Where Is Bianca? (4 page)

“And don't start pawing me. You know how I hate it.” He stopped in mid-stride. “Why can't you ever talk to me as if I were what I am? You know you can't con me, Dad. I figured you out a long time ago. Right now my radar tells me you're setting yourself for another unpleasantness. It doesn't make sense, with Dmitri Karam coming back from Europe and the details worked on for the new TV series. You ought to be riding high, instead of trying to drown yourself in vodka martinis. And, by the way, that's one mystery about you I've never solved. How do you drink so much and still manage to look as if you'd just got back from a month in the fresh air?”

Ainsley fingered his silk cravat with the gesture that indicated he was pleased. “The good Lord invested me with incorruptible tissues,” he said. “As for the martinis, can't a man go on a toot for no other reason than that he feels like going on a toot?”

“Not you, Pa. And it wasn't just a toot, it was a hundred-proof swinger. You left a three-day spoor through several dozen cheap bars, joints where you wouldn't ordinarily be caught dead. And with Mr. Karam's palace of an apartment at your disposal while he's abroad, you wind up in a flophouse that would make you throw up if you were sober.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered.

He sounded utterly miserable, and Jean, to her disgust, softened. She tossed her cigarette into the ashtray and got up and went to him. The arm she touched was actually shaking.

“What made you suddenly start punishing yourself again, Daddy?”

He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “I'm a trial to you, I know. I represent an unpleasant past, a questionable present, and a frightening future. All the time you should be occupied with no other thoughts than hooking some handsome young millionaire and settling down to a flock of rampaging brats.”

“Oh, the hell with that,” said Jean in a muffled voice. It was useless.

“No man's ever had a more wonderful child. Jean, I love you, I really do. I've been the world's lousiest father to you, and you've deserved the best. The truth is, I'm gutless. Always have been. I didn't want responsibilities when I married your mother, and I suppose I still don't want them. All I can ask is your understanding.”

She knew that he was not merely indulging in histrionics, however theatrical his delivery. He was no more capable of uttering an honest-sounding line than most other actors of his generation.

Jean pushed away from him. “All right, Dad, you want my understanding? Suppose we start by your telling me what kind of roof is about to fall on our heads this time.”

“Roof? What roof?” Ainsley said innocently. “The only roof that's about to fall is the roof of the heavens, in a shower of stars.”

“Dad,
please
.”

“I know you're thinking about San Quentin again. Jeanie, San Quentin is no longer even a memory. I've forgotten that it was once my address, and I assure you there's no chance of my moving back. I'm a craftsman of the theater about to demonstrate anew to the millions my mastery of my craft, that's all. Naturally,” he added with a cough, “it makes me a little nervous. You know I always get the flutterbyes.”

“You ham,” Jean said without inflection. He had ducked the issue, as he always did. Further pressure would get her nowhere. And it was always possible that he was telling the truth. Perhaps something less than catastrophic had set him on the bender that had ranged from Times Square, to the Village, to up beyond 101st Street.

He had moved to the door, sensing the psychological moment for an exit.

“
Au 'voir
, my princess. Worry not; it will age you. Everything will work out. You'll see.”

He went out swiftly.

Jean stood motionless in her silent office, looking at the door.

As usual, he had talked his way out without really saying anything.

She returned to her desk. Her always crowded calendar was an unfailing escape, an old friend. She gave herself up to some thoughts about the business at hand.

Frances Weatherly and her producer, Travers Proehl, were due shortly. The woman never gave up. She hadn't enough backing, Jean thought, and I'm not sure her play would keep the doors of a midtown theater open for a third performance.

But the Weatherly woman and her play had the approval of Vincent Lessard, husband of the girl who owned so many theaters all over the country. Jean's business sense could not stand up against a connection like that.

And there was this policeman to complicate the day, Corrigan. Probably a big Irisher accustomed to taking tough criminals apart with his hands, although he'd had a very nice telephone voice. He had given her a bad moment. The last time policemen had come into her life, her father had wound up in San Quentin. Thank heaven, this time, Jean thought, the subject was Bianca Fielding Lessard, not Carlton Ainsley.

