Where Is Bianca? (2 page)

“I'm a stationary two-oh-five, got the framework to carry it, and I will take no guff from middleweights. Want to fight?”

“No, thank you,” Corrigan said with a grin. “I know when I'm overmatched. Give your dogs a break, Chuck. And have a look at this.”

Baer deposited his bulk on the chair beside Corrigan's desk. Corrigan passed him a sheet from the morning report. “The MP,” he said. “The one near the top.”

Baer stubbed out his cigar as he reached for the report. He was not much taller than Corrigan, but where Corrigan was built like a greyhound he was built like a bull. And where Corrigan was almost handsome, Baer was almost ugly. His skin was swarthy and thick, his nose was big, his lips were heavy. And, surprisingly, he had red hair. He looked like a heavy-footed, kindly old uncle. He was the toughest man in a fight Corrigan knew. Their friendship was based on mutual respect.

“I hope to hell it isn't her.”

“How long have you been on the case, Chuck?”

“Couple of days. Her husband came into my office day before yesterday. Said she'd walked out on him five days previously, after a spat That would make it a week ago today. Her full name was Bianca Fielding Lessard.”

“Fielding?” Corrigan said. “New York Fielding? Theatrical real estate?”

“Theatrical real estate.” Baer nodded. “But way up there socially. Her parents and a maiden aunt were killed in a private plane crash, reducing the Fielding clan to one. At least until Bianca became Mrs. Lessard.”

“Did her husband mention a ring like the one in the report? A sterling Mayan ring?”

“No, but it's worth a call.”

Corrigan was already pushing the phone forward. Baer gave a number to the switchboard. Several seconds passed.

The private detective covered the mouthpiece. “Maybe he's still beddy-bye. Or out doing whatever it is that the husbands of missing heiresses do.” He removed his hand. “Hello? Mr. Lessard? This is Chuck Baer. I'm not sure, but I may have some news.… No, I'm not at my office.… Can you meet me at police headquarters right away? Yes, on Centre Street I'll be in the office of Captain Tim Corrigan. He's attached to the Main Office Squad … No, I can't say definitely. I'd rather not say on the phone. Good. I'll expect you.”

Baer hung up. “His full name is Vincent Lessard. He told me a lawyer he knew had mentioned my name while he was asking around about a private detective.”

“Background?”

The big man shrugged. “No information. My guess is it's not what it ought to be.”

“Family chauffeur or something?”

“I don't think so. It's not that.…”

“Well, a hobo doesn't often get to marry into an old-line family.”

“No, but punks sometimes do.” Baer reached for another cigar, scowling. “He knows which fork to use and can probably discuss pop art. But he's just a little too smooth. Like he's putting on an act he's spent a long time rehearsing.”

“Money of his own?”

“I don't think he had a dime when he hooked Bianca.” Baer lit his cigar. “Maybe I'm turning suspicious in my old age. But I peg him as a fortune hunter who managed to make the scene.”

“Why did you take the case?” Corrigan asked.

“Well, he made an appointment He was better than on time. ‘I'm Vincent Lessard,' he said, ‘and you simply must help me in a matter involving my wife.' So I said, ‘I don't take divorce cases.' And he said, ‘You don't understand. I want a marriage saved, not broken up.' So I heard him out.”

“He wanted her back in the nest?”

“Right,” Baer said. “He told me Bianca had walked out in a temper. He waited for her to come back, finally decided she was spending the night in a hotel. When she hadn't returned by next morning, he became concerned. Called the hospitals, even the morgue. Drew a blank. Decided she was okay, just making him sweat. Said it miffed him. That he figured
she
figured to let him stew in his own juice, so he'd let her stew, too. A day later she hadn't returned. He still figured she was needling him, and it made him sore. But by the fourth day he was on his hands and knees calling hotels, and on the fifth day he came to see me.”

“To locate her so he could coax her back?”

“That was my job,” Baer nodded. “He was afraid that if he waited to hear from her, they might wind up in a divorce court. He didn't want that. No, sir.”

“Grounds?” Corrigan said.

