The Crasher (52 page)

Arthur Stern stood up with effort. “All right, Muriel. I know when I’m not wanted…”

Johnny couldn’t remember witnessing such a disagreeable scene between two people, let alone a husband and wife. He looked
down at the floor, embarrassed to see Arthur start to walk unsteadily across the room, where Sorenson took his arm and helped
him out.

After they left there was a long silence which Johnny was determined not to break. Here was the opportunity he’d been looking
for, the chance to grill the only brains in the family, to see if he could find even the slightest link between the Sterns’
celebrated fortune and the murky underground world of Svank; yet a dark cloud had settled in his mind. It didn’t go away as
Muriel Stern began to speak.

“I am appreciative of your offer to introduce your illustrious father to us, Mr. Peet. He is recognized by millions for his
ability to bring about justice. I hope David, eh, Doctor Sorenson, has told you how I believe if only your father will write
about the true facts in this case, Arthur, my husband, will be extricated from the sorry mess he is in. I am anxious for this
to happen before this farce of an indictment takes place. Lawyers! Don’t talk to me about lawyers.”

She spoke as if she were presiding over a board meeting of Stern Fashion and Textiles, chomping at the bit to get her point
of view across. Although she paused, obviously waiting for Johnny to agree with her, he stayed silent, fearing that
what he was about to hear might make him sick to his stomach.

“For some reason I cannot fathom, Mr. Peet, my husband’s legal advisors have told him not to repeat what I am now going to
tell you. I believe it is a major mistake. My husband was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but as you can see for yourself
there is no way he could commit a murder.” She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “He had had his business differences
with Svank, but if anyone took the trouble to look into that, it would soon be confirmed they had been resolved to everyone’s
satisfaction.”

Muriel closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “No, the unpalatable fact is, at the time of the murder my husband was on the third
floor of the library, when he should have been on the first floor. He was there, hoping for-er-privacy, advising a young,
unknown, would-be fashion designer…” She pursed her lips in revulsion. “He uses the word ‘advises’ in a loose fashion; I have
no doubt they were engaged in some sort of sexual encounter. This is not the first time Mr. Stern has abused my trust. In
this instance…”

Johnny was no longer listening. He didn’t need to. With the ugly details supplied by Stern, everything was becoming all too
clear.

“A young, unknown, would-be fashion designer.”

Ginny and Stern. Even as part of his mind refuted the shocking scenario, another part accepted that it all made terrible sense.
Ginny’s playing around with Stern at the time of the murder explained why she hadn’t so far claimed the precious cloak she’d
left behind, because it also explained the greater mystery: why she’d left it behind in the first place. She’d been fleeing
from the scene of the crime… from Stern… from getting involved… from receiving the full spotlight of attention at the worst
possible time on her modus operandi of crashing and flirting and-he still tried to block the thought, but it came right back-yes,
if necessary, fucking her way to so-called success.

Muriel Stern was still giving her orders. Her words came
and went as a kind of echo in his head “… If you ask me the lawyers haven’t even attempted to find her. It’s as if they don’t
believe she exists… Whose side are they on anyway… One word from your father and I know the search will be on for this wretched
whore… but let me clarify what I mean.”

He had to get out of this stifling apartment, out into the fresh air, before he threw up. He jumped up clumsily, knowing he
must look wild. He didn’t care about tracing a link between Svank and the Sterns anymore; he didn’t care about anything. He’d
been made a fool of; he’d been betrayed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stern. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

“But, but, Mr. Peet-”

He rushed out of the claustrophobic little room, out of the apartment, ignoring the shout to come back from the gray-suited
manservant following him out the door. He was not aware until he hit the street that he’d been holding his breath, as he used
to do as a child, witnessing emotional scenes between his parents.

He didn’t know where he was going. He had to have a drink. He went into a bar on First Avenue and, head in hands, stared at
his miserable reflection in the bar mirror. Ginny and Stern. Ginny and Stern. He kept shaking his head. Was it really possible
his Ginny, his own little crasher, could go off with an obvious lecher like Stern to a deserted part of the library, just
asking for trouble?

