Bill Pronzini - Deadfall

He smiled at me and said, “I am Alex Ozimas. Please sit down.” His voice carried an accent, but it was very faint. He struck me as an intelligent and educated man.

I sat on the table’s third chair. The girl continued to pick the roll apart; she didn’t look at me or at Ozimas or at the furious kid in the white coat. She might not have known any of us were there.

Ozimas said to the kid, “Ted, bring another cup and pour our guest some of your excellent coffee.”

Ted was standing a little behind him, so that Ozimas didn’t see him mouth the words Fuck you before he turned and stalked off. Or maybe Ozimas did see it. He said to me, “I must apologize for Ted. He is very angry with me this morning.”

“Oh?”

“He doesn’t like it when I entertain young women.”

I got it then. Ted was more than just a servant; he probably lived here and he probably also shared Ozimas’s bed on a more or less regular basis. Melanie Purcell had called Ozimas a “fag,” and this place and the kid pretty much confirmed his sexual orientation. Or rather, it confirmed his primary sexual orientation. It was plain that he liked a woman now and then, maybe as a change of pace. That was why the bombed-out blonde was here this morning.

“Ted is a good boy,” Ozimas said, “despite his jealous nature. I don’t know what I would do without him.” Then he laughed abruptly and said, “Don’t you find it amusing?”

“Find what amusing?”

“The fact that Ted is Caucasian and I am Filipino. For many years it was a status symbol for rich white Americans to have Filipino houseboys. Surely you remember. I have reversed the trend. I am a rich Filipino who has a white American houseboy.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to look at it that way. I said, “Good for you,” because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You don’t approve?”

“I have no opinion either way. It’s your business.”

“Ah yes, business. You are a private detective?”

“That’s right.”

I gave him one of my cards. He looked at it and nodded slowly and then put it down beside his plate. “Please tell me who gave you my name in connection with Kenneth Purcell.”

“His daughter, Melanie.”

“Yes, a lovely girl.”

I looked at him.

“Actually,” he said, “a despicable little bitch. Kenneth despised her, too, of course.”

“He left her a lot of money in his will.”

“She was his daughter,” Ozimas said, and shrugged. “He believed in providing for his family.”

“Did you know his brother?”

“Yes.”

“What was your relationship with him?”

“Relationship? Ah, of course. Leonard was a homosexual and I am a bisexual; therefore you think we might have been lovers.”

“I don’t think anything,” I said. “I’m only asking a question.”

“Let me ask you a question before I answer yours. Do you dislike homosexuals?”

“No. The man I’m working for is gay.”

“Ah?”

“Leonard’s housemate, Tom Washburn.”

“I see. I’m afraid I have never met the man.”

“About Leonard,” I said. “How well did you know him?”

“Not well at all. I saw him two or three times at Kenneth’s home.”

“Nowhere else?”

“No.”

“You do know he was murdered last week?”

“Of course. And are you investigating his murder?”

“Yes. Washburn believes it’s connected with Kenneth’s death.”

“Really? In what way?”

“His theory is that Kenneth didn’t fall accidentally-that he was murdered too.”

Ozimas raised an eyebrow. But he had time to think about what he was going to say in response because the houseboy, Ted, reappeared just then. The kid took a fancy china cup and saucer off the silver tray he was carrying, banged them down on the table — not quite hard enough to break or chip either one-and poured me some coffee, most but not all of which wound up in the cup.

“Now, Ted,” Ozimas said reprovingly, “if you keep this up I won’t take you to Big Sur this weekend.”

The kid didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. He backed up, glaring over our heads, and stalked off again.

For a time it was silent in the nook. Ozimas was still thinking; he had his mouth open slightly and he kept tapping his forefinger against his front teeth. The blond woman had finished shredding the cinnamon roll and was also making use of a forefinger: wetting it and then blotting up the crumbs one by one.

I got tired of the quiet and said, “So what do you think, Mr. Ozimas? Could Kenneth have been murdered?”

“I hadn’t considered the possibility until now,” he said. “But, yes, I suppose he might have inspired someone to an act of violence. He could be… abrasive, shall we say.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Are you suggesting I might have killed him?”

“No,” I said. Then I said, “Did you?”

He liked that; it made him laugh. “Hardly. I was not at his home that evening.”

“No, but you were there earlier that day. Around five.”

“How did-Ah. Melanie. Yes, I was there. I left at about five-thirty. I drove straight home, as I remember, and spent the evening here; I expect Ted can vouch for that, if it becomes necessary.”

“Would you mind telling me why you went to see Kenneth?”

“It was a business matter.”

“What sort of business? Foreign interests buying up American real estate?”

He had been open up to now, urbane and faintly self-mocking; now I watched him close off-like watching something soft turn hard and unpleasant. This was the real Alex Ozimas. This was a shrewd and thoroughly corrupt son of a bitch who had got to where he was right now, twenty-one stories above the rest of us mortals, by manipulation, bribery, deceit, and general villainy. I looked at him right then and knew he was capable of anything to get what he wanted, or to protect what he already had. Anything at all.

He said in a flat voice, “My business dealings with Kenneth Purcell were of a private and confidential nature. I will not discuss them with you or anyone else.”

“Does that include the federal government?”

He drank coffee instead of answering-and pulled an annoyed face because it was cold.

I said, “All right, I won’t ask about your real estate deals. My hunch is that you and Kenneth had different business that day.”

He studied me for a while; it was like being scrutinized by a rock. Then he said, “Yes?”

“A snuff box,” I said. “An early eighteen hundreds snuff box made by Hainelin, with a Napoleonic battle scene engraved on the lid. Napoleon at Toulon.”

Nothing changed in his face-and then it did, all at once. The hardness went out of it and a smile formed in the waxy brown softness that remained. I took this to mean he considered the conversation back on safe ground.

“You believe I gave this snuff box to Kenneth?” he said.

“Not gave it to him. Sold it to him. I’m sure you’re a generous man, Mr. Ozimas, but fifty thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of generosity.”

He laughed. “Yes, so it is.”

“Did you sell him the Hainelin box?”

“I see no reason not to be frank with you. Yes, I sold the box to Kenneth.”

“For how much?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Why so little, if it was worth fifty thousand?”

“Why not? I might have sold it to a certain other collector for its full value, but Kenneth was my good friend. And he had recently done a substantial favor for me… no, I will not tell you what that favor was. Also, I confess I paid less for the box than the twenty-five thousand Kenneth paid me.”

“Where did you get it?”

“In Manila.”

“Who did you buy it from?”