The Gold Pawn Page 6

  We took the Detroiter, which would get us into Buffalo in less than four hours, and I pretended not to see the growing concern on Mr. Kirkland’s and Aunt Evelyn’s faces. Luckily, with every state we traversed through, I could feel a physical dismantling of my wall. With every click clack of the train, it was like a construction worker was taking down another layer of bricks, laying them aside. Within reach, but aside. I gradually felt more like myself, my shoulders unclenching, the pit in my stomach lessening.

  By the time we pulled into Buffalo to switch trains, it was pretty much like it had never happened. Almost.

  We got into New York late that night and I went up to my room with as few words as possible. I walked into my blue and white refuge and took a huge breath of relief. I turned on the light on my nightstand. My eyes were drawn to my bookshelves and a gold glint of the slender volume I’d read a few months ago caught my eye. Its words had been coming unbidden to my mind a few times these past days. I walked right to it, put my finger into the top of the binding, and delicately drew it toward me.

  The navy-blue leather with its swirls of gold was lovely. In fact, the binding was a work of art. There was great beauty, but then something left me agitated as I took a closer look at it. Like an intentional angle that threw off the otherwise perfect symmetry. Very similar to that compelling feeling of building up a wall around my mind and heart in Michigan, there was part of me that loved this book. And part of me that hated it. But for now, I just needed it. I stroked the brilliant cover, held it tightly, and walked to my side of the bed. I disrobed and eased myself into the warmth and comfort of the soft sheets. I began to read.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked . . . and the thought in that moment braced and delighted me like wine.”

  The next day I surprised everyone by going in to work. I wasn’t due back for another week. But as this time of year was always busy, hardly anyone batted an eye. I dove right in as if I hadn’t even taken a trip.

  Valerie and I decided to have lunch together and even though I took great efforts to avoid questions from Aunt Evelyn, I found it easier to think about unloading some thoughts with Val. I left a little early, deciding to meet her at the diner, as she was finishing up a project. I took my purse and as I walked down the steps of City Hall to take a stroll in the park across the street, I firmly grasped the book I started to read last night like a strange talisman.

  Val and I ate at our favorite place. I wasn’t myself yet. But I felt lighter, happier. I was back in my city, no longer feeling so lost and vulnerable. I soaked up the energy that coursed around me, enjoyed the fresh and festive city air, the regular routine of our greasy diner. It was good to be home.

  As I took a bite of my hamburger, Val looked at me from her side of the booth and said with her hands on her hips, “All right, girly, spit it out. You’re home early from a trip you’ve been dying to take for years, you haven’t talked much all day, and your face is full of all sorts of emotions. I can’t even begin to guess what you’re thinking.” She paused, and then taking her hands off her hips, she said softly, “Are you okay, Lane?”

  I swallowed, considered for a moment, and then said, “That is a good question, Val. It was the strangest visit, the most unusual reaction I could have ever guessed that I would have. I’m . . . a bit baffled.”

  I unpacked the trip. The night of being lonely and running into Tucker, the long drive out to Rochester, the climb up my tree, and finally to the moment I put up that damn wall and abruptly decided I was done with Rochester for the time being.

  She asked, “Have you talked about it with Aunt Evelyn?”

  “No. I haven’t wanted to. You’re the only one. I can’t figure it out. That feeling when I was in the tree, looking around at what I’d lost, was like something alive and tangible. It was powerful, Val. And it was in response to being by that house again, and maybe there’s a part of me that knows Kirkland and Evelyn are tied to it or something. I don’t know. But the good thing is, on the train ride home I could feel myself coming back,” I said with a self-deprecating smile.

  “Gosh, Lane, I’m sorry. You know, though, with all you’ve been through it’s not that shocking that it wasn’t easy. That’s an awful lot to take in. Give yourself some time. And one thing I’m absolutely sure about—don’t get mad—I don’t think that wall was healthy. When people start barring themselves from the people they love, nothing good comes of it. I saw it firsthand when my father started shutting us all out when his business failed.”

