A Fine Imitation (31 page)

Before Vera left Hallan's apartment, she agreed to come back the next morning, when he could send his servants out. She went home, slept a few hours, and returned early. This time, she made no protest. Nearly without words, they went into the bedroom and made love. Her exhaustion after her sleepless night gave it the cloudy feel of a dream, and afterward she lay in his arms, her eyelids falling closed every once in a while as she dipped in and out of sleep.

His voice woke her. “I want to be with you forever. We'll go away together. When you leave Arthur…”

She rolled over onto her side. “I won't leave Arthur.”

“I want you to talk as though you will. Just talk.” Hallan ran his fingers up her arm.

“Don't be silly. I can't,” she mumbled.

She drifted off again. When she woke, Hallan was dressing.

“I didn't want to wake you,” he said, pulling on his suspenders, “but I need to go to work.”

“Can we have a cup of tea first?” she asked.

“If you like. Anna's not here, of course, but I think she keeps it in the cabinet over the sink. The kettle is on the stove. Go on in, I'll be right there.”

Vera buttoned the front of her dress and went to the kitchen. After opening a few cabinets, she found the tin of tea and set it on the table. The kettle sat on a burner on the stove, and she inspected the setup carefully before sitting in the chair by the window. Hallan came in a few minutes later and looked around questioningly.

“Did you put the tea on?” he asked.

She had hoped he would not ask. She feigned ignorance. “Put it on?”

“Yes. You didn't start the water boiling?”

“I didn't know you wanted me to.”

“You wanted tea. I thought you'd make it.”

“It's not my apartment.”

He stared at her. “You don't know how to make tea, do you?”

She drew herself up. “I know how to make tea, for goodness sakes. It's the stove. I've never used one like that, that model. I didn't want to make a mistake lighting it. And the portions…”

He cast a sidelong glance at her but did not press the matter. Instead, he filled the kettle and set the water to boil. When the kettle whistled, he poured a cup for her but did not take one himself. She drank, embarrassed at her helplessness.

After she finished her tea, they kissed and left the apartment. She went upstairs, considering an idea that had come to her in the fog between sleeping and waking that morning.

Vera sat in the library with a newspaper spread over the desk. She scanned the headlines, but like yesterday and the day before, she could not find any mention of Fleming or the art forgery investigation. A voice in her head nagged her, whispered that she ought to try to find and help Bea. Vera's good judgment always prevailed over the thought, however. Attaching herself to Bea's disgrace would do nothing to help if she had actually forged paintings, but it would connect Vera to a criminal. And how would she even find her now? Surely Bea had the good sense to get out of the city.

The door creaked open behind her. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the interruption.

“Yes, Evans?”

“Mr. Stanton is here to see you,” Evans said.

Vera refolded the newspapers and sat on the couch. “Thank you. Please, show him in.”

Stanton came in and handed his bowler to Evans, who left the two of them to talk. Vera indicated the chair closest to her, and Stanton sat, adjusting the lapels of his brown wool suit.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.

“I was lucky enough to be available.” He smiled, but the sadness in his eyes lingered.

“Would you like something to drink?” She rose and went to the little cart that held the liquor decanters.

“A glass of port would be very nice, thank you.”

Vera poured Stanton's drink, then sat on the couch again. She had expected to feel nervous, but something about Stanton's worn-leather voice put her at ease. “You must be wondering why I asked you here.”

“I believe I can make a guess.”

She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Well, naturally I wanted to find out how the investigation is going. If you've discovered anything. As the wife of the building's owner, it's critical that I know as much as possible about what happens in our home.”

Stanton studied the glass in his hand. “Naturally. Although I'm afraid I'm bound to Mr. Bloomer. You understand, he's the man who hired me. I'm sure he'll be good enough to share my findings with you, when I have them.”

“I'm sure he will,” Vera said, her back tensing.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Mrs. Bellington, I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but you seem to have a singular interest in this case. Is something troubling you beyond your concern for the others in the building?”

Stanton's weary, elder-brother manner made her want to unburden herself, as if she could tell him everything and he would pat her head and say things would work out all right in the end. That confessorial air probably came in handy when he was trying to get information. She resisted the urge to spill everything, but decided to cut to the chase. There was no point in trying to hide her true intentions.

