Читать книгу Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Jack Batten - Страница 16

ALICE BRACKLEY was one of those women who have a tremor in their voices. She sounded like Loretta Young on the other end of the line. I called her at the Ace offices on Wednesday afternoon. After I’d introduced myself, and told her I was a lawyer and wanted to speak to her on a matter that concerned a client of mine, she added a note of defensiveness to the tremor.

“What is it in relation to?” she asked.

“I’d rather discuss that when we meet.”

“I see,” she said. “I don’t know you.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m as cute as the dickens and I promise to be charming, Ms. Brackley.”

“I haven’t the time to waste on frivolous conversation.”

“Meet with me and you won’t find it unrewarding.”

There was a blank from her end of the line.

“Crang?” she said. “Your name was Crang?”

This time it was a question.

“It’s still Crang,” I said.

“Yes, all right.” She seemed to want me off her phone. “But it won’t be here at the offices. I’ll meet you in the bar on the first floor of the Four Seasons Hotel at six o’clock this evening. Do you know it?”

“The bar’s called La Serre.” I wasn’t what you could call a regular.

She put down the phone without saying goodbye.

I dressed to match the tasteful opulence of the meeting place. Charcoal-grey trousers, a cream-coloured double-breasted summer jacket, a blue buttoned-down Brooks Brothers shirt that I bought the year I took Annie to the Kools Jazz Festival in New York City, navy blue tie with red polka dots, and shiny black unadorned loafers. I looked in the full-length mirror on the hall door outside my bathroom and whistled. Too much elegance to waste on Alice Brackley. I phoned Annie and got her answering machine. I told it that if its owner wanted to be swept off her feet she should show up in the Four Seasons bar at seven o’clock that evening.

A pianist plays Rodgers and Hart after nine in La Serre. Until then, patrons make do with the decor. It runs to the kind of look that makes me feel comfortable in a bar—dark wood, exposed brick, dim lighting. A forest of ficus benjamina grows out of the planters scattered among the tables. Martinis cost five dollars.

I arrived fifteen minutes early. The hostess perked up when I dropped Alice Brackley’s name and showed me to a table in a private corner beside the windows that overlook Yorkville Avenue and a posh antiques store. The hostess had auburn hair and carried herself like a runway model. I ordered one of the five-dollar vodka martinis. It came cold and very dry. The hostess put it down on a square paper coaster done in white and gold. She brought a dish of mixed nuts. I picked out the almonds.

Alice Brackley came fifteen minutes late. She was wearing an avocado-green jacket and skirt and a lot of gold. She had a gold chain made of thick links around her neck, gold earrings shaped like tiny seashells, a clunky gold bracelet on her right wrist, and a small gold Rolex on her left wrist. She had no rings on her fingers, gold or otherwise. She knew where to draw the line.

The hostess pulled out Alice Brackley’s chair and Ms. Brackley thanked her. She called the hostess Miriam. Miriam went away without inquiring after Ms. Brackley’s preference in beverage.

“You come here often?” I said. It was my customary snappy opener with strange women in bars.

“I live near by, Mr. Crang,” Ms. Brackley said. Her voice had the tremor.

Miriam returned with a drink that looked like a Rob Roy. It came with a cherry. Miriam replaced the dish of mixed nuts with a fresh supply. Terrific, more almonds.

Alice Brackley was about forty. She had long dark hair and a face that received plenty of pampering. Her lips were thin, and there were the beginnings of fine lines on her cheeks. I felt a faint breeze of tension coming from her side of the table.

“What is this about, Mr. Crang?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to wait for the greetings and preliminary remarks from the chair?”

“What I’d prefer is that you not be oblique.”

“Right to the point,” I said. “I have reason to deduce that things at Ace Disposal are not entirely aboveboard.”

Alice Brackley opened her handbag. It was white leather. She took out a package of Vantages and tapped a cigarette from the package. I picked up the book of Four Seasons matches from the ashtray and suavely snapped one into flame on my first try, but I wasn’t fast enough. Alice Brackley had already lit the cigarette from her lighter. It was a Hermès and gold.

