Scarlet Imperial by Dorothy B. Hughes Page A

hoped he wouldn’t come now. He wouldn’t like the loose ends she was untwining.
    Jones said, “Where’s he putting up here?”
    She tried to sound young, naive. “I don’t know.” She managed a little laugh. “I didn’t think to ask him.”
    “Where does he usually put up?”
    She reached for a hotel, any hotel. “The St. Regis, I believe. Or the Pierce.”
    He asked, “What’s his first name?” He was going to check.
    “George.” Let him check. She’d be gone with Towner before the day was over. Jones couldn’t do anything to her. As long as she kept Gavin out of it. She must keep Gavin out of it. Until the Imp was safe. All she needed was a little time, time for Towner to finish lunching with Feather.
    Without inflection Jones asked, “How does it happen your friend Mr. Smith would have been jealous of a fat slob like Hester and not of that young fellow who was leaving the apartment when I arrived?”
    Casualness covered apprehension. “That was Mr. Brewer, the man I work for. Bryan Brewer. Mr. Smith—George—knows Mr. Brewer.”
    “Night work?”
    She faced his insinuation. “Occasionally.”
    He shot the question, “What did Hester want with you?” If he’d questioned Richards, he couldn’t help but know. And he had questioned Richards last night, that was how he knew that Hester had come to her apartment. Had he questioned again today? A secret smile touched her face. But of course. Richards wouldn’t tell the business or social affairs of anyone in the house, not even to an F.B.I. man. He would withdraw behind the dignity of, “I don’t know.”
    She turned the smile into an innocent one. “I told you once there wasn’t time to find out. The buzzer rang. I didn’t want George to discover a man there—” Her look was honest. “The man was willing to go the back way and quickly. I didn’t realize until this morning, but of course he knew the F.B.I. was following him. That’s why he was as eager to get away as I was to have him go.” It sounded rational. She asked curiously, “Why were you after him? Who was he?”
    She saw the shadow on the door as Jones formed his answer. Her hands clenched. It was Bry. She didn’t know what Bry would say. He wasn’t experienced; he’d never been outside the law.
    He didn’t recognize Jones as the man who’d come to her apartment last night. He started to his office but she stopped him. She said, “Mr. Brewer, this is Mr. Jones. Perhaps you’ll tell him you brought me some work last night.” He had to know her story before Jones went in to question him.
    Bry nodded. “How do you do, Mr. Jones.” And he accepted her information, as if he were experienced. “I’m certain you know I brought work to Miss Williams last night. You saw me leaving.”
    Eliza said, “Mr. Jones is from the F.B.I., Mr. Brewer.”
    Bry acted surprise well, surprise tempering to amusement. “You’re not investigating our Miss Williams, are you?”
    Jones wasn’t smiling. “I’m investigating a man who was at Miss Williams’ apartment last night. A man who left there abruptly, she says, when her—friend—arrived.” He gave the word almost an obscene connotation. She wanted to hurl the desk at his smirk. She wanted to crawl under the desk away from Bry’s politely chilled eyes.
    Jones continued, “He’s been found—murdered.”
    Bry wasn’t prepared. The word struck him like a quirt.
    She said loudly, “His name was Hester. Renfro Hester.” The color was draining from Bry’s face. She reminded, “Mr. Jones, you were just going to tell me who this Hester was. And why you were after him.” She had forced his attention from Bry back to her.
    Jones wasn’t inexperienced; he knew what she had done. But there was no irritation in him at her maneuver. He could wait. She kept her hands together, tight together. He would wait; yes, he would wait.
    He said, “I believe I told you and your friend last night why I was after Hester. For