“Adultery. He didn't like having to tell me,” Baer said. “I asked what the argument had been about, the one that had sent Bianca roaming. He said at first that it was just a family misunderstanding. Honestly, I'm only half as dumb as I look. What did the guy take me for?”

“Whom did he finally name?”

“A dame named Frances Weatherly. She writes plays, those far-out ones—full of kookie symbolism, the kind they produce in back rooms off Broadway. This she-playwright had a new play, and she wanted a decent theater for it. So she came to Fielding Theatrical Realty, which is how their lives got intermingled. Lessard actually said ‘intermingled.'”

The phone on Corrigan's desk tinkled. It was Solly, from downstairs.

“Man inquiring for you, Captain. A Vincent Lessard.”

“I'm waiting for him. And, Solly.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“It won't hurt to tape it.”

“I'll advise CC,” Solly said.

“This man's wife is missing. So tell Communications Center it'll be all-go if she owned a Mayan ring.”

2

Even the innocent rarely face the law with a total naturalness. Corrigan seldom put stock in the first image an individual presented to him.

A darkly handsome man, conservatively tailored and barbered, Vincent Lessard entered Corrigan's office with a spurious self-assurance that seemed to be covering up a carefully controlled fear.

He gave Baer a strong man's nod. Then he stared at Corrigan with large dark eyes in which alarm was barely detectible.

“I'm glad you were able to make it so quickly,” Corrigan said in his pleasant tenor. “Have a seat, Mr. Lessard.”

Lessard gripped the arms of the straight wooden chair and eased himself down, not taking his eyes from Corrigan's face. Sunlight from the dusty window struck his chiseled face, making it glow like a spotlight; it also glinted on the drops of sweat below the line of his thick, black, wavy hair. He reminded Corrigan of a boy who had been told that no one could lie while meeting his parents' eyes. Or perhaps it had something to do with Corrigan's eye-patch. It was a minor irritant to Corrigan, sometimes not being able to tell whether an interviewee was exercising hard control over inner fears or mere fascination over the piratical patch.

“It's about my wife, isn't it?” Lessard said. He had a stage-British accent. “Is she—has something happened that—” There was the lightest break in his voice. Corrigan instantly recognized what Chuck Baer had mentioned. Lessard was emoting by the book. The script called for distress, so the actor was registering distress. On the other hand, Corrigan was not leaping to conclusions. There were people who put on an act about everything, even the real things when no act was necessary. If Lessard were such a man his act proved nothing. And he might well be such a man.

“I don't want to alarm you,” Corrigan said, “and maybe we're taking up your time for nothing. But there is a report.…” He stopped deliberately.

“Oh, God,” Lessard said. “Has Bianca been hurt? Attacked?”

“We're not sure we even have a lead on your wife,” Corrigan said. “But we need your help, Mr. Lessard. If you've no objection to answering a few questions?”

“Of course not, Captain! I can't imagine how I can help, but if this concerns Bianca—my darling Bianca—I'll do anything I can.”

He's a lousy actor to boot, Corrigan thought.

Chuck Baer said smoothly, “Mr. Lessard's been under a considerable strain, Captain. You know how it is when a loved one turns up missing and suddenly a call comes from the police.”

“You're right, Mr. Baer!” Lessard said. “That's exactly it. It began in such an innocent way.… If only I'd stopped her from leaving that night.… Captain, please! Tell me if my wife is—”

“How long have you and Mrs. Lessard been married?” asked Corrigan.

“Captain, I insist you tell me—”

“Where did you meet her, Mr. Lessard?”

The man's knuckles whitened on the arms of the chair. A sort of ferocity had sprung into the eyes staring at Corrigan, the mask slipping for a moment; but then he went back into his act. There was nothing in the pleasant face confronting him across the desk that promised a performance of any kind except by Corrigan's own script.

Lessard's hands went to his lap, limply; so helpless. “I met Bianca in the Adirondacks,” he said. “At a resort hotel, the Nulan Inn.”

“Where you were both staying?”

“Well, no. As a matter of fact, Bianca was staying at Adirondacks Hall.”

Corrigan said, “Adirondacks Hall. That's a sanitarium, I believe.” Chuck Baer was sitting up a little. “Isn't it?”

