She shook her head, laughed a little. “Yes there is. And Means insists on using code names and numbers…he was a double agent at one time, you know.”
“Yeah. He worked for the Germans just before the World War.”
“I’m Number Eleven. The baby is referred to, always, as ‘the book.’ Means himself is ‘Hogan.’ Admiral Land is Number Fourteen. And so on.”
“I need another drink.” I got myself one. “How about you, Evalyn?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Anybody who can hand Gaston Means a cardboard box with one hundred grand in it can risk a second glass of sherry.”
“Valid point,” she said, and took the sherry. “I’ve involved you, I’m afraid, in the intrigue.”
“Oh? How in hell?”
“Well, I knew Colonel Lindbergh wanted me to meet with you, but if Gaston Means, or the kidnappers, knew I was dealing with a policeman…even one so far off his beat…it might prove disastrous. I can trust my staff-they’ve all been with me for years. But if anyone, Gaston Means in particular, should ask them-you came here today to be interviewed for a position.”
“What position is that?”
“Chauffeur.”
I snorted a laugh, finished my Bacardi. “That’s rich. I couldn’t find my way across the street in this town. Well, I’d like to meet Means. And maybe it would be best if I did it undercover.”
“Undercover?”
I pointed to myself with a thumb. “Meet your new chauffeur. Who’s going to escort you to your country place-where I’ll size Means and his story up for myself.”
Her smile was almost demure. “That would be wonderful, Nate. You think…you think I’m a foolish old woman, don’t you?”
“You’re not old at all.”
“The fire’s dwindling. Would you put some wood on?”
“All right.”
When I returned to the couch, she was sitting with her legs tucked up under her, illuminated by the blaze I’d rekindled. I sat next to her and she moved closer.
“I haven’t been with a man since my husband and I separated,” she said.
I didn’t believe that, but I said, “A lovely girl like you?”
She was amused. “You think calling me a ‘girl’ is going to win me over?”
“You look like a girl to me.”
The amusement dropped like a mask; something was smoldering in her expression, and the fire had nothing to do with it. “Nate. Nate. Why don’t you just kiss me?”
“We just met. You don’t know anything about me, Evalyn.”
“You have a dry wit. You have a gun in your suitcase. You have nice eyes, a little cruel, but nice. Your hair looks red in the firelight. I know all that, and more.”
“More? What else do you know?”
“I know you have a gun in your pocket, too.”
“That isn’t a gun.”
“I know.”
I kissed her. Her mouth was wet and warm and tasted like sherry. Her tongue flicked my tongue.
“More,” she said.
I kissed her some more; it was nice and got nicer. Hot and got hotter. I slid my hand up the slope of her bosom-I felt the chill cut stone of the Hope diamond and pulled my hand away like I’d been burned. I drew the rest of me away, too, head reeling from rum and where I was.
“Let me get this off,” she said hastily. She removed the diamond necklace, and the pearls, too, and tossed them on an overstuffed chair nearby, as casually as if she’d slipped off her shoes. The diamond was catching the fire and flashing.
“Help me with this,” she said, reaching behind her, and I did, and soon the gown was around her tiny waist and her breasts, perfect, high, full, enormous, were basking in the golden glow of the fire. I put my hands on them. I put my mouth on them. Sucked the tips till they were hard.
“What about your servants?” I asked, gasping, my face half-buried in her treasure chest.
“They’ll only come when I ask them,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
18
We arrived at Far View after dark the next night. Behind the wheel of Evalyn McLean’s powder-blue Lincoln Continental, I was every bit the perfect chauffeur, wearing a spiffy gray woolen uniform with shiny black buttons and matching cap, bequeathed by a driver who’d recently retired from the Walsh family’s employ after thirty faithful years. He’d been heavier than me, but Mrs. McLean had someone on her staff take it in. Evalyn and Inga-her fortyish, blonde maid, a dourly attractive woman who’d been with her “mistress” over twenty years, and who was aware of my true identity-sat in the backseat and directed me; I didn’t mind having two backseat drivers: my only flaw as a chauffeur, after all, was my complete lack of familiarity with Washington, D.C., and its environs.
From Massachusetts Avenue, we had headed in the direction of Baltimore, then doubled back; we were soon off the main highway and exploring the wilds of Maryland via narrow, rutted back roads, occasionally gravel, usually dirt. The private drive to Far View was gravel, but neglected, weeds overtaking it; the same was true of the grounds, where weeds poked up between the patches of snow. Nonetheless, the house itself-which I had foolishly pictured as the modest “country place” Evalyn had casually mentioned-was impressive in the moonlight, a sprawling Southern mansion of the plantation variety, pillars and all, ghostly white amidst tall skeletal trees.
“My mother spent a lot of time here,” Evalyn said, leaning up from the backseat. “I haven’t been out here, since she died.”
“When did she die?” I asked.
“Last month.”
It was the first she’d mentioned it, but I found that telling. She’d jumped on the Lindbergh bandwagon within weeks of her mother dying. Evalyn-a woman in mourning, her emotions frazzled, looking to do something meaningful with her rich, empty life-made easy prey for a shark like Gaston Means.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said.
“Another victim of the Hope diamond curse?” she wondered aloud wryly. “She was a Christian Scientist, actually…wouldn’t stand for medical help. Thank God I’m a heathen.”
“You never liked this house anyway,” Inga said.
“True,” Evalyn said. “I don’t like its history.”
“What history?” I asked.
Evalyn leaned back. “A man and wife lived here, a long time ago. They fought continually-he beat her for her supposed faithlessness, and on nights when the wind was blowing a certain way, her screams could be heard for miles, it’s said. Finally he knocked her over the head and put her down a well, here.”
“I wonder if it’s safe,” I said.
“The house?” Inga asked.
“To drink the water.”
Nobody in the backseat laughed, but I caught Evalyn’s tiny smile in the rearview mirror. That dry wit of mine again.
As we drew nearer to the house, I could see that its windows were boarded up.
“Looks deserted,” I said, pulling up near the garage and stables in back. This surprised me, because she’d said the phones would be working.
“It is deserted, virtually,” she said. “There’s an elderly caretaker I’ve kept on.”
“Does he like growing weeds?” Inga asked sarcastically.
“The place does look a little raggedy,” Evalyn said to her maid, “but winter hasn’t quite left us. Gus’ll tend to things in due time, I’m sure.”
Inga grunted. She was very pretty, in a peasanty sort of way, but she was sour; the kind of woman whose time of the month was all month.
I helped the mistress and her maid out of the car-Inga wore her black-and-white uniform under a simple wool overcoat, while Evalyn wore a mink coat over a dark brown angora frock trimmed white, her belt white, her beret brown with a white band. I got the suitcases, including my traveling bag, out of the trunk; there were four bags, all of which I managed to carry. Neither woman made a move to help me, including waiting for me to put the bags down so I could open the side door, which was unlocked. Evalyn had called the caretaker in advance.
But that didn’t mean anything homey was waiting for us. We moved from the smallish kitchen through the big, dark, cold house where only the occasional piece of furniture remained, in every case shrouded with a sheet. The air, was stale, musty, but the house wasn’t dirty; caretaker Gus had done some work. The bedrooms were on the second floor. The third floor was closed off.