The answer had to be it was possible. The fact that Ginny had had the temerity-at the time he’d even half admiringly labeled
it as guts-to crash the library dinner in the first place showed she was capable of anything. Even sex with Stern to get backing
for her business? No, no, no, surely he couldn’t be such a bad judge of someone.

Thinking of Stern putting a finger on Ginny made him nauseous. He had to hear it from her, face-to-face, but he was too angry
to listen right now. He wanted to strangle her just as much as he’d wanted to knock Stern down.

He left the bar and started to walk slowly downtown in the
direction of Ginny’s loft. He welcomed the stinging air on his face, the wind howling up from the river, whipping away at
his clothes.

Why should he care so much? He’d made no commitment. It was none of his business, but on the contrary, it was very much his
business now. An old movie title came into his head:
License to Kill.
By encouraging Ginny for the sake of his book, and, God forbid, by paying her for the information, he’d given her license
to crash.

He was the one who’d put a respectable spin on her crashing, filling her head with the noble idea that she was providing him
with a sociological survey of contemporary mores and values. He’d stopped admonishing her and instead he’d showed her how
much he loved hearing about her exploits, but how much had she left out? Was there no limit to what she was prepared to do
for her business, for kicks?

He groaned as he walked. It was getting late, but he didn’t want to give up walking and hail a cab. He wanted to put his body
through the extra exertion, pushing against the cold wind, feeling his hands turn to ice in his jacket pockets.

Again and again during the nearly ninety minutes it took to walk to Madison Square Park, he remembered Stern’s sick expression
as he gave his account of the assignation… “the kinkier the better… the kind of girl who can only come when it’s out in public.”
His footsteps quickened. He’d never really trusted Dolores, but Ginny… until he looked in her eyes and heard for himself
it was true, he couldn’t believe it. If it was true, he would never trust a woman again.

There was something else that gnawed at him. Ginny had to know Stern’s life was in jeopardy.

If she had been with him that night, could she really be so heartless, so incredibly self-absorbed that in order to cover
up her own crashing exploits she hadn’t come forward to confirm Stern’s alibi and so exonerate him?

It was inconceivable. As Johnny neared the loft he asked himself what or whom was Ginny covering up? Did she know something
about Svank’s death-or someone connected to it?
Someone like Poppy? But Poppy had a cast-iron alibi of her own. Something nagged at him, but he couldn’t think what it was.

As he rang the bell he thought he had his anger under control, until he heard her voice, shaky, breathless, nervous. Yes,
definitely nervous. She was covering up something, or was it someone? He tried to sound lighthearted. “It’s me, Ginny. Back
from the front.”

“Oh, Johnny, how wonderful. I hoped you’d come, but I wasn’t sure. How wonderful! Oh, Johnny.” There was no pretense in that
welcome.

She was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister as he climbed the last flight. She looked like
a kid all right, with her hair in funny little braids, wearing a long primrose-colored nightshirt. “Oh, Johnny.” She tried
to wrap herself around him. She sensed his withdrawal. “What’s wrong? My God, you’re like ice. Is it still that cold out?
I can’t believe it. Quickly, come inside.”

He was shivering, but he wasn’t sure it was from the cold. He couldn’t stop until she’d made some coffee and draped a blanket
around his shoulders. He leaned back, carefully studying her face as he told her a little about what he had recently discovered
about “your friend Poppy’s beau.”

Was it his imagination that she paled as he dropped a few lines he’d rehearsed on the walk over? “I know from you that Svank
was no pussycat, but he was no law-abiding citizen either. It’s lucky Poppy’s seen the end of him. It looks as if he died
just in time to avoid going inside for a long, long time. The shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Ginny’s mouth was set in a tight line. Was she surprised? It was hard to say. He went on grimly, “Svank was done in by his
own greed. It was contagious. By never delegating enough he signed his own death warrant. Someone wasn’t satisfied with his
share.” He swallowed the last sip of coffee.

“Let me get you some more-”

“No, I don’t need any more goddam coffee.”