“Nonsense,” she said.

“Granted,” I said, “but somebody’s probably making a dishonest buck from the nonsense.”

“Are you being deliberately offensive, Mr. Crang?” Alice Brackley said. She blew cigarette smoke through her nostrils and did her best to look stern. “If that’s the case, you’re succeeding admirably. I’m developing a severe antagonism to you.”

“I’m not the enemy, Ms. Brackley.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a war.”

“Could be I’m expressing myself badly.”

“Clearly you are.”

I fingered around in the dish of nuts until I came up with an almond.

“Let me build my case,” I said. “Sol Nash and his chum in the straw hat are not what I’d call businessmen with MBAs from the University of Western Ontario.”

“Their duties hardly require that sort of background,” Ms. Brackley said. “Sol and Tony are very effective at their assignments.”

“No doubt,” I said, “as long as we’re agreed that the assignments include shaking down the weigh-masters at the Metro dumps.”

“We’re agreed on no such thing,” Ms. Brackley said. Her eyes had narrowed. I couldn’t tell whether it was the cigarette smoke or part of the stern look.

I said, “Mighty peculiar how that little old pink Cadillac makes its rounds to the dumps.”

Ms. Brackley stubbed out her Vantage. It was only half smoked. Miriam the hostess arrived to replace the ashtray.

“And what about your boss?” I said. “Charles Grimaldi is no stranger to shady stuff.”

“You’ve gone way too far, Mr. Crang,” Alice Brackley said. Her eyes became very wide. “Charles Grimaldi is a respected businessman and I’m not going to tolerate another word of your insinuation and slander.”

“Charlie knows how to turn a profit,” I said. “I’ll give him that.”

Ms. Brackley took another cigarette from her package. Before she raised it to her lips, I had a match lit. She looked at me and blew out the match. So much for gracious gestures. She snicked a light from the gold Hermès.

“Let me ask the questions, Mr. Crang,” she said. “Who retained you to approach me with these insults?”

“That’s confidential,” I said, “but it’s not someone who wishes you harm.”

Alice Brackley gave her first smile since she sat down in the bar. It wasn’t bad even with the thin lips.

“You know, Mr. Crang,” she said, “I could make a few educated guesses about your client and his motivations.”

“I’d be delighted to hear them.”

“And you’re not entirely unknown to me yourself.”

“I didn’t imagine I was.”

Ms. Brackley dropped the smile.

She said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing special,” I said. “Just that it wasn’t difficult for me to make an appointment with you.”

“Perhaps I was curious.”

“Perhaps you heard my name around the office.”

Alice Brackley’s head lifted. Her expression flashed surprise and a touch of alarm before she got her composure back in order. She was looking over my shoulder. I turned in my chair.

“Why, Charles,” she said. “How nice.”

The man approaching our table was all teeth and suit. Both were white and gleaming. He was handsome, if your taste is for Latin lounge lizards. The suit was linen and double-breasted and came with white shirt, tie, and shoes. The teeth were all his and blinded everything in their path. His skin was naturally bronzed and he had hair as sleek as Remington Steele’s.

“I’m Charles Grimaldi,” he said. He stuck his hand out and grabbed mine in the forthright manner that my grandfather used to call a good Presbyterian handshake. Miriam appeared behind Grimaldi and moved a chair into place. Grimaldi ordered a gin and bitter lemon. Alice Brackley fussed.

“I thought you’d gone home from the office, Charles,” she said to Grimaldi. To me she said, “Charles has a wonderful house out in the Kingsway, one of the old Gooderham places.”

Grimaldi paid no attention to Alice Brackley’s chatter. He focused on me.

“And you’re the busy Mr. Crang,” he said.

“You mean I don’t have to introduce myself?” I said.

Alice Brackley spoke quickly. “I’m forgetting my manners. Charles, Mr. Crang is a lawyer.”

“A criminal lawyer,” Grimaldi said.

“You recognized my style,” I said. “Very flattering.”

Grimaldi said, “You’ve been calling on my associates, Mr. Crang.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Some of them initiated the get-togethers.”