“I want you to come to me first with anything you find about Mr. Hallan,” she said. “I'll pay whatever you ask. And you can still tell Clarence Bloomer, of course. But, if you agree, I'd like to know before anyone else.”

Stanton considered this. “That would be unusual. When I have an agreement with a client, he's always the first to know what I turn up.”

She offered a small smile. “Think of me as a new client, then. I would also like to know about Mr. Hallan. I just want to know sooner. I'm not asking you to deceive Clarence, or anyone else. And, as I said, I'll pay you whatever you think is fair for this type of request.”

“All right. I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as I honor my agreement with Mr. Bloomer.” Stanton drained the last of his port.

“So have you? Found anything, I mean?”

“Nothing yet. My contacts in Europe should get back to me in the next week or so.” Stanton glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Until then, I'm interviewing people around here. Neighbors, servants…that sort of thing.”

Servants
. She cursed her own carelessness. Hallan's servants had seen her come to the apartment in the middle of the night. And they likely knew Hallan was entertaining a woman by the frequency of their mornings off, to say nothing of any hints of her presence left after her departure. How much could a whiff of perfume or a lipstick smudge on a glass tell them? If Stanton had not already spoken to them, he would soon enough. Vera stood quickly, and Stanton rose beside her.

“Yes,” she said. “Well. We'll keep this little arrangement to ourselves, shall we? And please, do let Evans know how much I owe you for this. I'll have the money to you as soon as possible.”

Stanton held out a hand to her. She hesitantly placed her hand in his.

“I pride myself on the ability to read people, Mrs. Bellington. To see through the person someone presents to the world, down to his truest intention and feeling. You'd be surprised how much most people give away, despite the masks they wear.” The corners of his mouth rose once more, and he gently squeezed her fingers. “So much goes on beneath the surface, and so few people are inclined to look.”

Vera's shoulders tensed. “I suppose I don't have to maintain any pretense with you, in that case.”

“It likely wouldn't do you any good,” he said. He took a step toward the door, then stopped, meeting her eyes once more. “I wonder…I wonder if you might consider that knowledge of Mr. Hallan's past won't be an answer to the question you really have?”

She thought for a moment. “I don't understand.”

“Mr. Bloomer's interest in Mr. Hallan reveals a lot about him. As does, I would say, your own interest. I don't mean to cause offense. May I speak plainly?”

Vera considered how rarely anyone she knew did. She nodded.

“From what I've seen in my work, other cases, I'd surmise that Mr. Hallan is making you question yourself rather more than you're questioning him.” He bowed his head to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Bellington.”

The women of the Angelus building lacked imagination. They knew of one way and one way only to welcome a new acquaintance into their social circle, and that was for one of them to host a dinner party. Despite his status as a temporary employee, Ida Bloomer had decided that Stanton merited a dinner in his honor. Vera thought they might want to keep Stanton's engagement a secret from Hallan, but as with most things, they were determined to flaunt the detective. She considered wryly that they probably took great delight in being the first building on the block to have need of one.

The chosen evening fell a week after the investigator came to speak to Vera in the penthouse. Vera braved the event alone, as Arthur had a late meeting. She thought being seated by Stanton at the table would give her the opportunity to speak more with him, but learning more about him seemed to be everyone's goal. The brisk conversation meant she could not get his attention, though she was only a few inches away.

“Tell me,” Ida said, waving a fork at the detective. “How does a man find himself in your line of work, Mr. Stanton?”

He set down his cup. “I was a police officer in Concord for a few years but had to leave the force because of an injury.” He touched the right side of his rib cage. “I knew I wanted to continue with detective work, and this seemed to be the wisest way to do so.”

Andrew Keller leaned over Vera to get Stanton's attention. “Do you mind, may I see your license?”

“Is this an official inquiry?” Stanton said, his tone playful.

Andrew laughed. He pointed his index fingers at Stanton. “Stick 'em up! Isn't that what you say?”

“No, it isn't.” Stanton reached into his breast pocket and produced a small white card. He turned with a smile to answer Andrew's baffled silence. “At least, not anymore.”