The Polka Dot Nude (15 page)

When he didn’t defend himself against the jet-set charge, I knew I was right. “I heard about it,” he said vaguely.

“How? Did Belton put a sleuth on my tail when they heard I was doing the book? You had easy work getting at my research. I want you to know, I think you’re a contemptible phony. I won’t be going back with you, and I don’t suggest you break into my cottage and steal my box again. Or did you have it photocopied?”

He ignored my question. “Look who’s talking about breaking into cottages! You rifled my drawers, and read my manuscript.”

“Yes,
manuscript!
I knew it wasn’t anything else but. If that manuscript is a sample of the hatchet job you’re doing on Rosalie, I hope her daughter sues you! And furthermore, I want those two pages you cut out of the diary returned in good condition.” I pushed away my plate to remove the temptation of dumping it on his head.

He pushed it back at me and said, “I told you, I’m not Hume Mason.”

“Fine, let’s go out and open that carton of paperbacks you carefully locked in the trunk of your car, shall we?”

“I’m eating my breakfast now,” he said, with an effort at calm loftiness.

It was too much to bear. “Since you’re so hungry, eat mine too.” I lifted my plate and took aim. I regret to this day that he ducked, and I only caught his shoulder, but even that aroused some interest in the other breakfasters.

The only thing left to do after that was to stride angrily from the dining room, not stopping till I reached the reception desk. I enquired for bus service east, and learned there was none. The clerk told me if I walked about three miles to the highway, there’d be a bus at ten after twelve. My sandals weren’t made for walking.

“After twelve? I’ve got to get away immediately.”

“Your best bet’d be a taxi,” he decided, after much rubbing of whiskers. “Orbison’s taxi will be operating in a couple of hours. He doesn’t bother running it till ten. The best business is at night. He works late, and starts at ten in the morning.”

“That’s too late. Is there a car rental?”

“Nope.” He smiled complacently. “You’d have to take the taxi into Alexandria Bay for that. There’ll be a bus in—”

“Is there
any
way out of here, other than walking or swimming?”

“Well now,” he said, stroking his jaw, “I just might be able to help you. Going east, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Wait here.”

He ambled off and came back in five minutes to tell me there was a customer driving east in a few minutes. He’d be happy to take me with him. He’d be a noisy traveling salesman—if I was lucky—but at that point I hardly cared if he was a mass murderer.

“Thank you.” He looked expectant, so I gave him five dollars. I felt like demanding it back when it was Brad who came sauntering to the counter ten minutes later. His shoulder was wet where he’d washed the egg yolk and bacon grease from it.

He wore a jeering smile. “Ready to leave? You might as well have eaten breakfast. It wasn’t half-bad. You should always make sure, before a grand exit, that there’s not an anticlimax waiting in the wings to humiliate you.” His smile stretched to a grin.

“Like a car with a broken engine, you mean?” I retaliated.

“It turns out I just flooded the engine. I tried it this morning and it was fine.”

“You did it on purpose, you creep! You’re pathetic, you know that? A man your age acting like a raunchy teenager. I’m surprised you didn’t run out of gas.”

His nostrils dilated.
“My
age? I’m not quite senile yet.” I saw the age arrow had hit home.

“Not quite.” I smiled, staring at his wrinkles.

He stomped out; I hurried after him. No matter how degrading to my ego, I wasn’t going to let Hume Mason get back to work hours before me.

At the car, he stopped, eyes narrowed, and said, “Are you sure you want to share a ride with a pathetic old creep?”

“I’ll have myself fumigated when I get home.”

I sat with my arms crossed, glaring out the window till we reached the cottage. Not another word passed between us, even when he exceeded the speed limit by several miles an hour in an effort to jolt my mouth open. When he parked under the tree, I opened my own door and strode to my cottage. I didn’t say good-bye or thank you, or even look over my shoulder. I rather thought he’d be childish enough to say “You’re welcome,” but he didn’t say it.

I went straight to my typewriter, though I didn’t intend to work in my best suit. When my seething anger simmered down, I realized I was in no condition even to type, let alone compose anything. My fingers were shaking. He’d done it again. Gotten me so upset I couldn’t work. I had a feeling the typewriter keys next door were already clattering out seventy or eighty words a minute.