  I nodded as I knew she was right. Val had lived with a father who all but walked out on her mother and her young siblings. He was still around, but only bodily. He checked out in ’29 and never came back. Valerie, her mother, and her oldest brother worked to take care of the family. Val constantly sent money home to them and we’d often send food, clothing, and even extra money for groceries whenever we could since Val was like an extension of our own family.

  Thinking it through, I said, “I know. You’re right. I even knew that when I was in the tree, thinking about everything. But I’ve never felt anything like it, ever. It was like, in order to survive, I had to clamp down for a while. I’m sure it’s not a big deal. I guess it’s just a lot to figure out all at once. I do need to talk about it with Evelyn and Kirkland. I know they’re worried. But in the meantime . . .” I said, changing the subject. “What’s the scoop with everything here? Anything interesting happen the last few days?”

  She looked at me with her chin in her hand. I could tell she wasn’t too happy about the whole thing, that my reaction had been surprising to her despite the fact that she logically understood how difficult it was for me to get my mind wrapped around it all.

  “Well, all right. You can change the subject. For now . . .” she said.

  I smiled and she continued as I began eating again. “Mr. Hambro is still missing, nothing too new in the papers, but I can tell that people are getting nervous. They’re thinking that maybe there was some bad business and he disappeared of his own volition.”

  “That’s not good,” I said, fully knowing the consequences of a panicky public. But just then a familiar face pulled up a chair.

  “Hey, Roarke!” I exclaimed, standing to give him a hug.

  “Sorry to interrupt, gals. How are you? I thought you were supposed to be out of town. Didn’t you go to Michigan, Lane?”

  “Well . . . I did, but I came back early.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m surprised, too,” I said grudgingly. “I actually got all the way out to the house in Rochester. But I’d had enough. I walked in the door, saw the kitchen and living room, and left to take a walk. I went back to Detroit and Mr. Kirkland changed our tickets to come back early.”

  Roarke had been ready to banter, but I could tell he was genuinely surprised at this turn of events. He had the same scrutinizing look as Val, as he tried to read every inch of my face. Reading between the lines of what I had said, seeking information behind my eyes. I let him look. I had no idea what was behind there.

  “Okay, Lane. You know, if you ever want to go back and you need a friend, I’d be happy to go with you.”

  “Thanks, Roarke. I’ll let you know. I know I’ll go back at some point, I just needed some space and some time to deal with it, I guess.” It was still perplexing to me, so it was hard to put words to what I was feeling. I thought I’d quickly change the subject yet again. “Hey, Roarke, any new leads with the Hambro case?”

  “I hear the public is getting jittery that Hambro’s disappearance could be a symptom of a banking problem, which isn’t surprising. There are so many stories like that these days. I do have a lead, Lane. He can shed some light on whether or not this is a banking issue.”

  “What kind of lead, Roarke?” Val asked.

  “Well, I have this buddy.” I started sniggering. Roarke had buddies, informants, snitches, pals, and eyes everywhere. I loved to
tease him about it. “Zip it, Lane. And he’s a junior manager at Hambro’s bank. I set up a meeting at the park. It’s odd because he was a little twitchy about meeting at all. So we thought we’d meet at Bethesda Terrace, nice and open and full of people. Do either of you want to come? Might make him feel more at ease, like a few friends going for a leisurely stroll.” He tried to sound persuasive, knowing full well that he and I had gotten in plenty of trouble on similar sleuthing sprees in the recent past. But this one didn’t sound dangerous.

  Which, on second thought, sounded a lot like Famous Last Words right up there with It couldn’t hurt, It can’t be that bad, and What’s the worst that could happen?

  CHAPTER 10

  “Hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends.”

  After work, we arranged to meet at 72nd Street and Fifth Avenue. The air was cool, but the sun was warm on our faces. Central Park was covered in a velvety soft brown coating of autumn. Here and there were bursts of red, yellow, and orange, but most of the leaves had fallen, creating a brown carpet of crispy leaves and the unmistakable earthy scents of fall.