“Alice didn’t,” Grimaldi said. He turned his smile and all those radiant choppers on Ms. Brackley. She put out her cigarette and went into the Vantage package for another. Grimaldi picked up the Hermès and flicked it into action. Alice accepted the light with a smile. Wansborough might have been right about Alice’s feelings for Grimaldi passing beyond a business connection, but I couldn’t tell much from what was going on in front of me. Miriam arrived with Grimaldi’s drink. I asked for another martini mixed just like the first. Sometimes there was virtue in vermouth.

“You’re right,” I said to Grimaldi. “I invited Ms. Brackley for a drink. We have mutual interests.”

“I can’t imagine what,” Alice Brackley said. She sounded shocked.

“Correction,” I said. “It’s Ms. Brackley and my client who have mutual interests.”

“Who’s your client?” Grimaldi asked. He had a voice without a hint of thug. Must have practised since his days in his dad’s grocery store.

“Isn’t that funny,” I said. “You’re the second person who’s wondered about that in the past half-hour.”

“What was the answer the first time?” Grimaldi said.

Attentive Miriam arrived with two drinks, my martini and the Rob Roy that Alice Brackley didn’t need to order.

“Somebody’s got to give that girl a large tip,” I said.

Grimaldi said, “Never mind her, Mr. Crang. Tell me who you’re representing. It’s my company you been hired to nose around in.”

“You’ve heard of solicitor-client privilege, Chuck,” I said. “I’m invoking it.”

“Mr. Crang is a very exasperating man,” Alice Brackley said to Grimaldi.

“Just attentive to the people who pay my bills,” I said.

“You got an unhealthy attitude, Crang,” Grimaldi said. His voice seemed to have dropped an octave.

“You know us lawyers, Chuck,” I said. “We’re taught two ways of talking, devious and blunt.”

Alice Brackley busied herself with the Rob Roy and a cigarette. Grimaldi looked like he was blowing steam out his ears. He asked me about my client and the client’s interest in Ace Disposal in four different ways. He didn’t get straight answers. On the other hand, neither did I, and I was the smarty who’d arranged the meeting with Alice Brackley in my single-minded quest for information about Ace. As a sleuth, I wasn’t stacking up. I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. I peeked through the ficus benjamina beside my chair, and, right on cue, Annie B. Cooke made her entrance.

She had on cotton jersey leggings and a backless rayon turtleneck. Both were black. Her shoes were light green leather and had sling backs. Annie had cinched her hair with a white beret. She walked up to the table and smiled. Grimaldi liked what he saw. He motioned aside Miriam and held out a chair for Annie. I performed the introductions all round.

“Great,” I said. “Four for bridge.”

Annie asked for a glass of white wine.

“Are you a lawyer too, Miss Cooke?” Alice Brackley asked sweetly.

“Annie,” Annie said. “No, I write about movies and review them on the radio.”

“How fascinating,” Alice said. She checked in Grimaldi’s direction to see if he thought it was fascinating. He thought Annie was fascinating all by herself. Alice might have looked miffed at the attention Grimaldi was paying Annie. Or maybe I was reading her wrong.

Alice said she adored Fred Astaire. She had a VCR at home, and almost every weekend she rented an Astaire film. Follow the Fleet was her favourite. Annie said Fred and Ginger made ten movies together. Alice said, Really? She counted nine. The ladies worked it out that the movie Alice was missing was Carefree. Annie and Alice carried on like sorority sisters. Annie told Alice to steer clear of Ghost Story. Fred didn’t sing or dance and it was a dud, even though Melvyn Douglas was in it too. Alice said Fred didn’t sing or dance in The Notorious Landlady either and it was a charmer, even though Kim Novak was in it too. Alice had loosened up. Her frequent glances at Grimaldi were the only sign she might be roping herself in.

“How about you, Chuck?” I said. “What’s your choice in movies? Little Caesar?”

Alice Brackley sucked in her breath.

“You trying to aggravate me, Crang?” Grimaldi said.

“Isn’t he a kidder?” Annie said to Grimaldi. She was laying her ambassadorial smile on him. “Terrible in polite company.”

