[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

in him."
The chauffeur was out and opening the rear door of the Nash; Burdge, the
doorman, stood a little straighter and held the door to the restaurant.
It was some credit to his self-control that he wilted only a little when
Coldfield emerged into the light. He was postcard perfect in a
custom-tailored tuxedo with a satin-lined cape and a silver-headed
stick. He carried the clothes comfortably, like Fred Astaire, albeit a
much larger-sized Astaire with coal black skin and a beard. He sauntered
up to the doorman, who was looking a bit confused as to how to handle
the situation. Coldfield gave Burdge a look that banished any
inclinations of refusing him entry, and then came in.
Escott tapped his hands together in soft applause. "Well played, sir. A
pity it could not have been preserved on film."
Coldfield was pleased. "You said it, history is being made tonight." He
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
nodded to me. "Ready to get tossed out with the best?'
"I'd like to see anyone try."
The maitre d' was well trained; his eyebrows only bounced up an eighth
of an inch and back down again before he got hold of himself.
"Your usual table, Mr. Escott?" he asked. In a minute I understood why.
Escott's usual table was in a discreet alcove off to one side of the
main dining area. The man was only reminding Escott he wasn't trying to
shuffle our dark companion out of sight. Whether he wanted to or not,
I'd never know.
We sat and went through the business of ordering drinks and studying the
menu. Playing my part, I read through it and shook my head.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Fleming?" Escott asked. 'I'm not up to eating
anything yet. I got a bad burger for lunch and the thought of more
food--" I made a queasy face and shrugged.
"What a pity, perhaps a little broth to recover? No?"
"No, thanks, I just gotta let things run their course so to speak. Don't
mind me, you two go ahead and enjoy yourselves."
They did. Escott had veal, Coldfield a steak, and I watched the other
patrons between our bouts of conversation. The smell of food did make me
feel a little sick, but it was the memory of eating that really nettled
me. I'd finally made it into a fancy place with someone else paying the
bill, and all I could enjoy was the decor.
We got our share of looks. One group quite obviously cut short their
meal and left, their backs stiff with indignation. They wouldn't have
minded or even noticed him if Coldfield had been part of the cleanup
staff, but being a fellow customer was too much for their tender
sensibilities. The maitre d' would have caught their verbal wrath had he
been by the door as they left, but being an alert man he'd removed
himself from the area in time. This graceless show was not lost on the
other diners, who had been wondering what to do themselves. Happily,
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
they had the good taste to mind their own business, and the conversation
buzz soon returned to normal levels.
"You may have pulled this off, after all, Charles," Coldfield murmured.
"So it would seem. I should like to live to see the day--"
"Yeah, I know, I know. Well, you at least got me in here--"
"No, you got yourself."
"I'm hell on doormen," he agreed. "But you're just lucky."
"How so?"
"He had a pretty good idea I wasn't Jewish."
Halfway through the meal a waiter came up with a telephone. "An
important call for you, Mr. Escott."
Escott said hello into the mouthpiece and scowled a lot. I couldn't
quite hear what was being said on the other end, even if I had any
business in doing so.
He shook his head. "No, I couldn't possibly, this is a very bad time
What? All right, then, but hurry." He hung up and the phone was taken
away.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"I shall have to absent myself for a few minutes. One of my sources of
information wants to talk and will only do so face-to-face. He's coming
by to pick me up."
"Can't he come in?"
"Not this one. He likes to keep on the move, so we have to go through
this little comedy now and then. We drive around the block a few times,
then he drops me off. Strange fellow, but often useful. If you gentlemen
will excuse me, I should be back in time for dessert." He stood up with
a quaint little bow that only the English can get away with, and left.
Coldfield watched his departing back with an indulgent smile.
"How long have you known him?"
"Off 'n on, about fourteen years. Haven't seen much of him since he took
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
up this private-agent stuff, but then I've been busy, too."
"Do you mind his kind of work?"
"Why should I? He doesn't seem to mind mine."
"What do you do?"
He gave me a look of mock surprise. "Why, I run a nightclub."
"At a considerable profit?"
"No point being in business if you don't make a profit."
'' How long has he been a private agent?''
"Awhile."
"You play it close to the chest."
"That's how you survive in this town."
He never gave a direct answer to any questions that were too probing,
and I asked quite a few before catching on. It must have been the
reporter in me. After I figured things out, we stuck to neutral subjects
and watched the place slowly empty. Then we watched the staff cleaning
up. Our waiter hovered just within sight, broadcasting polite but clear
signals that he thought it was time we left.
"Think he stiffed us for the check?" I said jokingly, looking at the
clock on the wall. He'd been gone nearly forty minutes.
"No, they'll just put it on his account. He's been coming here for
years."
I worried anyway. The phone call could have been a trick to get him
outside. Coldfield read my face and told me to relax.
"Charles can take care of himself."
"I hope so."
We waited. A lone busboy in thick glasses shuffled around cleaning the
tables. His walk and movements bothered me for some reason, and when I
caught a glimpse of his blank face I knew why. His was the careful [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]