Eight Ball Boogie Part 4

"Accounts. I don't have the details with me."

"One will do and I'll need it today. Hobbies?"

"Hobbies?"

"Flower-arranging, ballroom dancing, deep sea diving. Anything she does on her own, when you're not around."

His tone was sullen.

"She plays golf."

"At The Bridge?"

"Where else?"

At The Bridge your handicap was measured by the number of seasons your wife's little black number was out of date.

"Is she any good?"

"What's good got to do with it?"

I made more notes. Then, the biggie: "I'll need to know about the other bloke too."

He coughed, quick and too dry.

"Like what?"

"Like, any idea who he might be?"

He stared so long I began to suspect myself. Then, with a brief shake of his head: "No."

"Affairs rarely happen between strangers. They usually happen between acquaintances, social partners, workmates."

Again with the sharp, nasal bark. He sounded like a sick seal.

"Helen doesn't work."

"And you've no reason to suspect any of your own a.s.sociates?"

"That's what I want you to find out."

"Alright, I'll take it from here. The less you know, the better you'll sleep. If nothing turns up inside a month, six weeks, chances are there's nothing to turn up."

"That soon?"

"Everybody's so worried that everyone's watching them, they don't notice when it's just anyone watching them. Strange but true. If anything does turn up, I'll doc.u.ment it and turn the file over to you, negatives included."

"Photographs?"

"Incontrovertible evidence in a court of law. Come in handy if you want to avoid one too."

"That's it?"

"I'll need a retainer."

"What for?"

"Expenses. Soft drugs. Lunar real estate, maybe. Who knows?"

Another long stare. He scribbled a cheque.

"When do I hear from you?"

"When I call. You're away when?"

"Thursday usually, most of Friday. Sometimes Friday night too."

"Next week, come back Sat.u.r.day. And let Helen Mrs Conway know you'll be away both nights. If you can do it two weeks running, better still."

He got up like he'd forgotten how to stand. Pawed at the creases in his trousers, turned for the door. He looked back.

"So what's the J stand for?" He seemed composed again, a man in control of his own destiny, and he looked all the more plaintive for believing it.

"It's a joke."

"It's not funny."

"You're not paying for funny. Funny's extra."

He banged the door so hard my ulcer started tingling. I slipped the .38 out of my belt, put it away in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then I slugged from the bottle of Malox I keep in the top drawer, washing down a Prothiaden, and rang downstairs for a coffee that might poison me slower.

4.

I rang Herbie.

"Any joy with Sheridan?"

"Nothing yet, the server's acting up again."

Herbie's main gig was shutterbug, although the gra.s.s he grew in his attic was a tidy nixer when things got quiet. The deal, when we hooked up, was I did the walking, asking the questions, and he handled the research, digging on the web, scanning ports, cracking pa.s.swords, finding back doors.

"So what's up?" he asked.

"Not much." Herbie didn't need to know about Frank Conway, that was a solo gig. "I was just wondering about Sheridan."

"What about him?"

"Where is he? He wasn't at the house this morning, right?"

"Regan said he was in Dublin. Some business meeting."

"Nice alibi. You up for a giggle?"

"Like what?"

"Meet me here in half-an-hour. Wear an overcoat. And look dumb."

The brunette opened the door, stepped back into the narrow hallway, still groggy from sleep, winding her dressing gown tight.

"Miss Hunter?"

She nodded.

"Miss Joan Hunter?"

She nodded again, blinking.

"French," I said, flashing her the inside of my wallet. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at Herbie. "Naughton. Can we come in?"

I was moving forward before she had a chance to answer and she melted back into the hallway. We filed in. It was a penthouse, one wall all window, the room s.p.a.cious and bright, the decor black and minimalist. The river trudged by below and I could see the bridge in the distance. It was too warm, the heat oppressive. Orchids, thick, white and ugly, grew out of an ornate vase against the far wall. She said, suppressing a half-cough, her knuckles touched to her lips: "Can I help you?"

I figured her for forty and looking it in the morning light. Her face was pale and drawn, dark rings under her eyes, up late last night, taking care of business in the nightclub. Herbie started in, aggressive.

"We know that every second girl in your place last night was underage," he growled. "Give me six hours and I'll have a statement from a minor claiming a bloke picked her up and didn't put her down, a statch rape beef. You'll beat the rap but we'll get the place closed down for two weeks, Christmas and New Year, the rags'll be all over it kinky s.e.x, they love it more than me. Do I have your attention?"

Her eyes blossomed and her mouth dropped open. It was her worst-case scenario realised, as delivered by a B-movie cop.

"I don't "

"Do I have your attention?"

"Yes, yes of course. But "

I stepped in, slipping her a break.

"Naughton is upset, Miss Hunter. We all are. There's been a particularly vicious murder and we're hoping you might be able to shed some light on the circ.u.mstances."

"Me? But Who? Who's been murdered?"

Herbie hurtled into the breach, harsh: "Imelda Sheridan. Butchered this morning. You're going to need three alibis, all priests."

Her face drained out, eyes glazed. My instinct was that she had no prior knowledge, clean as a whistle as far as Imelda Sheridan was concerned. But that wasn't why we were there.

"Miss Hunter it's a delicate situation but you can depend on our discretion. I give you my word you will not be named in the investigation unless it is unavoidable." I took a deep breath, for show. "We need to ask about your relationship with Tony Sheridan."

"Tony?"

Herbie rattled her again.

"Big Tony, yeah. You've been dancing the fandango, his wife knew. Now she's dead, stabbed to death. So spill."

"Tony and I... that's over, that's not... stabbed?"

I said: "What did Imelda Sheridan think of your affair?"

"I don't know, Tony didn't say. It wasn't unusual for Tony..." Her eyes started filling up. "She was... I don't know, she was..."

I pinched my nose, tipping Herbie the sign back off.

"Miss Hunter can I call you Joan?"

She nodded, staring at the carpet, choking back a sob.

"Joan, from what you know of Imelda Sheridan, would she have been likely to threaten anyone on the basis of Tony's indiscretions?"

She shook her head, snuffled something.

"I'm sorry Joan? Could you repeat that?"

Then it all tumbled out in gulping sobs. We waited. When she ran out of steam, she dabbed at her eyes and said, hiccupping gently: "She was the gentle type, placid... I don't know, mousey. She didn't seem too worried about Tony. I thought she was glad, it kept him out of her bed. She seemed... not interested."

"Not interested?"

"Some people aren't."

"And Tony?"

"Tony?" A hysterical giggle that snapped halfway through. "Very interested."

Herbie: "Did he ever give you a dig?"

Her voice was low, husky.

"No."

Yes. I said: "Did he ever talk about leaving Imelda, Joan?"