Homicide in Chicago E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Merlin Richards
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 393

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

First published as Saint's Rest under Keith Miles. Chicago, 1931. While the Great Depression has tightened its grip on the world, there are still some who have the means to make their dreams a reality. One of these men is Hobart St John, who wants a mansion in the suburb of Oak Park. For young Welsh architect Merlin Richards, the opportunity to work on the house is an answer to his prayer. But Richards' elation soon turns to confusion and fear. A body has been found on site hanging from a rafter. The authorities dismiss it as suicide but how can that be the case when his hands were tied behind his back? Richards' dream assignment is fast becoming a nightmare, and he realises that the answers he wants might cost him his life.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

‘A master storyteller’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’

Time Out

‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’

Historical Novels Review

‘The past is brought to life with brilliant. colours, combined with a perfect. whodunnit. Who needs more?’

The Guardian

HOMICIDE IN CHICAGO

Edward Marston

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENABOUT THE AUTHORBY EDWARD MARSTON COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’ve never seen a murder,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’ve been in Chicago for the best part of a year now and I’ve never actually seen anyone killed.’

‘Is that why you came here?’ she asked.

Merlin Richards laughed. ‘No, of course not!’

‘Then don’t sound so disappointed.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What did you expect? Blood on every pavement?’

‘No.’

‘A shooting on every street corner?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well—’

‘Go on,’ she prompted. ‘Gang warfare on Michigan Avenue?’

‘Sally, this is Chicago.’

‘So?’

‘It has a reputation.’

‘An unfair reputation.’

‘Not according to that film.’

‘Don’t believe what you see in the movies.’

‘It seemed pretty realistic to me.’

‘Wait till you’ve lived here as long as I have.’

‘Chicago has a huge crime wave, Sally.’

‘Show me a city that doesn’t.’

‘You only have to read the papers or—’

‘Or watch the movies,’ she teased, anticipating him. ‘Yeah, sure. This place is a jungle. You fight for survival. Walk a few more blocks and we’re bound to witness at least two stabbings and a daring bank robbery. We might even get lucky and see a couple of cops being riddled with bullets from a tommy gun. That satisfy you?’

Merlin laughed again. He liked Sally Fiske. She spoke her mind. Her comments were sharp and her mockery always good-humoured. He was so used to the reflex agreement and obliging smiles of his previous girlfriends that it was refreshing to meet someone who challenged his remarks. Also – and this impressed him – Sally was so relaxed in his company. It was difficult to believe that this was only their second date.

‘Didn’t you like the film?’ he asked.

‘I loved it.’

‘But you think it was far-fetched.’

‘Too much black paint and not enough white.’

‘Black paint?’

‘Yes,’ she argued. ‘The film only used dark colours. I’m an artist, remember. I like to use a full palette. Strike a balance between light and shade. Little Caesar was all shade and no light.’

‘But it was very exciting.’

‘Yeah. Edward G. Robinson was terrific.’

‘But not a typical resident of Chicago.’

‘No, Merlin. Believe it or not, most people here are good, honest, law-abiding citizens. Even the crooks are not as bad as they’re made out to be. They’re kind to their mothers and never kill anyone on a Sunday. Not until they’ve been to Communion, anyway. And before you ask me,’ she added, turning to him, ‘in all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen a murder either.’

He grinned. ‘I won’t hold it against you.’

‘So what did you think of the film?’

‘Amazing!’

‘Bet you never saw anything like that back in wherever-it-is.’

‘Merthyr Tydfil,’ he said. ‘And you’re right, Sally. Never even saw a talking picture there. All we ever had were silents, flickering away in the local fleapit while Mrs Prosser beat the daylights out of the piano.’

‘Mrs Prosser?’

‘The old lady who was the accompanist at the cinema. She didn’t so much play the piano as pound it into submission. She was a sort of cross between Paderewski and Jack Sharkey. Music with muscle. Real character, Mrs Prosser. Poor dab! When the talkies hit Wales, people like her will be out of a job.’

‘Happens to us all!’ she sighed.

He shivered involuntarily. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

‘Over a cup of coffee.’

‘Coffee?’

‘I have to work this evening.’

‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’

‘Coffee is all I have time for, Merl.’

‘Where shall we go?’

‘I know just the place.’

They were part of a large crowd that surged out of the cinema and made its way along Lincoln Avenue. Discussion all around them was loud and fevered. Little Caesar had left its patrons feeling exhilarated. Snatches of dialogue were being recalled, favourite scenes remembered. To impress their wives or girlfriends, amateur impersonators were already trying to mimic Rico. One guy even re-enacted his death at the end of the film and went down in a heap on the pavement. Sally nudged Merlin.

‘Now you have seen a murder in Chicago.’

She led him down a side street, then checked for traffic before crossing it diagonally. They were soon letting themselves into a small restaurant. Merlin was glad when they were shown to a table. Seated opposite her, he was able to look at Sally properly for the first time, and she did repay study. Short blonde hair framed a pale, oval face given definition by generous lips, a delightful snub nose, and the biggest pair of blue eyes he had ever seen. It was a clear, open face, untouched by the distortions that come from concealment and deception. The cinema had bestowed a token intimacy on them, and they held hands during the latter stages of the film, but that did not compare with the pleasure of appraising Sally Fiske afresh.

