The Last Dance (32 page)

“I don't under …”

“Never mind, I shouldn't have said that.”

“I'm sorry, I still don't …”

“It's just … my father isn't in the best of health, you see.”

“That's too bad.”

“And
I
certainly don't have the same problems he has.”

“Problems? What …?”

“With the play. With it being done as a musical. I have no emotional ties to Jessica Miles, you see. I never even
met
the woman. What I'm saying is I don't give a
damn
about her play. In fact, I'd
love
to see the musical revived.”

“But what's ten years from now got to …?”

“My father's leaving the rights to me.”

“Oh?”

“To her play. When he dies. It's in his will.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“But,”
she said. “It
isn't
ten years from now, is it?”

“No, it isn't,” Palmer says.

“It's now,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. “So it is.”

He calls her again on the eighteenth of October. It is midnight here in America, he tells her it's five
A.M.
there in London, but he hasn't been able to sleep.

“I've been thinking a lot about your father,” he says.

“Me, too,” she says.

“It seems
such
a pity he won't let go of those rights, doesn't it? Forgive me, but have you made your position absolutely clear to him? Have you told him
your
feelings about having this musical done?”

“Oh, yes, a thousand times.”

“I mean … he
must
realize, don't you imagine, that the moment he's passed on … forgive me … you'll do bloody well what you
like
with the play. Doesn't he realize that?”

“I'm sure he does.”

“It does seem unfair, doesn't it?”

“It does.”

“Especially since he's in bad health.”

“Two heart attacks.”

“You'd think he'd hand over the play
immediately,
why wouldn't he? With his blessings. Here you are, Cynthia, do with it as you wish.”

“His only child,” Cynthia said.

“One would think so.”

“But he won't.”

“Well, when they get to be a certain age …”

“It isn't that. He's just a stubborn old fool. Sometimes I wish …”

She lets the sentence trail.

He waits.

“Sometimes I wish he'd die tomorrow,” she says.

There is another silence.

“I'm sure you don't mean that,” he says.

“I suppose not.”

“I'm sure you don't.”

“But I do,” she says.

There is a Jamaican named Charles Colworthy who works in the mail room with Palmer, and he knows another Jamaican named
Delroy Lewis, who knows yet another Jamaican named John Bridges, who by all accounts is what they call a “Yardie,” which Palmer explains is British slang for any young Jamaican male involved in violence and drugs.

“I wouldn't want him hurt,” Cynthia says at once.

“Of course not.”

“You said violence.”

“He's assured me it will be painless.”

“You've met him?”

“Several times.”

“What's his name?”

“John Bridges. He's quite ready to do it for us. If you still want to go ahead with it.”

“I've given it a lot of thought.”

“So have I.”

“It does seem the right thing, doesn't it, Gerry?”

“Yes.”

There is a long silence.

It all seems to be happening too quickly.

“When … when would he do it?”

“Sometime before the end of the month. He'll need an introduction. You'd have to arrange that.”

“An introduction?”

“To your father.”

“Is he black?”

“Yes. But very light skinned.”

“I don't know any black people, you see.”

“Very pale eyes,” Palmer says. “A lovely smile. All you need do is introduce him. He'll take care of the rest.”

“It's just that I don't know any black people.”

“Well …”

“I wouldn't know what to say.”

“Just say he's a friend of yours from London.”

“I've never been to London.”

“A friend of a friend, you could say. Who'll be there for a few days. Who you wanted your father to meet. Is what you could say.”

“Why would anyone want to meet my father?”

“You could say he once worked in a hospital here. Just as your father did. That would give them something in common. I'll give you the name of a hospital here in London.”

“I've never introduced my father to anyone in my life.”

“It would just be to put him off guard.”

“He'd be suspicious.”

“Just someone you'd like him to meet. A nurse. Just as your father was.”

“He won't hurt him, will he?”

“No, no, you needn't worry.”

“When did you say it would be?”

“Well, he'll come as soon as we authorize it. He'll want half of his fee beforehand, half after it's done.”

“How much did he say?”

“Five thousand.”

“Is that a lot?”

“I think it's reasonable. Dollars, that is. Not pounds.”

“I wouldn't want him hurt,” she says again.

“No, he won't be.”

“Well.”

“But I have to let him know.”

“What do
you
think we should do?”

“I think we should go ahead with it. Twenty-five hundred dollars is a lot of money to me, but I look upon this as a serious investment …”

“Yes.”

“… an opportunity to advance myself. I can't speak for you, of course … but … I've never really had very much in my life, Cynthia. I work in the post room, I don't get invited to very many balls at Windsor. If this show is a hit, everything would change for me. My life would become … well … glamorous.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I think we should do it,” he said. “I truly do.”

“Well then …”

“What I'll do, if you agree, I'll give John my half of the fee just before he leaves London, and you can pay him the rest when he's done it. There in America. Afterward. Would you be happy with that?”

“I guess so.”

“Shall I call him then?”

“Well …”

“Tell him we're going ahead with it?”

“Yes.”

Now, sitting in the lieutenant's office with her lawyer and the detectives, she lowers her eyes and says, “John was very charming. He and my father hit it off right away. But he caused me a lot of trouble later. Because he said it would look like an accident, and it didn't.”

Gerald Palmer called the British Consulate the moment the cops told him what charges they were bringing against him. The consul who came over was named Geoffrey Holden, a somewhat portly man in his mid-forties, stroking a bristly mustache that made him look like a cavalry colonel. He took off his heavy overcoat and hung it on a corner rack. Under it, he was wearing a somber gray suit with a vest and a bright yellow tie. He told Palmer this was his first DBN of the week, which letters he jovially explained stood for Distressed British National.

