Scarlet Imperial by Dorothy B. Hughes

bowing over furs and imported scent and waving eyelashes. Towner Clay was Feather’s dentist.
    Eliza retraced her steps, crossed to her building, blankly. The office was empty. She stowed her packages into the coat closet, hung her damp coat and hat. Towner Clay and Feather Prentiss. She didn’t understand it. She’d been afraid to go into the hotel, speak to him. If he’d wanted her identity known to Feather he would have spoken. He had known her; he had deliberately cut her because he didn’t want Feather to know her. That meant he didn’t want Bry to know her. But he didn’t know that Bry was on their side.
    She was impatient for his coming. Impatient and resentful of Feather Prentiss. It couldn’t be that Feather too was working for him. Feather was what she was, a New York debutante, a few years removed. Feather wasn’t an alley cat he’d picked up, made sleek and helpful. Feather was family and money, like Towner Clay.
    Why should he waste his time with her now? Why didn’t he finish the Scarlet Imperial job first? Time enough then for dalliance in the Ritz. She hated Feather Prentiss. It wasn’t enough she could twist Bry like a strand of her own golden hair about her wrist; she could blunt the sharp wits of Towner Clay. Towner should know timing was more important than a silly blonde. Eliza sat down at her desk, facing the door, watching the opaque square of the door pane. If Towner would only come before Bry. No hope of that. Not with Feather. She’d want special sauces to flatter her specialness.
    The silhouette that flickered on the door wasn’t Bry, too tall for Bry. Tall enough for Towner. She’d been wrong about Towner dallying. And then she was looking into the face of Jones.
    She was mute. She couldn’t even say hello.
    He took one hand out of his pocket, handed her the tabloid from under his arm. “Have you seen the noon edition?”
    She didn’t want to take it. Her fingers faltered. The paper lay on her desk. She didn’t look at it, she looked under the shadow of his hat into the secret of his eyes.
    He said, “Hester’s dead.”
    She breathed again. It wasn’t Gavin; he hadn’t caught up with Gavin and the Imp.
    “Pix on Page One. Story, Page Two.”
    The pictures blurred. The page wavered as she turned it. Hester was dead. His murderer was hidden in her apartment. She’d known Hester was dead, known and been afraid to face her knowledge. Everything had been too cluttered last night. She’d known and she hadn’t called the police; she was guilty of guilty knowledge. Her eyes focussed again on the page. The body of an unidentified man … found in the basement … her apartment house. Gavin Keane had taken Hester down in the service elevator. Had got rid of him. Hester wouldn’t have been found so soon only this was the day for the furnace checkup … a far corner of the furnace room … shot once … She held her eyes on the page. One shot. The medical examiner … man had been killed the night before … before midnight. The description of an average man. No identification on him.
    She looked up at Jones. “You could identify him.”
    “I don’t want to—yet.”
    She said, “I guess he wasn’t just a salesman.”
    “No.” He sat down in the chair, pushed back his hat. She could see his eyes, pale, steady eyes. “I’d like to talk to your friend. What was the name?”
    He knew. He didn’t know if she’d remember. Her lips were narrow. “Smith. Mr. Smith.”
    “Where can I find him?”
    She said the first thing that came into her head. “He’s gone to Washington.”
    “Washington?” It wasn’t doubt; it was surprise lifting his voice. “Where is he there?”
    “He was going to stay at the Mayflower—if he could get reservations.” Bry stopped at the Mayflower.
    “Where does he live in New York?”
    She said, “He doesn’t live in New York. He’s from the west.” She was getting in deeper; Towner shouldn’t have deserted her. She needed him. But she