Gilded Canary (3 page)

“So, like sensible men, they got to playing poker, and like a sensible man, I joined them. Only they were more sensible than
I, it turned out, and I was down to a very few shekels, and not at all happy about it, when suddenly an event came up that
put everything to rights.

“Excuse me—drink?” Raff asked, as he stopped a waiter, who was passing by them with a liquor-laden tray. Lockwood took a Canadian
and soda, and Raff did the same, then, after a lusty swallow, continued.

“The First Marines were laying about during this brief lull in the fighting and were up to their usual mischief, of course.
Going on about their vaunted eliteness and so forth. Well, the Fighting 69th wouldn’t take this lying down, and when the Marines
suggested a fight to decide who indeed was who, the 69th took up their gauntlet and attached it to the sturdy left hand of
this feller here.”

By now a sizable group had formed around the three of them, the vitality of Raff’s voice attracting them initially, and the
tale he told drawing them in. They all stared at Lockwood, then at Raff, waiting to hear the rest.

“Well, as one might have expected, the other man was a huge brute of a fellow, all scar tissue and muscle and body hair. Looked
like a Tarzan gone wrong. We later found out he’d been a pro—a middleweight contender, before he got himself into a little
trouble and hotfooted it into the Army.

“Well, he stepped into the ring first, and you should have heard the merry hooting and hollering, all from the Marines, of
course. And next our friend here, Billy Lockwood, stepped into the ring. And
then
you should have heard all the hooting and hollering. Once more, unfortunately, all from the Marines. As I’ve said, Lockwood
wasn’t exactly a John L. Sullivan in those days, as far as physique went. Lean, stringy arms, not much chest, long, skinny,
whisper-light, really, and a little bit callow-looking, too, if the truth be told. Have your ears burning, don’t I?” he laughed,
amiably clasping Lockwood’s shoulder.

“Well, I sat there, and my mouth dropped, and I saw myself, at the advanced age of nineteen, about to make that fabled overhill
trip to the poorhouse. I looked at the Judases who’d gotten me into this fix, but their eyes were on the ring, faces tight
with hope and fear, mostly the latter. They believed in their man, sure, but when they saw him up there, stacked against King
Kong, they began to turn slightly atheistic—Hookwise, that is.

“I won’t describe the first round. Mostly because I didn’t see much of it. Had my eyes squeezed tight, you see, hoping that
if I didn’t see it, it wouldn’t really happen. But every once in a while I’d involuntarily open them—the opposite of a blink,
I suppose, since my eyes had been shut—and there The Hook would be, posterior to canvas. And I’d wince, and close my eyes
all over again.

“Second round? Not much better. Oh, a pop here and there onto the bruiser’s jawbone, a bit of a cuff at his breadbasket, but
nothing harmful, and meanwhile for every tap The Hook registered, the Marines’ bullyboy poured in twelve.

“And so it went. This was to be a ten-round fight, and it was a miracle that it went into the third round. And then, of all
things, into the fourth round, and then the fifth. And around the sixth, a curious thing began to happen. The Marine started
to look puzzled, like a great ape encountering a tiny Pekingese who wouldn’t stop yapping at him. By the seventh round, he
began to seem a little weary of the whole thing, while this one here,” he patted Lockwood, “just kept coming after him, tappa-tappa-tappa,
hands never stopping, rattling in topside, broadside, and a hair above below-decks, just like that eminence Queensbury allows.”

Raff stopped for a moment, for the first time aware of his audience. They were hanging on every word, all except Muffy, who
stole occasional approving glances at the image reflected in the mirror that hung directly across from her. He took another
gulp of the whiskey, and a second, and then, refreshed, resumed his tale.

“Well, you can imagine by this time the Marines were getting a bit restive, and there was just the slightest amount of flutter
beginning to stir in the hearts of the rest of us, the ones who had put their money on this then wet-behind-the-ears stripling.
Oh, you should have seen him. Just a mass of bruises he was, blood and perspiration coursing around and over his lumps like
rivers at floodtide. But still he kept on coming, and for the first time the pride of the United States Marine Corps began
backing up.

“As you can imagine, by the ninth round, his handlers were giving the battling behemoth holy hell, urging him to thump The
Hook into the floor, and then go back to his cage. Well, he tried. They’d pepped him up, and he came out like a young boy
turned loose in a soda fountain. Two quick punches to the chin later, and he wasn’t looking quite so merry. And since he’d
piled up all those early points, he decided to further his career by going into more clinches than Garbo and Gilbert.

