The receptionist waved to Jake as he turned from the door and started back to his office.
“I have a call for you. You can take it here, if you like.”
“Thanks,” Jake said.
To his considerable surprise it was Denise Riordan. They talked of unimportant things for a while, and then she said, “I would like to talk with you this afternoon. Do you have any free time?”
“Why, of course. How about two thirty, here at the office?”
“Couldn’t we have a drink somewhere? Offices are too functional to suit me.”
Jake raised an eyebrow at the phone. “All right.” He thought a moment, remembered an invitation to a cocktail party that had been in the morning mail. “How about the lobby of the Palmer House at two thirty?”
“That’s fine.”
Jake put the phone down and wondered what the devil Denise Riordan wanted to see him about. He didn’t like the idea of rendezvousing with clients’ wives. It was unpolitic.
Walking back to his office he decided that the time had come to make amends with Sheila, so he stopped at her office. She was working at her desk, looking cool and lovely in a gray suit with a red flower pinned to the left lapel.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I was pretty much of a damn fool, I suppose.”
“Don’t be sophomoric, Jake,” Sheila looked up and smiled briefly. “I was wrong last night, too. It’s none of my business what you think and believe.”
“And never the twain shall meet, eh?” Jake said.
“I think you’ve used me as an ersatz conscience long enough,” Sheila said, looking down at her desk. “Maybe you’ve felt that if one of us disapproved of some of the things you’ve done with the agency, that was enough. I’m through being an indulgent mother to you.”
“Let’s talk it over when I get rid of this hangover,” Jake said moodily. “This is like having a cop tell you he doesn’t care what you do.”
“I’m no cop,” Sheila said. “You can break all the windows in the block from now on, and I’ll have no objections.”
“Wheel” Jake said in a listless voice.
He walked back slowly to his office.
Chapter Nine
It was eleven thirty. Jake sat at his desk, staring at the leather-bound clock for several minutes without moving. He knew he should be working. The agency would need something spectacular in the way of a campaign if Riordan were guilty. And Prior quite obviously knew Riordan was guilty and had the proof in names and dates to back up his charge.
But he didn’t feel like working. He thought about May again and finally decided to take a trip out to Mike Francesca’s farm.
Barrington was a horsy suburb of Chicago that had become popular for people who wanted something slightly more rugged in appearance than country club or station wagon living. In Barrington there were farms of twenty or twenty-five acres, usually run by tenant farmers who did all the work; and comfortable homes representing all varieties of architectural importation, from Maine salt boxes to Mexican haciendas. Tennis courts and swimming pools clustered around these houses with a cheerful, unmortgaged look.
Jake told his cab driver to wait and walked down the gravel path that led to Francesca’s place, a sprawling ranch house of impressive dimensions.
A stockily built man wearing a leather windbreaker stepped around the side of the house and sauntered down to meet him.
“Who’d you want, pal?” he said amiably.
“I’d like to see Mike. I’m a friend, Jake Harrison.” He recognized the man and smiled. “You’re Yeabo Jones, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?” the man said.
“I covered your trial in thirty-eight. You got six years for armed robbery and aggravated assault and battery.”
“Oh, yeah,” Yeabo Jones said. “You was a reporter, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, come on up to the house and I’ll see what the boss says.”
Yeabo told him to wait at the door while he went inside. Jake lit a cigarette and looked up at the bare elms and cold steel sky.
Yeabo opened the door behind him and said, “Come on in.”
Mike Francesca was seated in a large chair before a log fire, wearing soft gray flannel slacks and a gabardine sport shirt with hand-stitched lapels and cuffs. He got to his feet when Jake entered, and came to meet him, a wide smile wreathing his face into a network of wrinkles. There was another person, a show-girl style of blonde, lying before the fireplace with a Martini at her elbow. She sat up tailor-fashion and regarded Jake solemnly.
“Jake, you old son-of-a-gun,” Mike said, wringing his hand. “Nice of you to blow in like this. You know Cheryl, huh?”
“Why, no. But it’s a pleasure.”
“It’s Cheryl Dane,” the girl said. “He thinks I’m a horse or something with just a first name.”
“Well,” Mike said, smiling at her, “what do you need with two names? One’s good enough for anybody.” He took Jake’s elbow and pushed him toward a chair. “Now sit down and we’ll have a drink. Yeabo!” He sang out the last word loudly and the blonde winced.
Yeabo brought wine for Mike and Jake had a Martini. When he disappeared Mike settled back in his chair with a comfortable sigh. “This is good, eh?” he said.
“Fine,” Jake said, and sipped his drink.
“Anything in particular on your mind?” Mike asked.
“Yes, there is,” Jake said slowly. “I’m wondering if you know anything about who killed May Laval. I know you were worried about her book, and—”
“And you think I had her killed, eh?” Mike said. “That’s right, eh?”
The blonde rolled over on her back and crossed her long and well-shaped legs. “You know, Mike,” she said. “I’d—”
“Shut up,” he said, without glancing at her, and she shrugged and became silent.
“You think maybe I had May killed, eh?” Mike said.
“No, I don’t think that at all,” Jake said. “If you’d killed her you’d have gotten the diary, I think.”
Mike tapped his forehead significantly. “See, you got a good head.”
“I suppose you’re looking for the diary now?”
“Oh, yes, my boys are looking for it. I think they’ll get it, too.”
“Do you have any guess as to who killed May?”
“You know that is very funny,” Mike said, frowning and touching his lower lip with a forefinger. “Who should kill her, eh? I’ve thought about that a lot, all the time in fact since she was killed. And I don’t know. You know May and I used to play poker in the old days. Me, May, Ed Hogan, the alderman, and a bartender at the old Troy Club. May, she was a real son-of-a-gun.” Mike shook his head gently. “Mother of Heaven, what games! May could shove a thousand dollars into the pot and grin at you, when she had nothing, not even a pair. Ah, what days we had then, eh?”
“Yah, yah,” the blonde said. “I never met one of you guys from Prohibition days who didn’t act like fat men at a college reunion.”
“She’s real cute, eh?” Mike said.
“Well, what’s this poker game got to do with May’s death?” Jake said.
“Oh, nothing,” Mike said, with a tired wave of his hand. “But nobody minded losing to May. Oh, the money it was too bad to lose, but nobody got real mad. She was liked, eh? And that’s why I wonder about who could kill her.”
Jake shrugged. “Wouldn’t you have killed her, Mike?”
Mike took his arm and they walked to the door together. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“I would have very quick,” Mike said.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Ha!” Mike said, and tapped his forehead again. “You got the head, Jake.”