Where Is Bianca? (5 page)

Corrigan smiled at her. “You're quick, Miss Ainsley. That's just what I mean.”

“Poor, poor woman.” The girl's voice was quiet; she was making no production of her anxiety. Or was it possible she was thinking of the mutilated nobody on the slab—who in same way or other had got hold of Bianca Lessard's Mayan ring and so involved herself in the other woman's life? (Or death?)

“Miss Ainsley,” Corrigan asked, “can you think of any detail of identification, however insignificant-seeming, that might help us?”

“I can't recall a single blemish on Bianca,” Jean said, shaking her head. “But then, of course, I never saw her nude.” This time she colored slightly. “But Vincent—”

“He couldn't help us.”

She was silent. Corrigan wondered what this clear-eyed girl was thinking. Finally he said, “I suppose your work here will be complicated by Mrs. Lessard's disappearance.”

“Not any,” the girl said dryly. “Vincent spared Bianca the irksome business details. It seems she wasn't up to handling them, according to him. In fact, he got her to assign him a full power of attorney right after the honeymoon. He's a very considerate man.”

Corrigan received the news without expression. But it jolted him. He had been operating on the theory that Lessard was behind the disappearance of Bianca Fielding. But if he had her power of attorney, the theory weakened. Unless, of course, as she pulled herself out of her disturbed state she had come to see him for what he was, and had threatened to rescind his legal authority over the business, or was actually about to do so.

Corrigan rose. “I won't take up any more of your time, Miss Ainsley. You've been very helpful.”

“I don't see how.”

He smiled down at her. “You wouldn't want me to reveal all my girlish secrets, would you? Thanks again. I assume you won't mind my calling on you further, if it becomes necessary?”

“Mind! Of course not, Captain.” She was on her feet; too. “Any hour of the day or night.”

She put out her hand, and Corrigan took it. It felt warm and eager, like a puppy, in his paw. He left with reluctance. Quite a girl, he thought. He hadn't been so taken with a female for a long, long time.

On his way through the reception room Frances Weatherly gave him another dark look. He ignored her. Her time would come.

In the elevator Corrigan's thoughts turned from Jean Ainsley to her father … Carlton Ainsley. Some sort of criminal action. Hadn't he done time in California? Corrigan made a mental note to look it up.

In the lobby of the building, Corrigan sought out a phone booth, called headquarters, and requested a report from the West Coast.

California's reply was brought to his desk shortly after he got back to his office.

Name of Subject
: Carlton Ainsley.

Subjects Address at Time of Arrest
: 1102 Willowshaven Drive, Woodland Hills, California.

Subject's Occupation
: Actor.

Charge
: Grand Larceny, Conspiracy. (Latter charge dropped.)

Arresting Officers
: Dennison Coles, Sergeant, and Howard B. Blalock, Detective First Grade.

Presiding Judge
: Lamont Hathway Tillison, Circuit Judge, Los Angeles County.

Verdict
: Guilty.

Sentence
: 7 to 10. Reduced to 5 yrs., good behavior.

Version of Crime
: Subject conspired with one Lawrence Robertson to raise funds for the alleged purpose of forming a production company which would produce motion pictures for commercial exhibition, subject to star in said productions.

Subject used his name and reputation in the motion picture industry to influence friends and the general public to invest in the scheme. Subject caused to be prepared brochures and statements to the press as to prospects for securing production facilities, such as sound stages, technical crews, etc., and facilities for release of completed motion pictures.

As a direct result of his efforts, subject caused the investment of $183,000 in the venture. Suspicions were aroused when an investor, unable to locate Lawrence Robertson, learned that Robertson had disappeared from California. Warrants were subsequently issued on two counts. Subject was charged with Grand Larceny and a Conspiracy whereby one conspirator, Lawrence Robertson, would clandestinely remove funds from the United States and rendezvous with subject later for a division of said funds.

At his trial, subject claimed that he had been used as a dupe by Lawrence Robertson. But no gounds for rescinding his legal liability were found.