Merlin was an architect. He preferred a front elevation. They ordered coffee and pastries, then subjected the film to closer analysis. Both had enjoyed it, but for very different reasons. It seemed only seconds before the waitress returned with their order. Merlin sat up in surprise. He caught sight of the clock on the wall. Time was racing by at a cruel speed.

‘Do you really have to work this evening?’ he said.

‘Afraid so.’

‘Can’t you give it a miss?’

‘They need me.’

‘So do I.’

She smiled. ‘The hotel pays me more than you do.’

‘You don’t belong there, Sally.’

‘How else do I earn the rent?’

‘You’re a creative artist. A questing spirit. What you need is the freedom in which to experiment and develop.’

‘What I need is more commissions, Merlin,’ she said bluntly. ‘Then I could afford to buy some of that lovely freedom and follow my vocation. Until then, I have to work as a hotel clerk or whatever else brings in the bucks. Besides,’ she said, her smile broadening. ‘I like the hotel. The job has its compensations.’

‘Is that all I am?’ he protested. ‘A compensation?’

‘A very nice one.’

‘Thank you!’

‘How else would we have met?’

‘In an art gallery, probably. Yes, that would have been much more appropriate. Bumping into each other in the shadow of an old master. Welsh architect meets commercial artist from Illinois. Kindred spirits. Instead of which,’ he recalled with a sigh, ‘I charged into your lobby in a state of panic because I was late for an appointment with a potential client, and you were the faceless member of the hotel staff who told me where to find him.’

She bridled. ‘Faceless?’

‘Anonymous.’

‘Jeez!’

‘What I mean is, I took you for what you seemed to be.’

‘A faceless, anonymous freak!’

‘No, Sally. Truth is, I didn’t give you a second glance. You were just one more attractive girl behind a reception desk. Part of the hotel furniture. Handsome but functional. It never occurred to me that you made a living illustrating books.’

‘I don’t, Merlin.’

‘You did. For a while.’

‘Those days are gone.’

‘They’ll come back one day.’

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Will they?’

‘Of course!’

‘I admire your optimism.’

‘It’s not optimism, Sally. It’s self-belief. Don’t forget that. I’m in the same boat as you. Struggling to find employment worthy of my talent. Work dried up on me as well. Completely. It was only by sheer coincidence that I managed to land a position here.’

‘You told me. After trudging around Chicago until you wore out your last pair of shoes, you had a stroke of good fortune.’

‘Two strokes. One was the job with Westlake and Davisson.’

‘What was the other one?’

‘Sally Fiske.’

‘I thought I was only part of the hotel furniture.’

‘Not anymore!’

‘Handsome but functional.’

‘That’s what. I’m hoping,’ he said with polite lechery.

‘Drink your coffee. It’ll calm you down.’

‘Never give up,’ he urged. ‘Never surrender your ambition. Who knows? A whole flurry of commissions might be waiting for you just around the corner. Believe in yourself, and you’ll get there in the end.’

‘If only it was that easy.’

‘Things are bound to improve soon.’

‘Yeah. Less suicides among stockbrokers.’

‘You call that an improvement?’

They shared a laugh, but it only covered their uneasiness. Sally’s own career was on hold, and she knew that Merlin’s prospects were far from rosy. His show of optimism was tempered by a deep insecurity. He had a job but no indication of how long it might last. Work for architects was increasingly scarce. Westlake and Davisson might soon be one more extinct Chicago practice.

Sally hoped this would not happen. She was very fond of Merlin. He was an interesting mix of shyness and confidence. He treated her with respect. His big, round face was pleasant rather than handsome, and his crooked nose had a fascination all its own. Merlin would win no prizes for smart dressing – his tie was loose, his suit crumpled, his hair unacquainted with brush and comb. She admired his take-me-as-I-am attitude, and she adored the Welsh lilt of his voice. There was something else she had learnt. For a man with the build of a heavyweight boxer, he had the most incredibly soft and sensitive hands.

‘What time do you have to be there?’ he asked.

‘Pretty soon.’

‘Do you always work on a Saturday night?’

‘When the chance comes my way.’

‘But Saturday nights are for fun.’

‘Someone has to be on duty in reception.’

‘Why must it be you?’

‘Because I can earn extra if I work late.’

‘When do you finish?’

‘At midnight.’

‘Midnight!’

‘The night porter takes over from me.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

‘No, he’s a sweet old guy when you get to know him.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the night porter, Sally. I meant this city. Chicago. There’re some weird people out there. I don’t like the idea of you having to go home alone that late.’

‘You get used to it.’

‘Do you take a cab?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘But that would be the safest way.’

‘You don’t know cab drivers,’ she said wearily. ‘Some of them ought to be locked up. Besides, cabs cost money. They’re a luxury.’ She saw his concern and reached out to squeeze his arm. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. And I grew up in this city, remember. I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll pick you up,’ he decided.

‘At midnight?’

‘I’ll be in the lobby when you come off duty.’

‘Merl, that’s crazy!’

‘Why?’

‘Staying up that late when there’s no need.’

‘I want to see you get home safe.’