CHAPTER 11

Every time I had anything to do with Brad O’Malley, I ended up looking like a dope. One melting smile and I’d handed over the diaries. It was no less than a breach of trust for me to have spilled Rosalie’s beans. To have spilled them into Hume Mason’s dish to be turned into a sleazy travesty was not only stupid but unprofessional. And when I at last had my research back, did I get on with the job? No, I went gallivanting off to celebrate, and wasted a whole night and half a morning because that wretch convinced me his car had broken down.

Even now, I sat wallowing in self-pity and remorse instead of getting on with the job. I sharpened pencils, arranged paper—all the make-work tricks to stave off the actual writing. Eventually I settled down to read over the last written bit of manuscript, centered a page in the machine, and looked to see the film ribbon was in place. I looked, without really thinking, at a series of numbers. It was a minute before I realized they shouldn’t have been there. I hadn’t been typing numbers; I’d been typing words.

The ribbon popped out by applying pressure on a lever at the side of the machine. I pulled another inch of ribbon loose and saw the words
New York, N.Y.,
then the numbers. My curiosity mounted higher. I pulled some more, and read Drew Taylor’s name and address. It was an apartment on the East Side, not her gallery. When I pulled the cartridge apart I found that it was the only message not typed by me. Therefore it had been surely typed by whoever stole my machine, my research, my painting.

In my excitement, I forgot all about Brad O’Malley; but when there was a knock at the door, I figured it had to be he, so I stuffed the ribbon cartridge under a stack of papers. I don’t even know why I did it, except that I didn’t want to share anything more with him. But it was Simcoe at the door.

“Hello, Miss Dane. I see you and young O’Malley got back all right. Have a nice holiday?” His eyes glittered with curiosity.

“Very nice, thank you.” I hoped my tone discouraged meaningless conversation.

“Next time you go away overnight, you should let me know. I don’t like to think of the cottages being empty, after the break-in. You took the fiancé home to meet your folks, I suppose?” he asked, fishing for news.

To satisfy him, I said, “Yes.”

“It’s real romantic, having lovebirds in our cottages. I guess you were pretty surprised to find O’Malley land in on you, eh? I knew he was coming half a day before, but let him have his little surprise. He asked me not to tell you he was coming.”

I had proof positive that he’d followed me here, and there could be no conceivable reason other than my research. “He likes surprises,” I said inanely. “The funny thing is I didn’t even give him the address. I wonder how he found the place.”

“He knew the general area you were coming to. He drove around till they gave him my phone number down at the Bay. He called up and asked if Miss Dane had hired a cottage. When I said you had, he snapped up the other quick as blinking, and told me not to tell you he was coming. He wanted to surprise his fiancée. He didn’t even come to look at the place first.”

“He surprised me all right,” I admitted.

“I’ll let you get back to work. Remember, if you go off again, just give me a call, and I’ll keep an eye on things for you.

“Thanks, Mr. Simcoe.”

I closed the door and leaned against it, chewing over this new piece of duplicity on Brad’s part. I was so mad I forgot the typewriter ribbon with Drew’s name and address on it. How was anybody supposed to work in such an atmosphere? I retrieved the ribbon and checked to see I hadn’t imagined the message on it.

It was still there. And last night Brad had led me by the nose to connect Drew Taylor with the theft from my cottage. But
he
was the thief—wasn’t he? Except it was peculiar that he helped me get my research back. He said he didn’t know Drew. Furthermore, I didn’t think he’d be careless enough to leave the ribbon with Drew’s name in the machine if he had typed it. He was up on his detective lore from those Madison Gantry books he read (or possibly wrote?). But if he was Madison Gantry, why did he refuse to open the cardboard carton from Belton in the trunk of his car? The typing of Drew’s name and address looked as if it had been done by an amateur typist. The spacing between words was wrong, and one of the capitals omitted.

When there was another knock on the door, I went with rising temper to get rid of Simcoe. I opened the door to see Brad standing there with a bouquet of wildflowers held toward me.

“If you’re looking for a funeral, you’ve come to the wrong place. If you care to stick around, however . . ."

He wore the abject frown of a scolded boy. “I come in peace,” he answered, but his raised hand showed he was ready to defend himself, if not attack. He proffered the flowers again; I ignored them.

“Fine, you can go back the same way.” I tried to close the door, but his toe held it ajar. He was wearing his sandals, which left his toes vulnerable to attack. I pushed harder; his fingers wrapped around the door edge and he pushed it open, squeezing in like a vacuum-cleaner salesman.