She flipped the intercom switch. “Miss Tolliver, I'm running late. I'll lunch here. Have a chicken sandwich on toast and a glass of milk sent in. And if Frances Weatherly and her producer show up on time, stall them. I promised that policeman I'd see him at two.”

“Yes, Miss Ainsley.”

“Are the land-lease contracts ready on the Kansas City property?”

“Our attorneys just returned them.”

“Fine. Bring them in with my lunch, please.”

Jean broke the connection. A huge old theater in Kansas City that had served a generation of moviegoers would be torn down. A chain department store would rise in its place, and the Fielding enterprises would collect rent on the land for the next ninety-nine years.

She would have to get Vincent Lessard's signature on the papers. Her nose crinkled at the thought of having any dealings with Lover Boy, as she called Lessard in the privacy of her thoughts.

4

Corrigan was five minutes early for his appointment. Several people were waiting in the surprisingly plain outer office. A rather dowdy secretary was being firm with a man and woman at her desk.

Corrigan knew that the Fielding corporation more and more in the recent past had juggled its resources against the decline in theaters the country over. Theatrical real estate was now only one of its interests.

“I'm sorry for the delay, Miss Weatherly,” the receptionist was saying, “but I assure you it's unavoidable.”

Corrigan's ears and eye went to work immediately.

The object of Vincent Lessard's adultery was a tall, bonethin, model-like woman wearing an unbecoming brown shift dress. She had dirty-looking blonde hair that hung straight to her square shoulders. Her face was dominated by prominent cheekbones and a pointed chin. It was a prowling, watchful sort of face, with a too-wide mouth and eyes of pale blue that were set too far apart.

But as she strode over to a chair and sat down and crossed her legs—she had very good legs, Corrigan observed—and began to swing one long, narrow, sandaled foot, she drew every male eye in the office. She was one of those rare women, he decided, who managed to make the least of herself and yet conveyed sex in every part and movement. He was willing to bet that she had a habit of licking her lips. Yes, there it was—a flick of a pointed tongue, sheer lechery.

The man with her was a gross hulk with restless little eyes and a pendulous mouth whose corners were bitterly quirked.

Corrigan gave his name to the secretary. He could feel Frances Weatherly's stare burning into his back—the interloper who had forced the postponement of her appointment.

“Captain Corrigan?” said the girl behind the small desk as he entered the inner office. He carefully shut the door behind him.

“How do you do,” Corrigan said. She indicated a chair. As he went to it he looked her over.

Neither she nor her office was quite what he had expected. He had anticipated a Hollywood set, a sort of Joan Crawford or Rosalind Russell kind of businesswoman's background, with dramatic drapes, the last word in Scandinavian-modern furniture, and two-inch-thick carpeting. Instead, it was an almost plain office, its furniture showed signs of wear and tear from a long life and hard use, and there were threadbare patches on the rug. Whatever else the Fielding enterprises went in for, it was certainly not swank.

The girl was young, much younger than he had anticipated. She was lovely in a pixie way, with a mouth ready for humor and a perky little nose. Her eyes were hazel under long, smoky lashes. Her hairdo was unaffected. She wore an oxford gray, two-piece knit outfit.

She was as surprised by him as he was by her. She had apparently expected a clumsy-footed cop with a 44-inch waistline and a big fanny. He was amused that she tried not to let her pleasant disappointment show. When she spoke again it was in her most businesslike tone.

“You mentioned Bianca Lessard on the phone, Captain.” If his eye-patch startled her, she concealed it effortlessly. That's one for you, Corrigan thought.

“We need some information about her.”

“Of course I'll help in any way I can.”

“Have you known her long?”

“Only since she came back from Europe almost a year ago,” Jean said. “Her family had been killed in a private plane crash. Her father was piloting—”

“I know all about that, Miss Ainsley. I understand she got through the funeral all right, then had a breakdown.”