‘I always do.’

‘Tonight, you’ll have an escort.’

‘But you’ll have to wait for hours.’

‘Who cares?’

‘You should be asleep in bed by midnight.’

‘I’m a night owl,’ he lied.

‘What will you do between now and then?’

Merlin shrugged. ‘Stooge around. Kill time. I’ll find something to keep me out of mischief. Might even go to the office. Yes, that’s an idea,’ he said, warming to the notion. ‘I could put in some overtime. Finish those drawings I had to leave. That would impress Brad Davisson. Great! It’s all settled. When I’ve walked you back to the hotel, I go straight to the office and get my head down.’

‘So you’ll be working as well as me.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I thought Saturday nights were for fun.’

‘Architecture is fun. And they’ve given me a key to the office now. It shows they trust me. I can let myself in and work all alone. It’ll be bliss. I’m only four blocks from Randolph Street I can walk to the hotel and arrive on the stroke of midnight.’ He rubbed his palms together. ‘It’s all settled. The Merlin Richards Protection Agency is at your service.’

‘But I’m not sure that I want it,’ she said crisply.

‘Oh.’

‘Yet.’

There was a long pause. She could see the disappointment in his face and feel his embarrassment. He was clearly afraid that he had offended her. His shoulders hunched in apology. They had reached a boundary line in their relationship, and Sally was hesitating to cross it. She searched his eyes to find out what sort of a guy he really was. With an appeasing smile, Merlin sat back in his chair.

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘I didn’t mean to sound so … proprietary.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Trying to make your decisions for you. Stupid of me.’

‘No harm done.’

‘Do you forgive me?’

‘Nothing to forgive.’

‘I only made the offer because I care, Sally.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it was more like an order than an offer. Do this, be there, listen to me. I appreciate your concern, but I really can find my way safely around this city. Even after midnight.’

‘I thought you might value some company.’

‘That’s a different matter, Merl.’

‘And it would have put my mind at rest.’

‘Go back to your flat. Have an early night.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve got a surge of energy. I feel like getting back to the drafting table. When the muse calls, you have to pick up a pencil and go. If you have to work tonight, then so will I. Good way to build character.’

‘Maybe I should stop by and pick you up at midnight.’ There was a laugh in her voice that revived his hopes. He put his arms on the table and leant across to her. Their faces were close.

‘It was lovely to see you again, Sally.’

‘Thanks for asking me.’

‘Pleasure. At least we managed a few hours together this time. All we had on our first date was a hasty lunch.’

‘I had to get back to work that afternoon as well.’

‘How many hours do those slave drivers keep you at it?’

‘Too many.’

‘Exploitation.’

‘A job is a job, Merl,’ she said levelly. ‘In any case, you put in even longer hours than me. Didn’t you say that you sometimes have to work seven days a week?’

‘When the pressure’s on.’

‘There you go, then.’

‘It’s temperamental.’

‘Come again.’

‘I get caught up in a project,’ he admitted, ‘and find it difficult to let go. It takes over my life. Becomes an obsession. I think of nothing else until it comes to an end.’

‘Then what?’

‘I move on to the next commission.’

‘And lose yourself in that?’

‘Completely.’

‘So there’s a definite pattern here,’ she said quietly. ‘Your work gives you a real buzz. You go from one high spot to another. I’m just wondering where I fit into this pattern.’

‘That’s up to you, Sally.’

‘I’d hate to be just one more stop on your personal subway.’

‘You’re not!’ he insisted.

‘How do I know that?’

‘I thought you’d have worked it out by now.’

There was another long pause, then she noticed the clock on the wall. It made her nibble a piece of her pastry and wash it down with the last of her coffee. She picked up her purse.

‘I have to go.’

‘One more question.’

‘Well?’

‘Supposing I happen to be passing the hotel at midnight?’ he said. ‘Quite by accident I might just stroll into the lobby to take a look around. If you feel that you’d like an escort home, all you have to do is ask. On the other hand, if you’d rather go out into the night alone, I won’t try to stop or follow you. And no recriminations afterwards. Is that fair?’

‘Very fair.’

‘It’s a deal, then.’

Sally nodded and rose to her feet Merlin gulped down the last of his coffee, then left some money with the bill. They came out of the restaurant and headed towards Randolph Street. All that they talked about on their way to the hotel was the film. It was a neutral zone. They could move about freely inside it. However, while they traded comments about Little Caesar, their minds were on something else.

As they passed a shop window, Sally saw them mirrored in the glass. They looked good together. She was relatively short but had a full figure that saved her from being dainty; looming over her, Merlin moved with the easy swagger of a sportsman. He kept himself in good physical condition. That was not true of all the guys she tended to attract. And Merlin was only a couple of years older than she was. That, too, was unusual. Sally was normally a target for those who were trembling on the edge of middle age and saw her as a last staging post. Merlin Richards was in his prime. He was rather special. She thought once more about the curious softness of his hands.

For his part, Merlin was relishing some of the moments they had shared during their brief time together. Sally had an air of independence about her that was quite breathtaking. She asked for no favours and expected no allowances to he made for her. Behind a hotel reception desk she was bright and efficient, but there was no sign of her natural vivacity or her wicked sense of humour when she was on duty. The real Sally Fiske emerged only when they were alone together. Merlin was touched when she brought some examples of her work to show him over lunch. Her illustrations were superb. She had serious talent. Merlin winced when he reflected on how that talent was lying fallow.