“If you're implying that my wife was a mental case,” Lessard said stiffishly, “I can assure you she
wasn't
.”

“I wasn't implying anything, Mr. Lessard. I'm simply trying to get some information. Adirondacks Hall is widely known as a hideaway for people with emotional problems—and lots of money to pamper them.”

“She
wasn't
pampering them, Captain! She'd been through a terrible ordeal. Her parents and her aunt had been killed. Bianca flew back from Europe, managed to take hold of things and only collapsed after the triple funeral. Anyone might have, especially a sensitive girl like Bianca. She needed rest, and she needed a little therapeutic help, to get her over the hump.”

“From what I've heard, Adirondacks Hall was just the place for Mrs. Lessard to get both,” Corrigan said agreeably. “How did she happen to be at Nulan Inn?”

Vincent Lessard looked uncomfortable. “Well.…”

“Were you a guest there, Mr. Lessard?”

Lessard's classic chin came up. “I was employed there.”

“In what capacity?”

“See here—”

“Just asking,” Corrigan said.

“I was the social director, if you must know. The Hall is close by. Once in a while patients who were ready to leave the sanitorium would drop over to our Saturday night dances or Sunday lawn brunches.”

Corrigan could visualize Lessard, in French flannels and blazer, leading a community sing, profile to the sun. He must have had a high old time with the ladies.

“And you met Bianca Fielding at one of these things?”

“I did!”

“Lonely girl, I suppose,” Corrigan murmured.

The details of Lessard's façade shifted. Deep in his beautiful eyes appeared a sparkle of caution.

“Of course she was lonely, Captain. Poor little girl. Bianca was born in the United States, but she was a stranger here. Her parents took her to Europe when she was very young, and she did most of her growing up there. Losing those nearest and dearest to her so suddenly.… Yes, she was lonely. What's the point of all this, Captain?”

The point, Corrigan thought, is that a poor little rich girl, an overnight orphan, probably unhappy to begin with, straight out of a sanitorium (under other circumstances it could have been a convent), was sucker bait for any slick operator in the immediate foreground, or even an operator not so slick. Maybe I'm doing the guy an injustice, Corrigan thought. There is such a thing as falling in love. And he still didn't know what Bianca looked like. He stared hard at Vincent Lessard, and mentally shook his head. If there had been love in the Fielding-Lessard affair, it was on the Fielding side. Lessard wouldn't know what love was. But he would certainly have a solid appreciation of money. And Bianca Fielding had been loaded.

“Did you argue often?”

“What?” said Lessard.

“The question is plain enough,” Corrigan said. His voice was not so pleasant now. “Were you and your wife in the habit of arguing?”

For the first time since entering the office, Lessard gave his attention directly to Chuck Baer. It was over in a moment, but for that moment his eyes said that he regretted ever having met Baer.

“No,” Lessard said cautiously to Corrigan. “Bianca and I got on beautifully.”

“That's not what you told me,” said Baer.

“Well, certainly in the beginning.…”

“There was a change in her?” Corrigan suggested.

“I don't believe I follow you.”

“I'm trying to interpret you correctly, draw a picture of your wife. You met, you married, you came to live in the Fielding home here in New York. Then differences developed.”

“I didn't say that!”

“Differences mean only that something has changed. I assume, from the facts, that the change was in Mrs. Lessard. She'd been exhausted emotionally. Now she was regaining her stability. That means she wasn't quite the same woman you married.”

“Captain, I love my wife! Every molecule in her body is precious to me. Do I have to call a lawyer in to make you tell me what's happened to her?”

Let him have it, Corrigan thought. “You loved her so much you began to tomcat around,” he said.

This time the glance Lessard turned on Baer was positively murderous.

“So a man slips once,” he said sullenly. “I thought a client's communication with a private detective is privileged, as with a lawyer or a clergyman.”

“This,” said Corrigan before Baer could say anything, “happens to be a special case, Mr. Lessard. You'll find out why in due course. How long have you known that woman playwright—Frances Weatherly?”

“Six weeks. Two months. She came to Bianca looking for a theater.”

“Not long after you and Miss Fielding were married?”