“Tenth round. Last round, too, you’ll remember, if you were paying any attention at all. Well, the mauling Marine was all
set to step off into a safe and dreamy two-step, but his partner wasn’t having any. He kept shaking him off and sending in
those stinging little punches, until finally King Kong lost his temper and hauled off and knocked him—well, I’m not too hot
at geography, but I’d say it was somewhere off beyond Singapore.

“That was it, I thought, and I was standing up, back to the ring, all set to find the nearest bridge most suitable for jumping
off, when I heard a roar from the crowd, and Lockwood was up again, somehow. I wish I could confess to a deeper sense of humanity,
but I have to admit that I turned and stood there, rooted, watching to see Goliath take the final measure of David. And as
Goliath approached, the earth cleaving with each crash of his feet, David reached into his little bag of tricks, and came
forth with—no, not a sling, not a stone, but a hook. A left hook it was, and he propelled that hook onto the jutting jaw-bone
of the gargantuan gyrene, and it was all over, just like that. And Lockwood had himself his nickname, and I—and just in the
nick of time, too, for a three-day pass in Paris was calling—I found myself fiscally sound once more. Cheers. And thanks.
Twice.” And he lifted his drink in a toast to The Hook as the crowd murmured approval, looked The Hook up and down, then resumed
their own conversations. All, that is, except for a brunette on the edge of the crowd, whose intense gray eyes, Lockwood noticed,
remained riveted on him. She was simply dressed, her full, rounded breasts straining against her high-necked black gown.

Raff Spencer placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. “And what brings you here, oh mighty marauder?”

“I’m from the Transatlantic Underwriters company,” Lockwood said, his gaze moving from Raff to Muffy and fixing there. “My
company insured your jewels, and I’m here to do what I can to find them.”

Muffy’s eyes flicked open slightly. She appeared to have been caught off guard.
“Find
them?
How?
They’re
gone!
They’ve been stolen! So what makes you think you can find them?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I think I can,” he answered. “Hope I can is more like it. That’s my job. I’m an insurance investigator.
Insurance companies hire people like me to save them money. Sometimes we save it by finding what has been lost or stolen,”
he watched her face for another sudden change of expression, but there was none, “And sometimes we save it by proving that
the claim is a fraud, trumped-up; that is to say, the beneficiary of the policy is discovered to be trying to benefit in some
way from the loss or destruction—or even the
supposed
loss or destruction of what he’s insured.”

“It sounds like a fascinating job, Mr.—uh—Hook,” said Muffy, sounding less than fascinated. She waved at a couple of friends,
and wordlessly mouth-pantomimed, “I’ll be right there,” smiling and shrugging helplessly as she did so.

“It can be,” he replied, unbothered. “Mostly it’s just a kind of dogged thing, plugging along after one lead and another.”

“Uh, Mr. Hook, is it? Would you mind? I have some friends to attend to,” Muffy smiled insincerely.

“Certainly,” said Lockwood, “I understand. I will be wanting to talk to you again, though.”

“Of course,” Muffy responded, already moving away, her mind elsewhere.

Lockwood turned to Raff. “What do you know about the theft?”

“Absolutely nothing, old boy. I’d been out for a bit of a stroll while Muffy went off to rehearsal and her usual shopping
spree, and when I returned, dear Muffy was already talking to the police—some detective named Brannigan.”

“Jimbo Brannigan,” Lockwood interjected. “A lieutenant from the Midtown Precinct. He’s a good one.”

“So he seemed. A bit of a character too, I’d wager. At any rate, that’s all I know; the rest is hearsay—heard from Muffy’s
ruby lips, that is.”

“Were you with anyone during your walk?”

Raff looked surprised, then laughed. “Oh, I’m a suspect, am I? I daresay I could dig someone up,” he offered, with a careless
smile.

The woman in black was still staring at Lockwood, her eyes unwavering. “Who is she—that woman off by herself, in the black
gown?”

Raff looked, then glanced away, disinterested. “Oh, that’s just Stephanie, Muffy’s maid and general assistant. Look, if you
don’t mind,” he apologized, “for just a moment, there are these dreary people I absolutely have to pay some feigned interest
to—”

“That’s all right,” Lockwood answered, “there are a few people here I’d like to see.”