“It depends on what you mean by breakdown,” Jean said. “She didn't go off her rocker, or anything like that. She simply folded, and went away for a rest.”

“How long had you been with the firm at that time?”

“About four years,” Jean said, frowning at him. “I came from California. Making this connection was very fortunate for me. Although it's true I've known nothing but theaters and theatrical people all my life.”

Corrigan said, “Ainsley. Are you related to Carlton Ainssley?”

“He's my father.”

“I remember his pictures well. He was always the suave Continental, or the rich man who never got the girl.”

A faint irritation came into her voice. “Dad was a better actor than the cut-and-dried, two-dimensional type character you saw on the screen. But we were talking about Bianca, Captain Corrigan.”

“Did she have many friends?”

She seemed to hesitate. “I hate gossiping.…”

“If there's any truth in it, I want to hear it.”

“I've seen and heard only hints, nothing I can prove.…”

“But they've given you an opinion. What is it?”

She made a vague gesture. “I don't think he wants her to have friends.”

“By ‘he' you mean her husband?”

Jean nodded. “Vincent would like people to believe she's still not well. It would be convenient for him if she became a nervous wreck. I know that's an awful thing to say about anybody—”

“Do you believe it's true, Miss Ainsley?”

“It's only my opinion, Captain, but I think Mrs. Lessard is getting back on the track more and more each day. Her outlook is steadying, her judgment and assessment of people, places, and events around her.”

“I gather that you don't like Vincent Lessard.”

“Really, Captain, don't ask me to discuss things like that. I've said too much already.”

“You've answered me,” said Corrigan, smiling. “When did you last see Bianca Lessard?”

“A week ago, I think. Funny, she failed to keep a luncheon appointment with me. She was beginning to show a healthy interest in the Fielding enterprises, and it was my impression she wanted my advice as to how she could take a more active part. But for some reason she didn't keep our date.”

“Did she phone you?”

“No, Vincent did. He said they'd had a tiff the previous evening and if Bianca showed up for lunch would I please phone him. When she didn't appear, I called him, and he said she must have forgotten—in her ‘state of mind,' as he put it—and for me to forget it, too.” She gave Corrigan a sudden penetrating look. “Where is Bianca, Mr. Corrigan?”

“Then you don't know?” Corrigan said, watching her.

“No, but a child could tell that something's happened,” Jean burst out. “First, Vincent's request to phone him immediately if I heard anything from Bianca. Next, inquiries by a mysterious man named Chuck Baer. Finally, you. Captain, I admire and respect Bianca and consider her my friend. She had the guts to face her tragedy and do what had to be done. She's a fine and sensitive person, and I know something's happened to her, and I think you're being cruel playing cat and mouse with me!”

So Corrigan, who was a working cop, said cruelly, “There's the body of a woman believed to have been in her mid-twenties in the city morgue. We have reason to think that it may be Bianca Fielding Lessard's.”

He kept watching her. It had come as a blow to her, all right. She actually went white. That was what shock did, and it took an almightly able actor to simulate it.

He half got out of his chair. But she shook her head at him. “I'll be all right. Just give me a second.”

Corrigan studied her fight for calm. Her breathing evened gradually. Some color came back to her face. If it was an act, she deserved an Academy Award.

“May be Bianca?” she echoed. “How is it you're not sure?”

“I don't think,” said Corrigan, “you'd care for the details.”

“Oh,” she said faintly, and the color receded.

“The point is, so far we've not been able to come up with a physical identification, Miss Ainsley, because of the condition of the body.”

“Then what made you think it was Bianca's?”

“The woman was wearing an unusual silver ring. Her husband says the ring was his wife's.”

“I know the ring. A Mayan motif. But if she was wearing it, it must be … Bianca.”

“It would seem so. On the other hand, it's hardly conclusive as an ID. I mean, there's no question that it's Mrs. Lessard's ring—”

“What you mean is that the ring might have been lost or stolen and turned up on someone else's finger.”