They were still arguing about the film when they reached the hotel. Merlin was about to follow her up the steps to the revolving door, but she came to a halt and turned to face him. Sally took a quick inventory of her feelings before speaking.

‘Thanks again,’ she said.

‘Lovely to see you.’

‘Sorry we couldn’t lay on a real murder for you.’

‘Only a question of time,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll probably see half a dozen on my way to the office.’

‘At least.’

‘Right, I’ll let you go now, Sally. But I’ll be back at midnight.’

‘Merl—’

‘You’re under no obligation. You don’t have to speak to me or even look at me. Ignore me altogether, if you like. Have the night porter throw me out. But I’ll be there. You know – just in case.’

‘You’re a gentleman.’

‘Does that mean you want me here at midnight?’

‘No,’ she said, touching his cheek with her fingertips. ‘It means you won’t complain when you learn the hideous truth about me.’

‘What hideous truth?’

‘Brace yourself, Merl.’

He swallowed hard. ‘You’re not married, are you?’

‘Heck, no!’

‘Or living with someone else?’

‘What do you take me for?’

‘On the run from the law, then? Hiding out after a terrible crime?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘I’ve got it. You must keep strange pets. Snakes, maybe? Polar bears? Tame alligators?’

‘Nope.’

‘So what is this hideous truth?’

‘I’m a lousy cook.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You will,’ she said.

She brushed her lips against his before going up the stairs and into the revolving door. Merlin was baffled. As the door came full circle, Sally stepped out with an explanation.

‘Wait till you taste the breakfast I’ll cook for you.’

She disappeared into the hotel for good this time.

Merlin simmered with delight.

CHAPTER TWO

Bradley Davisson stared at the letter in his hand as if he was reading his own death warrant. He was a short, slim, wiry man in his fifties with a bald head that seemed too large for his body and a white moustache fringed with brown coffee stains. Seated behind his desk, he was facing the daily ordeal of going through the firm’s correspondence. When the letter had deepened the furrows in his brow and sown a fresh crop of despair in his soul, he set it aside, reached for another Lucky Strike in the pack that lay before him, lit the cigarette with a match, and inhaled absentmindedly, then grabbed the next envelope, slitting it open with a paper knife like an assassin cutting the throat of a victim.

The letter was handwritten, and he peered at it through a veil of cigarette smoke. It made him flinch. Unable to finish it, he scrunched it up into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Davisson looked with dismay at the rest of the unopened correspondence, fearing that it would contain more shocks and wondering why he was always given the privilege of learning the bad news first. It got his day off to a most depressing start. He was still pondering the injustice of it all when he heard the distinctive sounds of his partner’s arrival.

The door of the outer office opened and shut. There was a loud exchange of greetings, followed by a braying laugh. Then heavy footsteps approached the inner sanctum. Davisson drew deep on his Lucky. The door opened, and Augustus Westlake filled almost every inch of space that it left behind it. He beamed paternally.

‘Hi, Brad!’

‘You’re late,’ grumbled the other.

‘Genius follows no timetable.’

‘There’s lots to discuss. You promised to be here, Gus.’

‘I am here,’ said Westlake, striding into the middle of the room and flicking the door shut behind him. ‘Large as life and bright as sunshine.’

Westlake lowered himself into the chair in front of his partner’s desk. He was a big man with a permanent smile, which combined with the long nose to give the impression of an anchor tattooed on his face. Piggy eyes twinkled merrily. He was immaculately dressed in a light blue suit, with a spotted tie exploding out of the top pocket of his jacket. Westlake exuded such prosperity that Davisson used to wonder if he was siphoning off money from the practice account, but his suspicions were unfounded. Five years older than his partner, Westlake looked ten years younger and vastly healthier. His sandy hair showed no trace of grey. He spread his hands in a questioning gesture.

‘What gives, Brad?’

‘We got problems.’

‘Tell me something new.’

‘Serious problems, Gus. We’ve had another letter from that lawyer.’

‘Which lawyer?’

‘The one acting for Heindorf.’

‘Oh – that pain in the ass!’

‘He’s threatening to sue us.’

‘Let him threaten.’

‘We can’t afford any more litigation.’

‘We can if we win,’ said Westlake airily, ‘and we’re bound to in this case. Heindorf hasn’t got a leg to stand on. We fulfilled the terms of the contract. He got what he wanted and paid up.’

‘Now he says he didn’t get what he wanted.’

‘Tough!’

‘It looks bad for us.’

‘Things always look bad on a Monday morning. That’s why you need me around, Brad. I’m a Friday afternoon kind of guy. Always got that spring in my step, knowing the weekend is beckoning. Let me handle this lawyer. I’ll tie him in knots and get Heindorf to back down.’

‘It’s gone beyond that stage, Gus.’

‘All it needs is some sweet talk.’

‘You’ll change your mind when you read the letter.’

