Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

‘No problem,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I lied on the landing card.’

‘Imagine,’ said Dylan, mournfully. ‘I get home midday Wednesday, jetlagged and full of hell, and at five o’clock this one phones me, to be taken out on the town. I’m glad to see you, pal, for lots of reasons.’ Then he looked me in the eye, serious all of a sudden. ‘Has she surfaced?’

‘Right here in good old New York.’ I glanced at the Breitling. ‘About twelve hours ago, eleven blocks away from here.’ I drained the Bud in a second pull. ‘Fancy seeing if she’s still there?’

‘Sounds interesting; I’ll go along with it.’

‘Me too,’ said Prim, ‘whatever it is you’re talking about.’

‘Maddy January,’ I told her.

‘Then I’m definitely coming.’

‘I’m not so sure. She might turn nasty.’

‘It won’t be anything you two big strong boys can’t handle, I’m sure. Come on.’ She slid out from behind the table and headed for the door.

‘Eh, honey,’ I called after her, ‘I hate to point this out, but you don’t know where we’re going.’

We followed her, though.

It was a powerfully warm evening, more humid than Monaco but nothing like Singapore. We started walking, on the look-out for a lit-up taxi but at that time on a Friday evening they can be hard to come by. We’d reached Sixth Avenue and Forty-eighth by the time we spotted one, but by then we were half-way there, so we decided to continue on foot. We strolled on, past Radio City. I was astonished to see that the Moody Blues were scheduled to appear there on the following Thursday. I found myself wondering if they’d written any new stuff since I was five years old. I said as much to Dylan.

‘Who the fuck are the Moody Blues?’ he muttered. Back from the grave, but still a Philistine.

West Fifty-fifth was as narrow as most of the trans-avenue streets are in Midtown Manhattan. The Shoreham Hotel wasn’t hard to find; its sign hung out over the street and a modern, fairly tasteless steel canopy hung over the entrance. I caught Prim frowning. ‘Hey,’ she exclaimed, ‘we were near here this morning. The Carnegie’s just round the corner.’

‘Too bad Maddy didn’t fancy chicken soup and matzoh balls for breakfast,’ I grunted back at her, ‘or you might have saved me a trip.’

We went into the bar by mistake before we found the reception desk. When we did, it was staffed by a couple of young ladies who seemed to be doing their best to bristle with efficiency.

‘Hi there,’ I said, giving them my best smile, ‘we’re looking for a friend. I believe she may be staying here. The problem is, we’re not sure what name she’s travelling under. Her Christian name, though, is Madeleine, Maddy for short. You can’t miss her: she’s tall, looks mid-thirties, although it may say different on her passport, and she has sensational auburn hair, like in the L’Oreal ads.’

The older of the two receptionists, a chubby black girl, nodded. ‘From the description, that would be Mrs Lee.’ She broke off for a few seconds to refer to a computer terminal. ‘Yeah, that’s Mrs Madeleine Lee, travelling on a Singapore passport. She was our guest.’

‘Was?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid she checked out midday.’

‘Damn,’ I whispered, and then I saw her smile.

‘Would you be Mr Blackstone?’ she asked. ‘The movie star?’

I gave her my Gary Cooper. ‘Yup.’

‘She left something for you.’

‘She did?’

‘Yes, sir. She said that if Oz Blackstone came looking for her, I should give you this.’ She took a hotel envelope from under the desk and held it out. ‘I thought she was maybe a little crazy,’ the receptionist confessed, as I took it from her.

‘This is New York,’ I reminded her. ‘It takes a lot to count as crazy here.’

Mike and Prim watched me as I turned my back on the desk and opened Maddy’s gift. It was lightly sealed and peeled back at the touch of a finger. There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded twice. It was only rough, a file that most probably had been copied on to a computer, printed, then, I guessed, deleted. It had been done on ordinary paper, not high quality, but I knew what it was, almost before I glanced at it. When I did I saw red robes; that was enough. I refolded it quickly and slid it back into the envelope, then pocketed it.

‘What’s that about?’ Dylan asked.

‘It’s why I’m here. I think it’s a warning to leave her alone.’ I looked at the girl behind the counter. ‘The chambermaids didn’t find a body in her room, did they?’

She stared at me as if I was the crazy one. ‘No, Mr Blackstone,’ she murmured uncertainly.

‘That makes a change,’ I told her.

‘Another cold trail,’ said Mike, grimly.

‘Not necessarily.’

I walked through a door to the left of the desk, back out on to the street. What passed for a doorman was on duty there, a guy with a West Indian look, wearing a long jacket and a leather pork-pie hat. ‘Were you here at noon?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, mon,’ he drawled, confirming my guess about his origins.

‘A woman left here then; striking, tall, with long dark hair.’

‘I remember the lady. I got her a cab.’

I gave him twenty bucks, up front: I didn’t want him making up a story just to get his hands on it. ‘Do you remember where she went?’

‘Sure, mon. She asked for Penn Station, that’s Thirty-third and Seventh.’

I slipped him another twenty. ‘Thanks, mate.’ He’d told me where she was going.

Dylan ducked out of dinner: he said he was knackered, but I wasn’t sure. I reckon he’d been at enough tables with Prim and me.

I told him that if he wanted to be part of the continuing adventure, he should meet me at the Algonquin at ten thirty next morning, with an overnight bag as we’d be going on a trip for a day or two.

‘In at the death, eh?’ He grinned. ‘You don’t think I’d miss that, do you? Make it eleven thirty, though. I’m not an early riser these days.’

‘Me too,’ Prim piped up. ‘I’m coming.’

‘I know you are,’ I told her. ‘You might have a part to play in this unfolding drama.’

Dylan headed for the subway, while my good buddy on the door got Prim and me a cab. We went back to the hotel and to the Round Table restaurant. The Oak Room had been our favourite when we had been there before, but there’s no cabaret in July, and that’s why you go there.

We both knew what we wanted without looking at the menu: lump crab cocktail and spring chicken pot pie, with a bottle of Ruffino Pinot Grigio. The waiter gave us a nod of approval, always a good sign. That was how it worked out.

‘Well, Tom’s mum,’ I said, as the last of the chicken disappeared from her plate; Prim could eat for Scotland. ‘How do you feel?’

She looked at me. ‘Now I’m properly back in the world?’ I nodded. ‘Settled,’ she replied. ‘Oddly content. I don’t know what the rest of my life holds for me, but I don’t give a damn because I’ve got my son and I know he’s well loved and looked after even when he’s not with me. There’s more too.’ She laid her hand on mine. ‘The way things are, it keeps me involved in your life. I really hated it when I wasn’t; that’s how I got so bitter and twisted and vengeful. I’m sorry for that, but please, love, don’t shut me out again. You can’t deny it, we share something, you and I. We’ve got a bond. We’re joined in. .’

‘Wickedness,’ I finished it for her. ‘You’re the bad cherub and I’m the devil.’

‘That’s a bit hard on both of us.’

‘If that were only true, baby. Remember that man in Geneva.’

‘That was different: he was trying to kill us.’