“No, Mr. Elliot. He still says he’s a writer, with a magazine. His cover is consistent, anyway. And he keeps asking questions about that Tisor twat that did that two-and-a-half gainer off the Twill building a few weeks back. The Parks girl dodged his questions and tried to get friendly, but no go. She started in pumping for a little information, then out the door he went.”
“Is Tulip still following him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine, Dinneck. Call back in three hours for further instructions.”
Elliot hung up and rose from the desk. He stared blankly at one of the mahogany-paneled walls for a moment, then went to the doorway and called for his servant Edward, a black gentleman of around fifty.
“Yes, Mr. Elliot?”
“Ginger ale, please, Edward. With ice.”
He went back to the desk and waited for the ginger ale. He drummed his fingers and glanced continually over his fireplace where, instead of a landscape, his license for real- estate brokerage hung. Behind the over-sized framed document was a wall-safe, where rested all the cash benefits netted by Elliot in the course of the Chelsey operation. Included was the last six weeks’ haul, as yet uncollected by the Boys’ periodic visitor.
Edward came in with the ginger ale; Elliot thanked him and spent a quarter hour sipping it. Then he rose, stripped off his herringbone suit and his pale blue shirt and his blue striped tie, and began to exercise. He exercised for twenty minutes, push-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, jumping jacks, touching toes, knee bends, a few isometrics.
Then, exhausted, his bony frame slick with perspiration, he lay down on the black leather couch and tried to nap. And couldn’t. His heart was beating quickly from the exercise and he took deep breaths to slow it but his nerves kept it going fast and hard.
He walked to his desk, opened the drawer and removed a glossy photo.
Elliot looked at the photo, at the hard, lined face and the cold eyes and the emotionless mouth.
The man in the photo was named Nolan.
And Elliot, in a cold, shaky sweat, darted his eyes from the wall-safe to the phone, wondering if he dare call Charlie Franco and tell him about the man who called himself Webb.
Three
1
At two till seven Nolan reached the address of Vicki Trask’s apartment and found himself facing a door sandwiched between the chrome-trimmed showroom windows of Chelsey Ford Sales. Just down the street was Berry Drug, the upper story of which was occupied by George Franco. As Nolan glanced in one of the windows at a red Mustang he caught the reflection of a dark green Impala creeping along the street behind him, a familiar Neanderthal figure at its wheel. Nolan lifted his hand easily toward the .38 tucked beneath the left armpit of his sportscoat and looked in the reflecting glass to see what Tulip was going to do.
Tulip drove on.
Nolan straightened the collar of his pale yellow shirt, wondered absently if he should have worn a tie. He pressed the bell and placed his hand over the knob, waiting for the lock to let go. A buzz signaled its release and he pushed the door open.
She stood a full steep flight of stairs above him, displaying long, sleek legs below a blue mini skirt and she called out, “Come on up, Mr. Webb, come on up.”
Nolan nodded and climbed the stairs. At the top he took the hand she held out to him and stepped into the loft apartment.
“Hello, Mr. Webb,” she said warmly, “come in, please.”
Her face was lovely, framed by long to-the-shoulder brown hair. She smiled invitingly and motioned him to a seat.
“Thanks,” he said, refusing her gesture to take his sportscoat; she wouldn’t be prepared to meet his .38.
“Drink?” she asked.
“Thanks no.”
“Abstainer?”
“Just early.”
“How about a beer?”
He nodded and she swept toward the bar, which was part of the kitchenette at the rear of the room. Nolan was sitting in an uncomfortable-looking comfortable modular chair; he glanced around the apartment. It was a single room, very spacious, the walls sporting impressionistic paintings, possibly originals. Overlooking the large room was a balcony divided in half between bedroom and artist’s studio.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s fine. You paint?”
“How’d you ever guess?” she laughed. “Yes, that’s my work defiling the walls.”
“Looks okay to me.”
She came back with two chilled cans of malt liquor and stood in front of him, openly watching him. He took advantage of her sizing him up and did the same to her. She was a beautiful girl, the shoulder-length brown hair complemented by large, child-like brown eyes. Her body, well displayed in the blue mini and a short-sleeved clinging white knit sweater, was lean but shapely, with high, ample breasts that didn’t quite go with her otherwise Twiggy-slender body. Her features were of an artistic, sensitive cast with a delicate, finely shaped nose and a soft-red blossom of a mouth.
Suddenly Nolan realized she was waiting for him to say something and the moment became slightly awkward.
He cleared his throat. “This really is a nice apartment.”
“Thank you,” she said, seating herself. “It’s rather large for one person, and kind of spooky now that Irene is gone.”
“I wonder if we could talk about Irene, if it doesn’t bother you.”
“No, that’s all right... directly to business, I see, Mr. Webb?” She laughed gently. “Not much for small talk, are you?”
“No. Call me Earl, will you?”
“Of course, Earl.” She looked at her hands, thinking to herself for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose small talk would fit your personality, would it? I mean, since I already feel as though I know you.”
“How’s that?”
“Irene spoke of you often.”
Nolan’s hand tightened around the glass. How could Irene Tisor have known the non-existent Earl Webb? “I never met Irene.”
“Of course you have.” She laughed again. “I’m afraid I’m teasing, aren’t I?”
“I’m not much on humor, either.”
“I don’t know about that... Mr. Nolan.”
Nolan didn’t answer.
He reached over and gripped her hand and looked into her eyes and locked them with his. Fear took her face.
“I... I suppose... suppose you want me to explain.”
“Yes.”
She tried to smile, stay friendly, but his hard icy grip and the grey stone of his eyes froze her.
Her voice timid, forced, she said, “Irene and I, you see, were... extremely close... like sisters...”
She stopped to see if that explained anything, but all she got from Nolan was, “So?”
“Well, Mr. Nolan, she... she carried your picture in her billfold, all the time.”
Nolan hadn’t seen Irene Tisor for years, had hardly known her even then. There was no reason for her to carry him around with her. “Keep going, Vicki.”
“She idolized you, Mr. Nolan.”
“It’s Webb and why should she idolize me?”
“She said she knew you when she was growing up. That you were a... gangster... but that you had gotten out. By defying your bosses.”
“Suppose that’s true. Suppose I did know her when she was a kid. Who was Irene Tisor that a ‘gangster’ would know her?”
“Her father... her father was one himself.”
Nolan released her hand. “Okay, Vicki. Let’s suppose some more. Let’s suppose I did know Irene Tisor when she was growing up and her father was what you say he was. But let’s also suppose I hadn’t seen her for years and this part about me quitting the outfit didn’t happen till eight months ago.”