“You can throw those weeds out. I get hay fever.” I examined him with the greatest curiosity. It should have taken him longer than this to recover after I’d thrown my breakfast on his shirt.

“Weeds?” he objected, deeply offended. “These are lilies of the valley, denoting a return of happiness in the language of flowers. A lovely thought, don’t you think? Buttercups, clover, mock orange, purloined at risk to life and limb from the missus’s bush, right under her nose, with the curtain jiggling. A branch of lilac for the scent,” he added, pulling out the blossom and handing it to me.

I wasn’t totally immune to the spectacle of a handsome man making a jackass of himself over me. Some traitorous corner of my heart wanted to hear an explanation that would exonerate him, but I was mad at myself for the weakness.

“Cut the bullroar,” I said. “Simcoe just let the cat out of the bag—about your surprise for the little fiancée.”

His jaw muscles tensed in frustration. “Blew the whole thing, huh? Audrey, I came to apologize, and to make a deal. If you own a Bible, bring it on. If not, the
Oxford English Dictionary
will do. Whatever my reason for coming here, I want to promise I’m not going to do a book on Rosalie Hart. I’ll take an oath on it.” His voice had the ring of truth.

“Will you put it in writing?”

“I’ll write it in blood, if you like.”

“I’ll get a knife.” His eyes flew open wider, but even this threat didn’t deter him. “You admit you
did
come here to share my research?”

“I had it in mind, I confess. I didn’t know you then, Audrey. I’m sorry as hell. You mean more to me than any book. Even the
Oxford Dictionary,”
he said rashly. “More than
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.
What else can I say?”

I felt a smile moving my lips. “More than Eliot?”

“Sweetheart, more than Eliot and Shakespeare combined.” He smiled disarmingly. “Are we friends?” he asked, once more shoving the bouquet at me.

“I suppose.” I took the weeds and put them in one of the peanut butter glasses beside my typewriter. I wanted to go on being angry with him, but my heart was melting for relief and joy. I remembered the cartridge ribbon, and pulled it out to show him what I’d found.

“Why did you type this when you stole my typewriter?” I inquired. He frowned in perplexity. “You might as well admit the whole thing now, while I’m in a forgiving mood. You took my stuff, didn’t you?”

“I
didn’t!
That’s what’s driving me crazy. And that’s why I don’t think it was your research that was the point of the whole thing. What’s written on that?”

I handed him the ribbon and he read the last bit. “Drew Taylor!” he exclaimed, eyes alight. “There’s our hard evidence linking her to your polka dot nude. You see, you wronged me, thinking
I’d
stolen your stuff. It all had to do with Drew Taylor and the painting.”

“I still don’t see why she’d do such a thing.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” he suggested simply.

“You said I shouldn’t phone her—it would tip her off that we know something. Though I’m not quite sure just what it is we know.”

“There’s just the name and address on the ribbon. What does that suggest to you?”

“An envelope, I guess, but why wouldn’t her henchman just phone her? It’s faster.”

“Right, and it doesn’t leave any evidence, so it likely wasn’t an envelope. And if it wasn’t an envelope, it must have been a label, to put on a package,” he announced, with a triumphant smile.

“Are you sure you’re not Madison Gantry?” He hunched his shoulders. “The package contained my painting, you mean?”

“Right on. You’re going to say why not just take the picture to her.”

“Consider it said.”

“I will. Now, let’s run over the scenario. You were here in the cottage when the guy—or whoever—broke in. Naturally you’d report the theft as soon as you discovered it.”

“That’s what I did. So what? The thief was long gone by then.”

“It’s my guess he went back to wherever he was staying—some local motel probably—and
did
phone Drew. He told her he’d got the picture, and confused the issue by picking up whatever else was handy. He probably intended to hock the machine, maybe back in New York. Drew, being a more clever lady, tells him to dump everything else, and send her the picture in the mail. That way, if he gets picked up, the picture is safe.
He’s
safe too—there’s no evidence on him. And Simcoe got a look at the car earlier on, remember. I’m assuming your Peeping Tom was the thief, so there was some danger the car could be identified. He had the typewriter in his motel room, trying to decide what he could get for it. He’d have to go out and buy paper and tape and labels, when Drew ordered him to mail the picture. He plugs in the typewriter and types the label, then dumps it and the rest of the stuff at the incinerator and gets back to New York fast. You can see by the ribbon the typing was done by an amateur. I am
not
an amateur, Audrey.”