‘Lawyers are jerks. They should be strangled at birth.’ He gave a reassuring chuckle. ‘Cheer up, Brad. You scare too easily. Learn to take this kind of hassle in your stride.’

‘The morning mail terrifies me.’

‘Then don’t read it.’

‘Someone has to.’

‘So we find a new secretary.’

‘We can’t afford a new secretary,’ said Davisson, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. ‘That’s why we had to let Joyce go. She was too expensive. I have to do my own typing now.’

‘That will soon change.’

‘It will if Heindorf sues us.’

‘Forget him,’ advised Westlake. ‘Forget all whining clients. Forget the bills. Forget the debts. Forget the people who owe us money. Forget the commissions we lost and the secretary we had to fire. Ease up, Brad. Give yourself a break. Forget the whole darn lot of it.’

‘I can’t, Gus. It gets to me.’

‘Fight it off.’

‘It’s no use. The anxiety cripples me when I’m here, then follows me home at night. Eleanor tells me that I talk in my sleep and twitch violently. No wonder I wake up feeling exhausted.’

‘Yet I sleep like a baby.’

‘You don’t take things to heart the way I do.’

‘I got more sense.’

Davisson reached under his desk to retrieve something from his wastepaper basket. He held up the ball of paper between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Know what this is?’ he asked.

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s a letter from Bill Marion.’

‘Dear old Bill?’

‘A begging letter, Gus. Like so many other Chicago architects, Bill is on the scrap heap. His practice folded under him. Think of that. Bill Marion, who designed some of the finest buildings on State Street. Out in the cold. Imagine the effort it must have cost him to write this,’ he said, tossing the letter back into the wastepaper basket. ‘I couldn’t bear to read it to the end. Jesus Christ! Bill Marion and I started out in this game together. He made partner while I was still a junior draftsman. Bill is twice the architect that I am, yet he’s asking me for work. It’s crazy.’

‘No, Brad. It’s a sign of the times.’

‘Yeah. No matter how good you are, down you go.’

‘In some cases.’

‘In all cases. Bill is only the latest casualty. Look at Haygarth and Pike. Look at Stern, Venner and Crombie. Look at Adnam and Rogerson. Established practices that went up in smoke. Yes,’ he added, slapping the desk for emphasis. ‘And what about George Wybrand? Two years ago he was designing skyscrapers. Now he comes banging on our door, trying to sell architectural supplies. It’s demeaning, Gus.’

Westlake gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It’s life.’

‘Don’t you feel sorry for those guys?’

‘Yes and no,’ said the other easily. ‘I feel sorry for anyone who loses his job and has to scratch around, but I’m not going to shed tears over rival architects who hit the dust. It’s them or us, Brad. That’s business.’

‘I don’t see it that way.’

‘You should. Then your wife might get a decent night’s sleep.’

‘You’re a hard man sometimes.’

‘I’m a practical one. That’s why we’re still here, and guys like George Wybrand are selling pencil sharpeners and cartridge paper. Listen to their sob stories, and they’ll drag you down with them. Think positive. Westlake and Davisson will pull through because this practice has got something that the others didn’t have.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah,’ said his partner wryly. ‘A cold-hearted bastard without a vestige of human sympathy in him.’

Westlake guffawed. ‘I like that! Remind me to have it carved on my tombstone. It’s my definition of a good businessman. But I have an even greater virtue, Brad. I bring in work.’

‘Now and then.’

‘These things take time.’ He beamed happily. ‘Finished?’

‘Finished what?’

‘Your daily dose of misery.’

‘We’re under fire from all directions, Gus.’

‘Then learn to duck. Let the bad news go whistling past harmlessly over your head. Concentrate on the good news.’

‘What good news?’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re through wailing and gnashing your teeth.’

Davisson reached out for another Lucky and lit up.

‘Is this something to do with the Niedlander deal?’ he said.

‘No, but that’s still in the offing.’

‘So what gives?’

Westlake kept him waiting for an answer. Rising to his feet, he crossed to the window and looked down at the traffic below. When he turned back to the desk, his smile was even more complacent.

‘I had dinner on Lake Shore Drive last night,’ he boasted.

‘Oh?’

‘A very profitable dinner. With a potential client.’

‘Who is he?’

‘It’s more a case of, who is she? Does the name Alicia Martinez mean anything to you?’

‘No. Should it?’

‘Beautiful lady. Small-time film actress with ambitions out of all proportion to her talents. Since she couldn’t make money, she decided to marry it.’ He saw the look of recognition in his partner’s eye. ‘Is it all coming back to you now?’

‘Hobart St John!’

‘Her husband.’

‘Their picture was on the front page of the Tribune.’

‘Old Hobart commands publicity.’

‘And he is interested in retaining us?’ said Davisson with a mixture of surprise and excitement. ‘A commission from Hobart St John?’

‘He’ll do anything to please Alicia.’

‘What kind of a deal is it?’

‘A new house. In Oak Park.’

‘But he already has that mansion on Lake Shore Drive.’

‘Built for his last wife, Cornelia Rose. To her specifications. It’s a wonderful place, but Alicia can’t settle there. It holds too many memories of her predecessor. Alicia wants a house of her own. A big one.’

‘And we’re really in with a chance?’