Raff nodded, made a slight, mocking bow, and headed toward a doddering quintet of seventy-year-olds. Stephanie being nearest,
Lockwood made his way to her. She was still standing in the same spot, seemingly oblivious to everyone around her. Everyone
but him.

“Excuse me,” he said. “If I may, I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. My name is Bill Lockwood. I represent the company
that insured Miss Dearborn’s jewels.”

“I know,” she responded, her eyes never leaving him. No warmth there, just stone. “Mr. Jacoby told me.” She stopped for a
moment, then added, “I thought you were a friend of Mr. Spencer.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may, Miss—”

“Meilleux. Stephanie Meilleux.”

“Miss Meilleux, where were you when the jewels were stolen?”

“With Miss Dearborn. First, we were with the band for the rehearsal. Afterward, we went shopping: Bendel’s, Saks’, some of
the smaller shops.” Her voice was uninflected, cold, her expression grave.

“So you saw nothing that made you suspicious?”

“No.”

“Anything before that? You know, people snooping around, what have you?”

“I know nothing. Nothing at all.” It was as if a switch had been flicked in her, cutting off all humanity.

“You’re a suspect, you know,” he told her, studying her, watching for a reaction.

The gray of her eyes hinted of thunderstorms, cyclones, cataclysmic acts of nature. Otherwise, she was stolid, imperturbable.
“That I cannot help.”

“I see. Well, it’s late, and I have a few other people to meet.” There seemed to be no guilt about her, no fear for herself,
and yet… there was something… “Good night.”

Still she did not blink. “Good night,” she said, her unwavering gaze implacable.

Lockwood turned, and made his way to Cracks Henderson. The pianist was over by the hors d’oeuvres, a drink in one hand, the
other dipping down into the food, shooting up to his mouth, and then back down again to gather up another few morsels. It
was done mechanically, without relish, as if his body was automatically caring for itself, while his mind was elsewhere. His
mind was with his eyes, probably. Cracks, too, appeared to be fixated, but in his case, it was Muffy Dearborn who had his
rapt attention. There seemed to be a hunger in his gaze as he watched her.

“Mr. Henderson, I’m Mr. Lockwood, investigating the theft of Miss Dearborn’s jewels.”

Cracks’ head snapped to, eyes wide, mouth dropping.

When he said nothing, Lockwood continued. “It’s in connection with the insurance claim.”

“Oh?” Cracks’ pale eyes had gone opaque. There was a slight tremble to his head that could have been nerves, or could have
been something else.

“I understand that Muffy’s diamonds disappeared sometime during the period when she was rehearsing with you and the time she
spent shopping.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t know?”

“That’s not my bag. I don’t think about stuff like that.”

“What do you think about?”

“Music.”

“That’s all?”

“You got it.”

“I’d say that wasn’t all.”

An hors d’oeuvre paused on its way to Cracks’ mouth. “What?”

“Every time I’ve looked at you, you seemed to be displaying an unusually healthy interest in Miss Dearborn.”

Cracks flushed, and his face contorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, angrily.

“Where did you go after rehearsal?”

“Which rehearsal?”

“The opening night rehearsal.”

“There were three opening night rehearsals.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Okay, Mr. Insurance Guy, let me explain to you. First, the band and I rehearsed for two hours. Then Muffy and the band and
I rehearsed for an hour. Then the band and I rehearsed for almost three hours.”

“A lot of rehearsal.”

“They needed it. Tired old men. Dogs. And Muffy paid for it.”

“According to my information, that would give you a pretty good alibi.”

Cracks was back to popping hors d’oeuvres again, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes from zeroing in on Muffy Dearborn.
He didn’t answer.

“Bands take breaks, though. Do you remember where you went on yours?”

Cracks seemed to speak to him through a haze, as if responding from another time and place. “Maybe. I don’t know. No. I can’t
remember.”

Lockwood studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. He’d try another time, perhaps. “Okay. I’ll see you again.”

Cracks didn’t bother to reply, perhaps never even heard what he’d said. He was back to where he’d been when Lockwood had walked
up, whiskey in hand, tidbits in mouth, eyes drinking in every last bit of the woman he played piano for.