Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery (26 page)

He lurches into the kitchen leaving me to stare
through the glass table at Larry. The least I can do is get
something to cover his face.

When I enter the kitchen it’s empty, but
Kingsley-Smythe’s voice draws me to the top of the basement stairs.
“Don’t even consider that as an option, dear boy. We still have the
address book and we have a way out of the country. Once we’re in
South America, Sigrid Hale can take over. Then when I pass on,
you’ll be well set up. A brand-new life with a brand-new
woman.”

I grab a clean dish towel, hurry back to the dining
room and cover Larry’s tortured face. He might have died instantly,
but the pain from that instant is still etched in his stare.

The muted sound of the doorbell brings footsteps
from below and Kingsley-Smythe appears. “They mustn’t see you.
Upstairs, please.”

I take the steps up to the third floor two at a time
and peer through the louvers.

Since Cliff and I returned from the bank, a dusting
of snow has fallen to cover the once-sooty sludge piled on the
sidewalks by the snowplows. Though hardly a blizzard, the effect
resembles a miniature fairyland in strange contrast to what just
happened in the dining room.

I watch as two men in white uniforms with
“Hermann’s” embroidered on the back emerge with the rolled-up
dining room rug slung across their shoulders and descend the front
steps.

They cross the street, heave the rug into the rear
of a white van with “Hermann’s Oriental Rugs” stenciled on the side
and slam the double doors. Then the truck slowly moves away from
the curb.

THE SOUND IS MUFFLED, but I know a gunshot when I
hear one. I hurry down the two flights and through the living and
now rug-bare dining room and stop in front of the door to the
stairs below.

“Cliff? Are you okay?”

His reply is a strangled “I need help.”

Kingsley-Smythe is sprawled on the floor facedown,
his right hand beneath his body. There’s a hole in his sweater
weeping blood.

“Oh, my God, what happened?”

Cliff is kneeling, his hand on Kingsley-Smythe’s
carotid artery. “He’s alive.”

“Did you shoot him?”

He shakes his head. “It was an accident. I mean, he
was trying to stop me.”

“Stop you?”

Cliff leans back on his haunches as his eyes fill,
and he shakes his head. “I loved Caro. We were going to get
married. Go to Colombia. Start a new life together. That bastard
deserved to die. Now, my only options are prison or wasting away in
some Colombian jungle until the old man dies. What kind of
existence is that?”

Realizing he’s going to be no help, I take over. “We
can talk about that later. Roll Kingsley-Smythe on his back.”

By the time Cliff does, I’ve joined him to see that
the bullet entered near the collarbone and exited without doing
much damage. “Looks like a clean shot, but we better get him on the
bed.” Between the two of us we struggle Kingsley-Smythe off the
floor and onto the bed.

I turn to Cliff. “He’s losing blood fast. You’ve got
to go for help.”

“But I can’t get just anybody. Can you imagine what
will happen when they discover Jason Lodge Kingsley-Smythe faked
his death? To his family and his friends he died of a massive
coronary. There was a huge memorial service. Remember?”

“I don’t care. He’s alive, and we have to save
him.”

Cliff grabs the Luger off the floor and pockets it.
“He wouldn’t want that.”

“I don’t care what he wants. This man is your
mentor. Without him, you’d be nowhere. Besides that, he just saved
your stupid life. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I’d call Larry if he was alive, but he’s not. We
were the only people who knew the truth except—” His eyes light up.
“I just remembered. There is someone. You watch Kingsley-Smythe.
I’ll be back.”

————

After Cliff goes upstairs, I drag one of the
ice-cream parlor chairs over to the side of the bed and minister to
Kingsley-Smythe.

The wound doesn’t look good, but I’m able to stanch
the flow of blood by compressing a folded pillowcase against his
chest with my hand.

After a few minutes Kingsley-Smythe rouses.

I release the pressure and lift the ersatz bandage
to see that the wound is oozing only a little.