‘It’s more or less in the bag,’ said Westlake confidently. ‘But only because I belong to the same golf dub as Hobart St John. I partnered him in a foursome some months back, and I’ve been working on him ever since. It finally paid off. See what I mean, Brad?’ He let out a whoop of joy. ‘Your cold-hearted bastard of a partner can still do it!’

‘This is terrific news – if it comes off.’

‘It will. I’ve got Alicia eating out of my hand.’

‘What kind of a house does she want?’

‘The best kind – an expensive one.’

‘In what style?’

‘That’s between her and her architect. When we decide who to assign to the project, I’ll take him out to meet her.’

‘You’ll take on the commission yourself, surely?’

‘No, Brad. I’m getting too old for that. My creative juices are drying up. I’m far more use to this practice reeling in clients. Besides,’ he said as he moved back to the desk, ‘we’ve got someone here who’d be ideal for this particular job.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Merlin Richards.’

Davisson was stunned. ‘Merlin? Are you serious?’

Westlake’s smile was intact, but his voice hardened. ‘Dead serious,’ he said.

It was her evening off, and they arranged to meet in Grant Park. When he finally got there, Merlin found her sitting on a bench, a sketch pad across her knee, engrossed in her work. He crept up behind her and studied the drawing over her shoulder. Sally Fiske’s pencil moved swiftly as it shaded in the trunk of a tree. Merlin let out an approving whistle, and she sat up with a start.

‘That’s good,’ he said.

‘You made me jump, Merl!’ she complained.

‘Sorry. You seemed so happy in your work.’

‘I was until you interrupted me.’

‘I can see the trees and bushes,’ he said, pointing to the drawing, ‘but I haven’t noticed a lion prowling around Grant Park. Has he vanished into the undergrowth?’

‘He was never there.’

‘Ah.’ He sat beside her.

‘I imagined him.’

‘Artistic licence.’

‘I was just playing around with ideas.’

‘For what?’

‘A book that I may get to illustrate.’

‘Sally, that’s great!’ he said, embracing her. ‘Well done!’

‘Don’t get carried away. All that my agent said was that he was putting me up for it. There’s no guarantee that I’ll get it. Though his letter was encouraging, and that makes a change.’

‘What sort of book is it?’

‘It’s for kids. About wild animals.’

‘We should have met at the zoo.’

‘I didn’t want to tempt providence,’ she said, closing her sketch pad and slipping the pencil back into her purse. ‘I’ve learnt from experience not to believe I’ve landed a job until the contract is actually signed. But at least I’m on parade with a New York publisher again. So I’ve just been sitting here in the evening sun and enjoying the sheer pleasure of drawing once more. Letting my imagination roam.’

‘My imagination has been doing a bit of roaming as well!’

‘Down, boy!’ she said, giving him a playful nudge.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Have you?’

‘I keep thinking about Sunday morning.’

‘Why? Nobody ever cooked you spaghetti for breakfast before?’

‘Not the way you did it!’

‘You’ve led a sheltered life, Merl.’

‘So I’m discovering.’ He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘But you’re not the only one with a big opportunity on the horizon. Looks as if I might have one as well.’

‘That’s wonderful!’

‘Keep your fingers crossed for me.’

‘I will. What is the job?’

‘Designing a house in Oak Park.’

‘Wow!’

‘That’s what I said, Sally. I mean, of all places – Oak Park. It’s a dream come true. Frank Lloyd Wright lived and worked there for years. Some of his most famous buildings are in Oak Park. I remember the first time I went out there. It was overwhelming.’

‘Was it?’

‘I just goggled in wonder.’

‘Nice neighbourhood,’ she observed. ‘When I was a kid, I used to visit an aunt who lives in Cicero. She took me to Oak Park a few times. I remember how peaceful it was. Almost rural. You’d never have thought you were so close to downtown Chicago.’

‘I’d give my right arm to get this commission!’

‘Make it your left. You’ll need the right to design with.’ She gave a lazy smile. ‘Though from what I recall, both hands are pretty magical. Never met anyone as ambidextrous as you.’

‘Comes from playing the harp.’

‘The what?’

‘The Welsh harp. I was brought up on it. Used to practise every day when I was young. Keeps your hands strong and supple. You must hear me play sometime. It’s the one thing I do really well.’

She elbowed him. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

‘Sorry. That was a bit obvious.’

‘Tell me more about this commission.’

‘It’s not definite yet.’

‘But it’s a real possibility?’

‘I think so,’ he said, trying to control his excitement. ‘Gus Westlake had a quiet word with me this afternoon. Told me to keep it to myself until it was set in stone.’

‘But you’ve just told me about it.’

‘I can trust you, Sally. And I have to share the thrill with someone, or I’ll burst. In any case, what Gus really meant was that I mustn’t tell either Reed or Victor.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Two of my colleagues. Senior colleagues. Reed Cutler’s been with the practice for over ten years, and Victor Goldblatt is their star architect.’

‘Not any more. Merlin Richards has taken over.’

‘Victor won’t like that.’

‘Is he the jealous type?’

‘He’s very competitive, Sally. I foresee trouble from him.’

‘What about this other guy?’