He pulled her down beside him, roughly turning her face to
look at his. “D’you remember our old friend Luisa? The Villeneva jewel heist?” A flash of fear crossed Ginny’s face. She began
to tremble. He tightened his grip on her arm. He didn’t care if he bruised her. He wanted to hurt her as she’d hurt him. “I’m
on the case, Ginny. There’s already proof that in some way that particular jewel robbery led straight back to Svank. Big-time
jewel thefts, big-time art thefts-Svank had devised a unique way of using them-as collateral, for his real line of dirty work,
drug-dealing involving zillions of dollars. The retail shops, the manufacturing plants, the legit trades-all window dressing,
m’dear, for what Mr. Svank was really all about.”

“Why are you staring at me? Why are you looking at me like that?” she cried. “You’re hurting my arm, Johnny. Why are you telling
me all this? What has it got to do with me?”

He’d had enough. He jumped off the bed, pulling her with him, shaking her like a rag doll. “Because we both know, don’t we,
that Arthur Stern didn’t kill Svank? You know because you know the real killer, don’t you, Ginny? You were with Stern, weren’t
you? You witnessed the murder because you were the young designer dallying with Stern at exactly the place and exactly the
time when it took place, weren’t you, Ginny?”

As his voice rose in anger, his heart sank. He’d been fooling himself. He hoped he’d see in her eyes her own fury at being
accused, her stunned disbelief that he could think such a thing; but there was no fury there, no disbelief.

She didn’t attempt to lie. She sagged in his arms, looked beaten, heavy with defeat. “Yes, Johnny,” she whispered. “But it’s
not what you think-”

He let her go so quickly she tumbled back on the bed. He paced backward and forward, running a hand through his hair. Now
he wished he’d never come. He didn’t want to know the truth if it meant Ginny had betrayed him. It was too painful to deal
with.

“Johnny…” The tears were coming now, noiseless tears in a steady stream down her cheeks. Fighting for breath, in fits
and starts she told him about meeting Stern once before, and walking out on him, not knowing how much he could help her until
Lee Baker Davies told her the story about the Sterns rescuing a California designer.

He slumped down in a chair. He didn’t want to listen, but he was too tired to leave.

“He… he seemed interested in my dress at the library. I thought I’d show him the cloak, too, if I could only get him to the
cloakroom before dinner. He was boasting… wanted to show off this medieval manuscript he’d given to the library. Oh, Johnny,
I know I was a fool, but I hoped-”

“Ginny, I know what you hoped,” he interrupted coldly. “What happened?”

“I knew I was taking a risk, but I thought I could handle it. He’d had too much to drink… I didn’t think there’d be a problem.”
She was beginning to sound hysterical. “I was so unhappy, making you mad, not meeting your father, not getting anywhere, I
thought at least I could make an impression on-

“You made an impression all right. What happened?”

She shuddered. “He… he tried to rape me. He… he… might have succeeded if we hadn’t heard a shot. We saw these two men fighting
at the end of the hall. We saw everything.”

“Everything? You saw who the two men were?”

She didn’t even hesitate. At this, the darkest time of Alex’s life, until she heard what he had to say, even now she couldn’t
give him away. “No, no, no… the hall was too dark. It was impossible to see who they were.” She shut her eyes, trying to blot
the tall, shadowy figure out of her mind.

“Oh, Johnny, please believe me. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but that’s what happened. Can you understand now why I
haven’t claimed the cloak? Why I haven’t gone to the police? It’s so… so degrading. If the story gets in the papers, I’ll
never live it down.”

“What about Stern? He’s about to be indicted for Svank’s death, for manslaughter, if not murder two. What about him?”
“Every day I tell myself the police will find the real killer today… and Stern will be released-”

“You can’t let another day pass, Ginny, you know that”

She covered her face with her hands, her thin shoulders shaking in the old-fashioned nightshirt. She looked so helpless, so
fragile. Despite himself his anger and suspicion began to evaporate. It was replaced by tenderness and remorse, for not looking
after her, for not protecting her from nightmares like Stern and Svank.

He let the silence settle in. He longed to dry her tears, to gather her up and hold her close for the rest of his life, but
he did nothing. He was scared at the depth of his feelings. He wanted to think it through.