Chapter 14

The doorkeeper-bouncer was the first obstacle. Kintyre wished he had worn a hat. Nothing disguised him except a gray suit; the square of bandage at his hairline felt like a searchlight.

“Follow my lead,” whispered Corinna as they went down the stairs.

It was dark in the doorway, and narrow. She contrived to get herself squeezed between Kintyre and the other man; and as she slithered by she threw him such a look that he would have let a rhinoceros enter unnoticed beside her.

The Alley Cat was full tonight. Mostly the cool crowd, Kintyre judged, drawn by the rumors of last night’s affair. He could not help himself, but whispered to Corinna: “Where in the hell did you learn to put five thousand volts of raw sex into three motions and one sidelong glance?”

“Theater.” Even at this moment, when she saw through a harsh blue haze her brother who might be a murderer singing a dirty ballad, she could have been a female Puck. “Also, it helps to live with a cat.”

They threaded their way along the wall until they found a table in shadow. “We can see him at the intermission,” he proposed. She nodded. The waitress who lit their candle—Kintyre snuffed it again when she had left—and brought them a demi of burgundy, paid them no special attention. Well, it was long established that an excited eyewitness has no value. Those who saw the fight had not really seen the fighters.

Corinna fell silent, resting her cheek on one fist. She didn’t drink at all. Kintyre tried to read the way she was looking at Guido, but understood only a troubled tenderness.

“Mind if I join you?”

Kintyre looked up, startled, into Trygve Yamamura’s flat face. “Oh,” he said stupidly. “Sit down. Miss Lombardi, this is—” He explained in detail.

“I’m glad to know you,” she said. Her eyes added: Maybe. It will depend on what comes next. Guido’s guitar twanged and capered. His voice overrode the room, as full of satyr laughter as if it had never known anything else. “With his whack-fol-de-diddle-di-day—”

“Were we that conspicuous coming in?” whispered Kintyre.

“Lay off the stage hiss,” Yamamura told him. “A low speaking voice draws less attention. No, you pulled it off okay. It was only that I was making it my business to see everyone who comes in. Still am.” His eyes remained in motion as he sat holding his beer; the rest of him was nearly limp, taking its ease until a muscle should be needed.

“Been here long?” asked Kintyre.

“Couple hours, since the act went on,” said Yamamura. “I tailed Guido from his place. Before then, though, I assumed he wouldn’t leave his four safe walls, so I found plenty to do elsewhere.”

Corinna exclaimed: “You learned something?”

“Uh-huh. I came right over this morning after Bob saw me. No grass grows where I have been, I mean no grass grows under my feet.” Yamamura took a pipe from his maroon sports jacket. “The best way to get a line on your friend Larkin seemed to be to check Guido’s recent movements. I started at the other end—his call on Clayton, a week ago last Monday. You know, when he and Bruce went around to see about a job. Clayton himself isn’t in the City today, but I went to that swank apartment hotel he inhabits and jollied the staff.”

Having filled his pipe, he took his time lighting it. “I gather Clayton gave Guido and Bruce a rather long interview,” he went on. “Or, rather, Bruce. Guido left about an hour before his brother did.”

“He never mentioned that!” said Corinna.

“Why should he?” countered Yamamura. “Not good for his pride, is it? But what did Bruce and Clayton find to talk about?”

“And how much of it did Guido hear?” murmured Kintyre.

Corinna flushed. “Please don’t,” she said in a hard voice.

“I’m sorry,” he answered, torn. “But if Bruce had to tell Clayton something important, even worth killing about—they’d shoo Guido out first. But Guido might have gotten enough hints to make some deductions and—No, wait, let me finish! Maybe Guido blabbed to someone else, not realizing himself what it signified.”

She gave him a shaky little smile. “Thanks for trying,” she said.

“Ah, this is probably of no significance at all,” said Yamamura. “Bruce could just as well have been giving Clayton the latest information about the mildew on page 77 of that book.” He attempted a smoke ring and failed. “Or could he? Depends on how you interpret this tidbit: Clayton telephoned Genoa, Italy, that same night.”

“Who did he call?” asked Kintyre.

“The switchboard girl doesn’t remember. All she heard was a lot of Italian: they started gabbling right away, before she could take herself out of the circuit. Clayton stayed home for several hours next day. The Italian called again. Now none of this would be worth retailing, I guess, except for one more oddity about Mr. Clayton. He had the bellhop bring him several dollars in change. Then he went out and was gone for some hours.”

Corinna raised her thick dark brows in puzzlement. Kintyre nodded. “Yes. Long-distance, though not transatlantic, calls from a public booth,” he said. “No chance of being eavesdropped on.”