A year after subject's sentence to San Quentin, the body of an American, certified as dead from a heart attack, was found in Cuernavaca, Mexico. The dead man's fingerprints were subsequently identified as Lawrence Robertson's. The missing funds have not been located as of this date.

Upon his release from San Quentin, subject was met by his daughter, Jean Ainsley. She informed authorities that she was taking her father to New York City, where she had found employment, in order to afford subject a fresh start.

Our records show no further criminal activity on part of subject. Our last information was to effect that he was still residing in New York City.

Fingerprint classification follows. Advise if further information needed.

Corrigan dropped the report on his desk and sat thinking. Jean Ainsley loomed larger in his thoughts than the actor. Corrigan imagined how she must have felt, leaving California when her father was imprisoned. When she joined Fielding Realty, her job had been more than just a job. It had been a safety valve, a means of escape. No wonder her rise in the company had been so spectacular. Now, years later, she had brought her father to New York, constituting herself his backstop, his picker-upper. Remembering those hazel eyes, that warm little hand, Corrigan could not think of Carlton Ainsley with sympathy. He felt irritated by his own lack of objectivity, and welcomed the tinkle of his phone.

“Corrigan.”

“Doctor Samuelson, Tim. I've got some prelim stuff on the Jane Doe that was picked up wearing the Mayan ring.”

Corrigan pricked up his ears. “Yes, Doc?”

“First, the conclusion arising from the circumstances in which the body was found holds true. She was dead before she was dropped in the sewer. Second, Tim, she was drowned.”

“
Drowned?
”

“No question about it. But not in the place where she was found. Get the picture. When the sewer man went underground, he discovered her remains slumped against the curved wall of the concrete drain, crumpled backward. The feet and the lower part of the legs were in shallow water. Her head and torso were clear.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Positive. Of course, you could argue that somebody opened the manhole, carried her down while she was still alive, drowned her, then arranged her body in the position in which it was found. But that would be pretty far out, Tim.”

“It certainly would. Drowned.…”

“She was drowned somewhere else, then carried to the manhole and dropped in the sewer in an effort at disposal. If she'd been dropped in a main line, the rush of water would eventually have carried her all the way to the East River.”

“It would have to have been done at night,” Corrigan said thoughtfully. “A man couldn't go walking about Manhattan in the daytime with a body across his shoulder, find a likely manhole, and stop traffic until he'd disposed of his burden.”

“Man, or a strong woman,” Dr. Samuelson said.

“When did all this happen, Doc?”

“Eighty or ninety hours ago. Can't pinpoint the hour after so long a time. By the way, it's my educated guess that the body was disposed of while it was still warm, before rigor mortis set in.”

“Sounds to me like a bathtub job.”

“Me too. If she'd drowned in the river, it would have been easier to sink her body with weights than haul her over to a sewer. Just for ducks, though, I'm going to do a complete analysis of sections of her lung tissue. Meanwhile—I hope you're up to another unpleasant surprise, Tim—the dead girl may not be Bianca Fielding Lessard after all.”

Here we go, Corrigan thought.

“I've got an old biddy over here name of Anna Gavin,” Doc Samuelson said. “She says the dead girl is her daughter Nancy.”

5

Samuelson entered his office a few minutes after Corrigan got there. The pathologist wore a green surgical smock and skullcap, a surgical mask dangling. He was flexing his fingers as if he had just stripped off a pair of rubber gloves.

He chose a cigar from the humidor on his cluttered desk, lit it, puffed with enjoyment, and asked, “Know anything about Anna Gavin, Tim?”

“I remember that years ago there was an avant-garde poetess by that name.”

“Ever read any of her so-called poetry?”

“I'll have to confess to a flaw in my cultural background,” Corrigan said.

Samuelson grinned. “You didn't miss anything. Her crazy poems were never taken seriously by anybody except herself. Her philosophy of life seemed to be that death was the only true beauty, or some such garbage. According to her, everybody ought to go out in one grand explosion of riotous living.”

“Sounds like just another kook,” Corrigan said. “I suppose she practiced what she preached, with the poetry her excuse.”