“Just a searching discussion among us film aficionados,” I said.

Annie got her white wine and there was another Rob Roy for Alice. She steered the movie conversation back on track. Annie responded and Grimaldi chipped in. He liked Goldie Hawn. No telling people’s tastes. He waxed lyrical about Private Benjamin. Alice stayed relaxed as long as Grimaldi was talking and distracted. Annie was enough distraction for him. He directed most of his remarks to her. When he ran out of Goldie Hawn lore, he stood up and said he had an appointment. He beamed fondly on Annie and left. Alice trotted after him. Nobody said anything about the bill.

“That’s one edgy lady, your friend Alice,” Annie said.

“And I just thought she talked like Loretta Young.”

“She’s nice,” Annie said. “Classy in the way that money helps. Pleasant woman. But she’s plenty, plenty nervous.”

“She was steaming along in imperious form until the Man From Glad arrived.”

“Dazzling he is.”

“Wansborough thinks Grimaldi and Alice might have something going.”

“Different types,” Annie said. “But, what the heck, opposites attract.”

“That’s only in the physics laboratory.”

“I detected tiny vibes between them,” Annie said. “Mainly from Alice’s side. Might be one of those crazy mixes, you know, fear and sex and fascination. I’ve seen it before.”

“In movies.”

“Real life too.”

My martini glass was empty. I fiddled it between my fingers. It made a rich, tinkling sound on the top of the table.

I said, “Uncanny how Grimaldi showed up at old Alice’s gabfest with me. La Serre is way off his territory if he lives out in the Kingsway.”

“What are you telling me, Crang?” Annie asked.

“Either Grimaldi wants to keep Alice on a short leash or he’s got his eagle eye on me,” I said. “Doesn’t really matter which. I’d say his main concern is to separate Alice and me.”

Miriam arrived with another martini.

“I ordered?” I said to her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. Her smile was in the Grimaldi league for candle power. “You tapped the table.”

Girl didn’t miss a trick.

“So I did, Miriam,” I said. I gave her my expansive look.

Annie stood pat with her wine. She didn’t give Miriam any kind of look.

Annie said, “I wouldn’t blame Ms. Brackley if she felt frightened of that Grimaldi man. Under the Mediterranean charm, he’s actually menacing.”

“Notice how I stood right up to him?”

Annie ignored the opportunity to compliment my dash and pluck.

“Go back a bit, fella,” she said. “What was that part about him keeping an eagle eye on your good self?”

“His heavies paid a visit to me,” I said, “and I can’t believe Grimaldi didn’t order it.”

I described the meeting in my office with Sol Nash and wide Tony.

“Crang,” Annie said, “the quicksand is at about the level of your upper thighs.”

“Not too late for someone to haul me out.”

“Never mind someone hauling you out. I mean there’s still time for you to pull out on your own.”

Miriam set down another paper coaster and placed my martini on top of it. She took away the empty glasses.

Annie said, “Personally, me, if I were standing beside the quicksand with a board in my hands, I’d use it to bop you over the head.”

“Strong language,” I said.

“So far,” Annie said, “you’ve been caught shadowing a truck the size of a house, come close to getting beat up by a man who apparently knows how to do it, and you’ve intentionally alienated the two top executives in the company you’re supposed to be checking out.”

“You haven’t cottoned on to my modus operandi,” I said. “I’m needling the bad guys into submission.”

Annie asked if we could eat. I let her choose the restaurant. That was my idea of living dangerously. Once, Annie led us to a vegetarian place run by devotees of an Indian mystic. I was starved before we made it back to the parking lot.

“Great,” Annie said in La Serre. “We’re going to Brasil.”

“Long way for dinner.”

“This Brasil,” Annie said, “isn’t spelled with a zed. It’s that Portuguese restaurant in Kensington Market that we went to a few months ago.”

I put my American Express card on the table and Miriam was instantly at my side. “The bill has been taken care of, sir,” she said. Her smile was beatific. Somebody had given her the large tip. My guess was Ms. Brackley.

It pays to make friends in high places.