‘Reed’s been very friendly to me so far. He showed me the ropes when I first started there. I’ve been out to his house, met his wife and kids. No, I think Reed will take it on the chin – if the deal goes through, that is.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Victor Goldblatt is different. He could get awkward. He’s the sort of man who bears grudges.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Mind you, if Victor was in the running for this job, I’d be the one bearing the grudge. I’d kill to build a house in Oak Park.’

Sally was worried. ‘Is it that important to you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘You know how much I worship Frank Lloyd Wright.’

‘Oh, yeah!’

‘Apart from anything else, he got me the job with Westlake and Davisson. Or, to be more exact, his name did. Gus Westlake once worked with him almost forty years ago. If I’d been one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s boys, he said, I must be good.’

‘You are, Merlin.’

‘I learnt so much from him.’

‘Now you’ve got a chance to prove it.’

‘Touch wood,’ he said, fingering the bench. ‘Right. What shall we do? Are you hungry?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Shall we find somewhere to eat?’

‘In a while.’

‘Rather stay here for a bit?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s take a stroll.’

‘Why not?’

He helped her up, and they walked side by side along the winding path. The warm weather had brought a lot of visitors to the park, and the birds were out in profusion. There was a sense of security that belied the fact that they were in what the newspapers had dubbed the crime capital of America. They felt supremely safe. Grant Park was a haven. They strolled for fifty yards or more before she broke the silence.

‘Why did they choose you?’ she wondered.

‘They?’

‘Gus Westlake and Brad Davisson.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ve got Brad’s blessing on this one.’

‘Why not?’

‘He doesn’t rate me as highly as Gus does.’

‘Would he have gone for one of the others?’

‘Probably. But I was lucky enough to be Gus’s choice. And in that practice, Gus Westlake usually calls the tune. He knows how to talk Brad round to his way of thinking.’

‘I see.’

‘Gus has put this whole thing together himself.’

‘So why did he want you on board?’

‘I wish I knew, Sally.’

‘You must have some idea.’

‘Well, I’ve worked hard since I’ve been there. Sweated blood for them. Turned in some good stuff as well. On the other hand, so have Reed Cutler and Victor Goldblatt. Yet I seem to have pipped them at the post.’

‘Maybe you have more flair than they do.’

‘That comes into it.’

‘What else?’

‘Search me. I’m just so pathetically grateful.’

‘Who is the client?’

‘Gus did mention the name,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Now, what was it? Somebody who lives on Lake Shore Drive.’

‘You are mixing with money!’

‘Unusual name. Reminded me of Tasmania.’

‘Tasmania?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ransacking his memory, then clicking his fingers. ‘Hobart. That was it. Hobart. Capital of Tasmania. The man was called Hobart something-or-other.’

‘Hobart St John?’

‘Yes. Have you heard of him?’

‘Everyone in Chicago’s heard of Hobart St John.’

‘Who is he?’

‘One of the biggest meatpackers in the business,’ she said coldly. ‘Mogul of the Union Stock Yards. Hobart St John is a millionaire many times over. You’ll be rubbing shoulders with a very powerful guy.’

‘You don’t sound as if you like him that much.’

‘I don’t approve of anyone owning that much money.’

‘What sort of person is he?’

‘The kind that gets ahead, Merlin. All I know about him is what I read in the papers. Hobart St John is always expanding his empire in some way or other. When he’s not getting married again.’

‘Married?’

‘Yes. He’s had three or four wives. Seems to change them like automobiles. I think the latest was a film actress.’

‘Gus said something about that. The house is really her idea.’

‘That figures.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Every woman wants a place of her own, something new and unsullied. Something on which she can stamp her own character. We’re sensitive creatures, Merl. I know I’d hate to live in a house that my husband shared with his previous wife. If not two previous wives. Three, maybe.’

‘When you put it like that, it starts to fall into place.’

‘I could be wrong.’

‘Your instinct is usually sound.’

‘It’s a bit more reliable than my spaghetti, anyway.’

‘That’s certainly true!’

‘Still leaves us with two big questions, though.’

‘Questions?’

‘Yes, Merl. I’ve already asked the first. Why you?’

‘Only time will tell.’

‘If you do clinch it – and I hope that you do – it’s going to mean a helluva lot of work for you. Not to mention regular trips out to the site in Oak Park. This is a big break,’ she sighed, coming to a halt. ‘You’ll be working around the clock.’

‘So?’

‘That brings me to my second question.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Where will it leave us?’

‘Exactly where we are now, Sally. As good friends.’

‘Good friends see each other, Merl.’

‘So will we.’

‘Not if this house becomes an obsession.’

‘It’s still only a fantasy at this moment.’

‘But if it goes ahead—’

‘If it goes ahead,’ he interrupted, taking her by the shoulders, ‘we’ll both get the benefit. It will give me a great opportunity to establish myself, and I’ll make the most of it You can share in my good fortune. I’m not letting you go now, Sally,’ he said, hugging her on impulse. ‘Not after last weekend. You have my solemn promise. If I do land this commission, it won’t make the slightest difference to us.’

But they both knew that he was lying.

