the ice cold nude

There was an obvious explanation but I wasn’t about to say it to Patty Lamont. “Maybe she saved—” I started vaguely.

“Not Louise!” she snapped. “She isn’t the saving type. And there’s something I haven’t told you.” The glassy look in her eyes gave me a split second of wild speculation that maybe there was a third sister—the one that nobody talked about, the one with three heads.

“Louise had a dreadful argument with Mr. Rutter the day she left,” she confided in a semi-whisper. “I don’t know what about, but I could hear them screaming at each other—and my office is three away from Mr. Rutter’s suite. She left immediately after they’d had that

dreadful argument and he gave orders she wasn’t to be admitted into the building, even. Then a couple of months later he let her enter the contest.” -

“So maybe he’s the forgiving type of president?” I said heavily.

“Then there’s the other thing,” she said implacably. “I don’t like the men that Louise has been running around with—that dreadful Marty Estell—there’s something sinister about that man, Mr. Boyd!”

“I haven’t met him yet—only his associate Pete,” I said wearily.

“And that Willie Byers,” she continued, blithely ignoring my comment. “There’s something odd about that man —I have the feeling he’s a phony, Mr. Boyd, but a sinister phony!”

I drained the martini glass and looked helplessly around for a waiter, while I tried to figure out just how I could get rid of this screwy, natural-born old maid, to whom every man who looked twice at her sister automatically became a sinister character. It was only after I’d managed to wag an emergency signal with one finger to the waiter that the import of her last remark sank into my consciousness.

“Byers?” I almost yelled at her. “The guy who works at the Elmo jewelry store?”

Patty shrugged disdainfully. “I wouldn't know where he works—if he does and I doubt it. I only met him the one time at her apartment, Mr. Boyd. He’s far too old for her in the first place, and in the second place—”

“Tell you what, Miss Lamont,” I interrupted her quickly. “I can see what you mean about your sister being in danger—”

“You can?” Her eyes widened with pleasure. “You really can, Mr. Boyd?”

“Sure,” I gulped. “I think you’re damned right—she’s surrounded by a bunch of real sinister characters and I figure I should start investigating them right away.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said breathlessly. Her eyes shone with gratitude. “You don’t know what this means to me, Mr. Boyd. I’ll be eternally grateful.”

“Don’t give it another thought, honey,” I said hastily. “You run along now and I’ll start in investigating. As soon as I find out anything definitely sinister, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you!” She shook my hand in a firm, emotional grasp. “I’ll never forget you, Mr. Boyd!” She fumbled in her pocketbook and handed me a piece of notepaper. “I wrote my address and phone number down for you.”

“Thanks,” I said absently. I wasn’t interested in Patty Lamont any more. I just wanted her to get the hell out of it so I could have an early dinner and then go call on the diamond expert, Willie Byers, who was also one of Louise’s boy friends. His address would be on the list that Miss Tamara O’Keefe had given me, I remembered. Then I sensed Patty had something else to say, and looked up.

“It’s a funny thing, Mr. Boyd, somehow I felt sure you would help me!” she said gently. Her eyes were moist, like wet olives, as she smiled into my face and I felt my crew cut stand up in stiff revulsion.

Then she got onto her feet, collected her pocketbook, and walked toward the door in a series of small, tight movements, as if she was wired together like a marionette.

chapter three

Willie Byers was a tall, thin guy, someplace in his early fifties, with graying brown hair. His face had a pinched look and a pallid color to match; the overall impression— including his hands which trembled incessantly—was that he still hadn’t recovered from a king-sized hangover. Maybe that was the uncharitable point of view, but he didn’t exactly enthuse when I told him who I was and what I wanted; I almost had to force my way into his apartment.

The living room was elegantly and expensively fur-aished, dominated by the most outrageous—and magnificent—nude I’d ever seen. A massive, flamboyant painting that seemed to cover all of one wall with licentious pink and white flesh tones, along with the wildest curves any artist ever pitched. The subject was a long-haired blonde, reclining full-length on a couch, with her legs crossed de-:orously and her arms stretched langorously above her head. She had a misty look in her lapis-lazuli eyes—it was anyone’s bet if it was caused by regret or desire, and either way it was interesting food for thought.

“You will excuse me if I sit down, Mr. Boyd?” Byers said in perfect English, with only the merest trace of an accent. “I have been sick, you understand—a virus—and I am still weak.”

“Sure,” I said, and sat opposite him in a deep leather armchair. “Mr. Elmo didn’t tell me you were sick when

25

I talked to him this afternoon. Incidentally, you rate real high in M5 book.”

“He is very kind,” Byers said in a tired voice. He seized his nose between a spatulate thumb and index finger, squeezing it hard for a few moments. “It has been my whole life, you understand? There has been nothing else that ever interested me in the slightest degree but precious stones—the handling of them, the delicate craftsmanship involved. It requires both finesse and total absorption in the cutting of a diamond, for example, and where there is a strong element of chance involved, one also needs the recklessness of an addicted gambler.”

“You make it sound real fascinating,” I told him.

He squeezed the tip of his nose even harder, then smiled bleakly. “I do not wish to bore you, Mr. Boyd. Naturally, you have some questions to ask about the tiara?”

“Mr. Elmo said you spotted the fake in the window right off?”

“That is correct,” he said, nodding. “It was a very good copy, but there were a couple of small imperfections. Nothing that could be detected by an amateur eye, of course.”

“But to your expert eye, the fake was obvious, huh?” “Yes.” This time he squeezed so hard it brought tears to his eyes. “I see no reason for false modesty, Mr. Boyd. I am an acknowledged expert in these things.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But it still takes an expert to spot the fake—so how could anybody have gotten hold of the real tiara long enough to make a paste copy of it?” Byers shrugged. “It would not be necessary to have the original beside you to make a copy.” His voice was pedantic. “The tiara was displayed in the store window for two weeks before it was stolen. It could have easily been photographed with a miniature camera from the sidewalk. An expert craftsman may have studied it four or five times a day for a week, or even longer—until he was sure of the detail. The design and the setting itself, they were not overly elaborate, you understand? The main value of the piece was in the five stones, the diamonds themselves, Mr. Boyd.”

“Don’t you figure it was kind of odd that Elmo didn’t spot the fake himself when he returned the tiara to the window?” I suggested casually.

“Not so strange, Mr. Boyd.” His eyes closed for a long moment, then opened again with an obvious effort of will. “His mind was probably on other things and he was not so familiar with it as I was. It happened to be one of the few trinkets I had amused myself with, you understand?”