“A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”
“Papa liked you,” she said.
“He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”
“It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”
“A family trait.”
“What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.
“English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”
“Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”
“The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”
“Tell me about your family history.”
“Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.
“They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”
“I’m doing the math; they must have been quite late in life when you were born.”
“Yes; I came as something of a surprise.”
“Whatever happened to the family in Massachusetts?”
“It petered out, I suppose. My father was disowned for being a Communist; my mother was disowned for marrying my father. The only family member I ever had any real contact with was a great-aunt, on my mother’s side, who, when she died, was kind enough to leave me her house in Turtle Bay.”
“This is an honorable background,” she said, “except for that business about Communism. But many good people were hoodwinked into joining in the thirties, I suppose.”
“He never regretted holding Communist views. He regretted what the Party turned out to be.” Stone looked at her narrowly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being interviewed for some position?”
“Perhaps you are, but not the one you are thinking of. I am a Catholic, and my father is a devout Catholic; I’m allowed only one husband.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you with a husband,”
“Neither could my husband, after we’d been married a while.”
“So what position am I being interviewed for?”
“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”
“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”
“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”
“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.
“Please,” she said.
They finished their first course, and Stone took their entrée, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.
“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.
“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”
“Dolce far niente,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”
“Does everything have to be Italian?”
“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”
“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”
“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”
“I’m not Catholic, either.”
“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”
“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”
She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”
“I see.”
“Why did you telephone today?”
“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”
“And now you do?”
“Yes.”
“Does Dino know?”
“Dino doesn’t want to know.”
“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”
“Yes.”
“And where is the beautiful painter?”
“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”
“Are you sad?”
“Less so than I was this morning.”
“What help do you want from my father?”
“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”
She nodded. “Papa has told me what he knows.”
“Dino had a little flap with the captain of the guard at Sing Sing; because of that, I am unable to get any information from the prison that might help me find him. That, and the fact that Mitteldorfer managed the financial assets of the captain and the warden, and they are, shall we say, kindly disposed toward him.”
“You want information from the prison?”
“Yes. There must have been prisoners who were close to Mitteldorfer; he was there for twelve years. Perhaps one or more of them might know something about his plans after he left prison.”
“This can be done,” she said. “It will take a few days, perhaps a week. Do you think you can stay alive that long?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“We seem to have finished our business and our dinner,” she said. “Can we go back to bed, now?”
“We haven’t had dessert.”
“I’ll give you dessert,” she said.
38
STONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.
Stone ordered some breakfast and read the Times. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.
“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”
“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”
Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”
“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”