CHAPTER THREE

Alicia Martinez scrutinised her face in the mirror while the beautician hovered nervously in the background. A demanding client, Alicia was never happy until she had reduced her underlings to a state of cringing servility. In giving them the privilege of working for her, she believed she was bestowing a signal honour on them, and she made sure that they earned it. As the beautician arrived at the house, the hairdresser had been leaving in tears. Alicia was in top form. Running a sharp eye over every inch of her make-up, she was disappointed that she could find no fault.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘I suppose it will have to do.’

The beautician blanched. ‘Madam is not satisfied?’

‘Not really.’

‘What is the problem?’

‘You are the problem, Jessica.’

‘Me?’

‘You never listen.’

‘I did exactly what you requested, madam.’

‘But not in the way that I instructed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl, obsequiously. ‘Can I start again?’

‘We don’t have time. That was my husband’s car we heard arriving a moment ago. We’re expecting visitors this afternoon. I hoped to be ready to receive them.’

‘You look wonderful to me,’ ventured the other.

‘That will be all, Jessica.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Send your invoice in the usual way.’

‘I will.’

‘Today’s session hardly justifies a tip. You do understand that?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Goodbye, Jessica.’

‘Er, actually … my name is Ruth.’

‘Oh? What happened to Jessica?’

‘She will not be coming any more, madam.’ Ruth nodded a farewell in the mirror, gathered up her things, and left the dressing room. She could see why Jessica had flatly refused to come to the house again. Ruth had been let off lightly, and yet she still felt thoroughly jangled. Evidently the hairdresser had borne the brunt of their client’s disfavour, and yet, in the beautician’s opinion, the girl had done an excellent job. Alicia Martinez’s coiffure was superb.

Alone in her dressing room, Alicia came around to the same view. She stood up and pirouetted slowly so that she could see herself from every angle in the mirrors on each wall. She was a tall, slender, graceful woman with the narrow hips and full bosom that enabled her to decorate a film screen so well. Long, dark hair and a Hispanic cast of feature had confined her to the role of a sultry maiden with a pouting beauty. Dangerously past thirty, she was still waiting for her full talent to be discovered. As she spun around, the mirrors silently applauded her.

The gravelly voice of her husband interrupted her reverie. ‘Are you there, honey?’ he called.

‘Just a moment, darling.’

‘I managed to get away early.’

‘Good.’

‘They won’t be here for an hour or more yet.’

‘I know.’

‘Can I come in?’ he said impatiently.

‘No, no,’ she chided. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’

After a final parade in front of the mirrors, she adjusted the sash on her silk robe, then practised her wifely smile a few times. Alicia Martinez took a deep breath, drew herself up to her full height and swept regally into the bedroom as the fourth Mrs Hobart St John. She struck a pose in front of her husband and switched on the smile.

Hobart St John gazed at her in wonderment spiced with lust.

‘You look gorgeous, honey!’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good enough to eat.’

Alicia simpered and allowed him a tiny peck on the cheek. ‘Garbo would be invisible beside you,’ he said effusively.

‘That’s what they all believe.’

‘I’m so lucky to have such a beautiful wife!’

He moved in for another kiss, but she kept him at arm’s length and gave him a teasing grin by way of consolation. Her husband marvelled afresh. He was a stout man of medium height with the remains of a flashy handsomeness. There was such an air of certainty about him that it crackled like an electric discharge. On first acquaintance, nobody would have realised that he was exactly twice as old as Alicia. His hair was well-groomed and expertly dyed, his podgy face remarkably unlined. A gold tooth glinted when he gave an approving grin.

‘Perfect!’ he decided. ‘Just perfect!’

‘How many wives have you said that to?’

‘None. Apart from you.’

‘You’re lying, Hobart.’

‘I know. But I do it so well.’ He gave a high-pitched cackle. She drifted across to the window. ‘Shall we have them out in the garden?’ she asked.

‘Up to you, honey.’

‘Is there a wind today?’

‘Light breeze. Nothing more.’

‘It could affect my hair. We’ll stay indoors.’

‘Anything you say, hon.’

The huge bedroom was luxurious to the point of excess, with a richly canopied four-poster, a crystal chandelier, gilt-framed mirrors, and costly paintings adorning its high walls, but only one item of expenditure interested the owner at that point. Hobart St John feasted his eyes, massaged her lovingly from a distance. He gasped with delight.

‘I married the most priceless piece of ass in Hollywood!’

‘What’s his name?’ she said coolly.

‘Who?’

‘This architect.’ She swung around. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Gus Westlake. You’ve met him.’

‘The one who’s going to design the house.’

‘Ah, him. Merlin Richards.’

‘What do you know about this Mr Richards?’

‘Only what Gus told me. Speaks very highly of him. Merlin used to work with Frank Lloyd Wright. He’s young, keen, and full of bright ideas.’

‘Young and keen I like,’ she said, ‘but I can do without his bright ideas. I’ve got more than enough of those myself. What I want is an architect who can do what he’s told.’

‘He will, Alicia.’

‘Does he understand that?’

‘I made it clear to Gus Westlake.’

‘Good.’

‘And I’ll spell it out again when they arrive.’ He checked his watch, then leered at her. ‘That won’t be for at least an hour,’ he said, moving in on her. ‘We’ve got ample time.’

‘I’ve just had my hair done, Hobart.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘And my make-up.’