“You want a witness.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Fine.” She finished the rest of her brandy, put the glass down, and looked at her watch. “It’s late,” she said. “You want to stay here or go home?”
Dill didn’t answer for several seconds. “I think I’ll go home.”
She nodded and rose quickly, as if to speed the parting guest. Dill also rose. She stood looking at him, a bemused half-smile on her face. He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a long greedy kiss that neither seemed willing to end. Dill’s hands went exploring and discovered a remarkable body. Just before they both reached the sexual terrain from which there could be no retreat, she tore her lips and tongue away, stepped back, and said, “Something’s happening, isn’t it?”
“You mean with us?”
She shook her head. “That’ll happen or it won’t. I mean something else, something lousy.”
“Yes,” Dill said. “I think so.”
She gave her head a small puzzled shake and then went with him to the door, where they kissed again. This time it was more definitive than before. Questions were asked and answered. Needs and proclivities stated. Mild aberrations noted. When it was over Dill felt they knew and even liked one another much better. He smiled at her, and instead of murmuring something tender, asked, “Where did Felicity say she got all the money?”
Singe didn’t seem to expect anything tender. It was as if they had already gone past all that and were now approaching absolute intimacy. She frowned and said, “For the down payment on the duplex and everything?”
Dill nodded.
“From you.” She added a small wry smile. “She said you’d got rich.”
“Too bad she was lying.”
“Yes,” Anna Maude Singe said. “Isn’t it though.”
Chapter 17
Dill parked the Ford sedan in the basement garage of the Hawkins Hotel, got out, locked it, and headed for the elevator. As he passed the second large square concrete pillar a man stepped out from behind it and said, “How’s the neck?”
Dill stopped short. His right hand moved almost involuntarily to his neck. “Still a little sore,” he said.
Another man joined the first man. The second man was thin the way a knife is thin and about six feet tall. He looked short and frail next to the first man, who was well over six-three and built like a weight lifter who had given it up when he reached forty, which Dill guessed was three years back, possibly four. The weight lifter had thinning gray-blond hair, still blue eyes, and a wide happy mouth. The knifelike man had dyed black hair the color of coal, dead blue eyes, and a tight mouth that looked either sad or mean. Mean, Dill decided.
Both men wore rumpled summer suits of tan poplin. The weight lifter wore a blue shirt; the skinny man had chosen white. Neither wore a tie. The suitcoats were buttoned and seemed a trifle large. Dill assumed that the coats concealed the pistols, since neither man looked as if he’d bother with a jacket once the temperature rose above 80 degrees. As Dill had driven down Our Jack Street on his way to the hotel, he noticed that the First National Bank sign was claiming a temperature of 87 degrees at 1:17 A.M.
“Says his neck’s still a little sore,” the weight lifter said.
The other man nodded regretfully. “I’m sorry.” He studied Dill for a moment. “We don’t want any trouble, Mr. Dill.”
“Neither do I,” Dill said.
The lean man nodded toward the far end of the garage. “We’re down there in the van,” he said and started walking toward a large blue Dodge van that was parked head-out against the wall. Dill hesitated. The weight lifter smiled pleasantly and opened his coat. The pistol was there. Dill got only a glimpse of it, but it seemed to be a short-barreled revolver. The weight lifter nodded toward the van. Dill turned and fell into step behind the lean man.
When they reached the van the lean man slid the side door back, revealing a customized interior. Dill could see the small sink, propane stove, refrigerator, and the floor which was carpeted with tan shag. The walls were paneled with what seemed to be wood, although Dill suspected it was some kind of grained plastic. There were no windows in the rear of the van.
“You’ll find a nice comfy chair on your left,” the lean man said.
“Where’re we going?” Dill asked.
“Nowhere.”
The weight lifter touched Dill’s shoulder lightly and nodded at the van’s interior. Dill stepped up and into the van, turned left, saw first the chair, and then the man who was seated at the rear of the van behind a table. On the table were some glasses, a bottle of Smirnoff vodka, a Thermos bucket of ice, three bottles of Schweppes tonic, and the file on Jake Spivey. The last time Dill had seen the man behind the table had been in Genoa. In the Hotel Plaza on the Piazza Corvetto. There had been four persons gathered in the living room of the suite on the fifth floor. Suite 523, he recalled, surprising himself with his memory. There had been Dill, the then Mrs. Dill, Jake Spivey, and the man who now sat behind the table, Clyde Brattle.
Brattle smiled. “Well,” he said. “Ben.”
“Well, Clyde,” Dill said and indicated the contour swivel chair that was covered with a very good imitation leather, “This mine?”
“Please.”
Dill sat down in the chair and found it to be quite comfortable. The two men came into the van. The lean one sat down across from Dill in a twin contour chair. Dill couldn’t see where the weight lifter sat. On the floor maybe. Dill turned to look. The weight lifter was seated on a hinged stool that swung out and down from the kitchen unit. It was for sitting on while you scrape the carrots, Dill thought.
“Remarkably compact units, aren’t they?” Brattle said after Dill turned back.
“Remarkably.”
“That’s Sid across from you and behind you is Harley.”
“Harley and Sid,” Dill said.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Brattle paused. “Seven years?”
“Closer to eight. Genoa. Hotel Plaza. Suite five-twenty-three. Your suite.”
Brattle smiled in appreciation of Dill’s memory. “I believe you’re right. And how’s the charming Mrs. Dill?”
“She’s fine and we’re divorced.”
“Really. I didn’t know, or if I did, I guess I forgot.” He frowned. It made him look thoughtful, solemn, almost sincere. “I read about your sister, Ben.” Brattle paused exactly long enough. “I’m sorry.”
Dill nodded.
“Funeral’s tomorrow, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“I assume that’s the real reason you’re down here.” Brattle tapped the file on Jake Spivey with a forefinger. “And not because of this garbage.” He smiled warmly. “How is Jake, anyway?”