“Murder, eh?” he said. “Who'd you kill?”

“I haven't killed
anyone,”
Palmer said. “Don't be a bloody fool.”

“Let me explain how American law works,” Holden said. “If you actually hired someone to kill someone else, then you're as guilty as the person pulling the trigger. Murder for hire is first-degree murder, and the penalty is death by lethal injection. They use Valium. A massive dose that stops the heart.
Conspiracy
to commit murder is another A-felony. If you did either or both of these things …”

“I didn't.”

“I was about to say you'd be in very deep trouble.
If
you did these things. Which you say you didn't.”

“That's right.”

“Being British is no excuse, by the way. It doesn't entitle you to immunity.”

“I don't need immunity. I haven't done anything.”

“Well, good then. D'you know anyone named John Bridges?”

“No.”

“They seem to think you know him.”

“I don't.”

“How about a man named Charles Colworthy?”

Palmer's eyes opened wide.

“Supposed to work with you at Martins and Grenville. Good publishers, eh? D'you know him?”

Palmer was thinking it over.

“The way they have it,” Holden said, “Colworthy knows someone named Delroy Lewis, who put you in touch with this Bridges chap to whom you and Cynthia Keating together paid five thousand dollars to kill her father. But that isn't so, is it?”

“Well, I
know
Colworthy, yes. But …”

“Ah, you do?”

“Yes. We work together in the post room. But I certainly didn't hire …”

“That's good. I'll just tell them they've made a mistake.”

“Where'd they get those names, anyway?”

“From the woman.”

“What woman?”

“Cynthia Keating,” Holden said, and hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “She's ratted you out.”

Palmer looked at him.

“But if you had nothing to do with this …”

“Just a minute. What do you mean? Just because she gave them the name of someone I
work
with …”

“The other man as well. Delroy Lewis. The one leading directly to Bridges. Who killed her father.”

“Well, the only one
I
know is Charlie. He's the one I work with. I may have mentioned
his
name to her. In casual conversation. If so, she must have contacted him on her own.”

“Ah,” Holden said, and nodded. “To ask if he might know anyone who'd help kill her father, is that it?”

“Well, I … I'm sure I don't know
what
she asked him.”

“Called London to arrange his murder, is that how you see it?”

“I don't see it any way at all. I'm merely trying to explain …”

“Yes, that
you,
personally, had nothing to do with this.”

“Nothing whatever.”

“So Mrs. Keating is lying to them.
Has
lied to them, in fact. She's accepted a deal, you see. They've dropped the conspiracy charge and lowered the murder charge to second degree. Twenty to life, with a recommendation for parole.” Holden paused. “They might even offer you the same deal. Then again, perhaps not.”

Palmer looked at him.

“Because of the related murder.”

Palmer kept looking at him.

“They seem to think you did
that
one personally. The old lady. Martha Coleridge. I have no idea where
she
fits into the scheme of things, but apparently she was threatening a plagiarism suit. Do you know the woman I mean?”

“Yes,” Palmer said.

“That would constitute a second count of first-degree murder,” Holden said, and stroked his mustache. “So I doubt if they'd offer you the same deal, after all.”

“I'm not looking for a deal.”

“Why should you be? You haven't done anything.”

“That's right.”

“I'll just tell them to forget it.”

“Of course. They have no proof.”

“Well, they have the woman's confession. Which implicates you,
of course. And our chaps may get something more from Bridges, if ever they find him. They're looking for him now, apparently. In Euston. He lives in Euston.”

Palmer fell silent again.

“You won't be granted bail, you realize,” Holden said. “You're a foreigner implicated in murder, no one's going to risk your running. In fact, till the dust settles one way or another, they'll want your passport.” He sighed heavily, said, “Well, I'll see about finding a lawyer for you,” and went to the corner where he'd hung his overcoat. Shrugging into it, buttoning it, his back to Palmer, he said, “You wouldn't possibly have anything to …
offer
them, would you?”

“How do you mean?”

Holden turned toward him.

“Well,” he said, “I must tell you, with the woman's confession, they have more than enough for an indictment. It'll go worse for you if they catch up with the Jamaican and flip him as well, but even so they've got a quite decent case.”

“But I haven't done anything.”

“Right. Keep forgetting that. Sorry. Let me talk to them.” He opened the door, hesitated, turned to Palmer again, and said, “You wouldn't know anything about this little black girl who got stabbed up in Diamondback, would you?”

Palmer merely looked at him.

“Althea Cleary? Because they like to tidy things up, you see. If you can tell them anything about
that
murder … they're not trying to implicate you in it, by the way, they seem to think the Jamaican did that one all on his own. Got into some sort of argument with the girl, lost his temper. Whatever.” His voice lowered. “But if he mentioned anything about it to you … perhaps before he went back to London … it might be worth a deal, hm?”

Palmer said nothing.

His voice almost a whisper, Holden said, “He's just a Yardie, y'know.”

Palmer sat as still as a stone.

“Well, I suppose not,” Holden said.

It suddenly occurred to him that the man was simply very stupid.

He sighed again, and went out of the room.

In the squadroom, they were speculating about what
might
have happened to Althea Cleary.

“She takes the Jamaican back to her apartment,” Parker suggested. “He drops the rope in her drink, figures he's home free. But while he's waiting for it to take effect, she casually mentions she's a working girl and this is gonna cost him two bills. He's offended because he's never had to pay for it in his life, male
or
female. So he stabs her.”