  We walked along in amicable silence for quite a while. I couldn’t walk through Central Park without thinking of Finn. I hope he comes home soon.

  I could tell Roarke wanted to ask me more about Michigan, but other than Val, I wasn’t ready to talk about it. I was moody and swinging back and forth between feeling better, and then suddenly grouchy and annoyed.

  To get him on another track, I started peppering him with questions about his latest articles, if he had any trips coming up . . . things I knew he loved to talk about. I knew full well my investigative reporter friend wouldn’t be put off the scent completely, but he was willing to go off the trail for a while. He talked of a new, promising company that was just starting out: Zippo lighters. I thought it was a weird name. He also talked about some new gangsters that were in-fighting and the first edition of a new magazine called Life coming out November twenty-third that featured a cover photo from a female photojournalist; a huge step forward for women in the workforce.

  We were walking toward the Poets’ Walk and as we neared this favorite part of the park, we both inhaled deeply, enjoying the great majesty of the towering trees arching over the wide path, scattered with sculptures of famous literary heroes. The band shell came up on our right that would bring in hundreds of us on summer weekends as we’d dance outside all night long. We crossed the park road and arrived at the top of the stairs that led down to Bethesda Terrace with the centerpiece being the huge, graceful fountain. Beyond it was the waterway with rowboats and even a couple of gondolas. I thought of Tucker and last year’s funny afternoon where, despite my whiny attitude about the frustrating nature of rowboats, we had enjoyed a very pleasant afternoon. I snorted out loud as I remembered him dropping his oar at a poignant moment, case in point.

  “What are you snorting about?” laughed Roarke.

  “Oh, just a funny time I had with Tucker Henslowe a few months ago. It was a nice afternoon.”

  “Tucker?” he asked. “Hmph.” His laughter had instantly gone away, but I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Why the serious face?” I asked.

  “Oh, no reason,” he said, still thinking hard and looking suspicious. But then he went on to ask, “Hey, Lane, have you heard from Finn lately?”

  “No. Not for a while. But I’ve been sending him letters that hopefully he’ll get at some point. I knew I might not hear from him for a while, so I’m not worried.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Yeah, I know, a big fat lie.” I laughed. “But it sounded good, right? Pretty convincing?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Had me utterly convinced,” he said with a roll to his eyes.

  We stopped at the railing, looking down at the fountain, a few artists scattered about painting on easels, one juggler, and I could hear a trio singing a cappella in the cavernous tunnel beneath our roost where the acoustics were glorious. Roarke spotted his buddy.

  “There he is, the one with the gray suit, red tie, and holding a book,” he said.

  “I see him. The one sitting on the edge of the fountain?”

  “Yep. See anyone else suspicious or like they might like to shoot at us?” he asked.

  “Nope! That’s exactly what I’ve been looking for, though,” I muttered.

  “I bet.”

  We walked down and nonchalantly bought a couple of ice creams, strolling closer to the guy. He stood up, nervously dusted off his pants, and walked off toward the path that led over the Bow Bridge. We followed at a discreet distance.

  “Aw, damn it!” I said.

  “What?” exclaimed Roarke. “Did you see something?”

  “No,” I said irritably. “My chocolate ice cream started leaking through the cone point. I hate that.”

  He snorted.

  “You snorted, Roarke.”

  “I felt I was in good company.”

  The guy was up ahead, just off the Bow Bridge and went to the left up to the paths that led to the Rambles, a network of lovely knotted trails through thick forest and little springs, leading eventually up to Belvedere Castle. It was a wonderful area, some places being so thickly wooded in the summertime, it was hard to believe you were smack in the middle of Manhattan. Red Tie Guy sat down on a bench by a stream with a large wall of rocks to our right.

  We sat down on the other end of the bench like a couple just taking a break from a nice walk together. Roarke spoke up first. “Marty, have you heard anything at the bank that makes you think Hambro was running from something?”