“Yes, but she loused up her act. She didn't go out in a burst of glory, she fizzled like a paper match on 57th Street and Broadway. So, Timmy boy, be prepared.”

Samuelson led the way to a dim and dusty anteroom he used for storage. “She refused to wait in my office,” he explained. “It seems sunshine is a dirty word, or hurts her eyes, or something.”

Corrigan had to peer in the dimness of the storage room. He saw what looked like a bundle of twigs wrapped in rags, but it turned out to be a tiny withered old woman sitting on the edge of a broken office chair.

“Miss Gavin,” Dr. Samuelson said, “this is Captain Corrigan. I was telling you about him, remember?”

She peered up at Corrigan with weak, watery eyes which she brushed at continually with the bleached knuckles of her right claw. The filthy cotton dress she wore was too big for her; it was held together with rusty safety pins. Her face, probably dainty once, had so shriveled and shrunk that Corrigan was reminded of the prized possession of a headhunter. It was topped with a tangle of wiry gray hair. The whole incredible creature was surrounded by the smell of stale wine and neglected old age.

A wavering glint came into the aqueous eyes. “Oh, yes, I remember. He's the one who'll find out what happened to my Nancy.” Her voice was like the squeaking of mice.

“Yes, Miss Gavin. And you've got to tell him everything you can remember about Nancy.”

“She was my daughter.” The old woman squinted up at Corrigan uncertainly. “I never was sure who her father was. Not that it mattered. Marriage is a trap designed to stifle the spirit. I wrote a lovely poem about it. If I could recall the opening line, I'd recite the poem to you. Oh, damn, I can't.”

“Why don't we save it for later?” Samuelson said gently. “Right now, tell us about Nancy.”

“What's there to tell? She was a sickly kid, a brat. Always underfoot, always needing attention. People used to stick their noses in and tell me to my face I was a lousy mother. Who asked to be a mother?”

Anna Gavin traced the faded pattern of her dress with a a skeleton's fingertip. “I don't feel well,” she whined. “I need a drink. Just a little pick-me-up to settle my stomach. What do you say, Doc?”

“I'm sorry,” Doc said, “we don't have any. But we won't keep you long. Just until you've told us all about Nancy.”

“She ran off, is what she did. When she got big enough she threw things at me. Stole money from me. Then she started taking up with men. One night she cursed me and went away.”

“What night was that?” Corrigan asked.

The old woman looked at him blankly.

“I'm Corrigan,” he reminded her. “You were about to tell us when Nancy left you.”

“A long time ago.”

“How long? One year? Five? Ten?”

“Maybe ten.” Anna made an I-don't-care gesture with her hand. “She was fifteen. That's right, the man was three times her age. Forty-five. Ten years ago. Yes, ten. I remember now.”

“And you haven't seen her since?”

“No. Nancy is dead. I know she's dead. I've written a poem about it.” She fumbled over her person, then shook her head. “I think I wrote it I intended to write it. Had the opening couplet all worked out in my mind. Can't remember.…”

“Do you know how—in what manner—she died?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know she's dead?”

“You bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. Her shriveled face lit up like a torch. “Calling Anna Gavin a liar!
Bastard!
”

“Miss Gavin,” Corrigan began.

“You're common, filthy fuzz! That's what you are! Police brutality! You hit old women over the head with saps! You run your horses into innocent people!” Her invective turned scatological. Corrigan patiently heard her out. Finally, she jumped out of the broken chair. “I'm Anna
Gavin
. People come to sit at my feet and listen. They're giving me a party!”

She sprang to the doorway, rage putting strength into her knees and straightening her spine. There she paused. She began to cry like a child. But then she stopped and struggled to focus on Corrigan.

“The party,” she whimpered. “It isn't tonight?”

“No,” Corrigan said. “The party was a long time ago.”

She sucked in her lips, pushed them out peevishly. “What the hell. I'll go find a drink.”

“Good idea,” Corrigan said. “May I go with you?” He nodded at Samuelson and took her arm; it felt like a bird's leg. “We'll talk some more about Nancy, shall we?”