  Red Tie Guy (Marty, the junior bank manager) looked nervous as he pretended to read his book and started to speak out the corner of his mouth. “No—it’s the strangest thing. I’ve been over the numbers a thousand times and the numbers are fine. There is nothing there. But if there’s nothing there, I just don’t get it.”

  He was a fairly nondescript guy with light brown hair, a flat nose, and on a regular day I could tell he had a friendly face. Today he looked edgy, yet he had a determined air about him, prepared and wanting to help. He liked Mr. Hambro.

  “Why are you so nervous?” I blurted. If the books were on the up ’n’ up, why all the twitchy behavior?

  Although it was cool, his brow beaded with sweat and he wiped it with the back of his hand as he went on to say, “Well, it’s like this. See, the thing that I wanted to tell you about, was that the day before Mr. Hambro disappeared, he received a letter that clearly shook him up. The only reason I noticed it, was that I happened to go in his office and the letter came in a bright red envelope. Looked like a party invitation—you don’t get party invites at the bank. And when he read it, he rubbed his forehead and ran his hand through his hair, like it was bad news or something. The rest of the day he carried on as usual, but he was definitely preoccupied. The following day he came to work, nothing out of the ordinary. But at some point, he just disappeared. No one remembers seeing him leave, no one remembers anything. Roarke, do you think you can help? He’s a good man.”

  Roarke and I exchanged knowing looks. A second red letter. Someone was making a point.

  I admired Marty’s devotion to his boss, his earnest concern written all over his face. I looked closely at him, as nonchalantly as I could, of course. He wore gold, perfectly rounded Windsor glasses and his left hand shook a little as he put his hand on his knee, trying to regroup and master his emotions. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then closed it again. It seemed like he was holding something back, like there was something on the tip of his tongue.

  Roarke looked at him, his brow furrowed, his dimples hidden. He said, “Are you sure there isn’t anything else? I mean, the red envelope isn’t that earth-shattering to make you this anxious,” he prodded.

  He exhaled with a rush. “Well, I really don’t know if it’s part of this or not . . . but it’s big. One night just a day or two before all this, maybe it had been the day he got the envelope . . . Yes! It was. It
was that day. I remember now. Anyway, I was leaving later than I usually did. I was going to a concert and decided to go straight from work. I went out of the bank and stopped to have a cigarette outside. I saw Mr. Hambro leave the bank and a black sedan pulled up. He got in.” His voice had gotten increasingly softer and shakier as he spoke. He finally got to the punch line. “And when he opened the car door, inside the sedan in the backseat, I saw Louie Venetti.”

  Ah, thus the nervous behavior. That made perfect sense.

  “Oh no,” I murmured.

  Louie Venetti was one of the most notorious gangsters in New York City. He was powerful, could use barbaric measures if needed, was a ruthless businessman . . . and he helped me immensely on our last case. Even helped save the city from a bombing that could have killed thousands. I hated him and I liked him at the same time.

  Roarke had shot me a sheesh look at my lame murmur. Marty nodded in wholehearted agreement. “But I’m determined,” he declared. “I am going to ask a lot more questions. I want to get to the bottom of this.” Before we could ask anything further, Marty looked quickly down and said, “Don’t move, someone’s watching us. Do something!”

  So, should we not move or should we do something, I thought irritably. Roarke suddenly put his arm around me and nuzzled my neck like we were a couple. I took the cue and started making goo-goo eyes at him while leaning into him.

  Marty got up and started moving away up the path to our right. I looked at the guys through the curtain of my hair to see what they were up to and they most definitely noticed his movement. There were two of them, big guys with such brawny arms that they stuck out from their sides like they had invisible rolls of newspaper under their armpits. They both wore hats, one had a mustache. And then I noticed a bulge in the back of mustache-guy’s suit coat.

  “The guy’s got a gun, Roarke,” I whispered.