Somewhere from the vast pool of trivia stored at the
back of my mind a factoid floats up. It’s important to hydrate a
person who’s lost blood. The poor man must be parched.

I open the small refrigerator to find it well
stocked with small bottles of Evian and soft drinks.

Kingsley-Smythe downs the first bottle then motions
for a second and drains that. “Much better. Much better.”

He may think he’s better, but his voice is plenty
thready. He grabs my hand. “You must go. Now.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not leaving you like this. Save
your strength. Cliff ’s gone for help.”

“No. No help. To the rest of the world I’m
officially dead. No point in dredging up another tragedy for my
family to bear. Better to let me bleed out. It’s not a painful
death.” “You’re not going to die if I can help it.”

He squeezes my hand and I’m surprised how much
strength he has. “You must press evenly against the door—”

He loses consciousness for a few seconds then
revives. “You’ll feel the release give and a click. It’s then that
you must push harder. But not before you hear the click.”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the info, but I’m not
going anyplace.”

His eyes flutter shut and he takes a few breaths
before he says, “When you get out, you must not come back. Promise
me you won’t come back.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

“But I want you to know something.”

No sound of footsteps from above. Cliff is taking
his own sweet time. “Don’t talk. Try to rest.”

“But I must make you understand why I wanted an heir
and thought perhaps I could persuade you to go along with my
project.”

I perk up at those words. It’s the first sane
sentence I’ve heard out of his mouth in quite a while.

Kingsley-Smythe’s story pretty much follows what
Mindy dug up except for one interesting addition: The eye-opener
comes after Kingsley-Smythe tells me about the brother and
sister—how cold the boy was—how loving the girl.

Then he looks away. “Through the years it became my
habit to stop by our adopted daughter’s room for a goodnight kiss.
Over those years she grew from a pretty little girl into a lovely
teen. One evening I must have had too much port with my cigar
because my kiss was not a fatherly one.

“When she accepted my apology and said she forgave
me, I never darkened her bedroom door again.”

He heaves his chest. “But when her brother came home
from college for Thanksgiving, she told him of the incident. He
immediately went to Georgina, who sent both of them to stay with a
relative. I haven’t seen them since.

“I gave up having heirs even though I knew the
Kingsley-Smythe stock would die with me.” He pats my hand. “Then I
saw you. So beautiful. And I liked your independent streak. Liked
your brains. And I thought, why not another generation? That’s when
I started my plan.”

He gives me a sad smile. “Of course, Larry was right
as rain. He always was. Please—tell me you understand.”

Tears push at the back of my eyes. The poor man has
no one. And there is the sad but undeniable fact: Jason Lodge
Kingsley-Smythe is officially “dead.”

THOUGH SOME COLOR has returned to his face,
Kingsley-Smythe keeps fading in and out of consciousness.

I look for his pulse. The beat is strong and
regular, the bleeding is minimal.

It’s then I remember the address book. Without that
book, the drug connection will die. No money, no drugs. No drugs,
no money.

I think back to the moments before Cliff shot Larry.
Larry hands the book to Kingsley-Smythe, who pockets it. I look
down at his right pocket. If the book is there—

Though Kingsley-Smythe appears to be unconscious, I
don’t take any chances. I lean and place my left hand on his wound,
hopefully blocking his sight line while I slide my right hand into
his right pocket.

I suppress a small squeak of triumph. It’s there.
Now, all I have to do is get it out before Kingsley-Smythe revives
or Cliff reappears.

I’m finally able to slide the address book from his
pocket, place it in mine and ease the bogus book in the original’s
place.

I settle back and try for a few deep breaths but the
room seems stuffy—almost airless. I need a shot of oxygen.

What did Kingsley-Smythe say? Something about
pressing against it. That the release gives with a click.

I take the few steps to the back door and use both
hands. I hear a click. When I press again, the door springs into me
with such force that I have to leap out of the way.

————

I step onto the covered back porch to see the snow
is now coming in big, fat flakes that mute the usual city buzz. No
construction noise. No chattering jackhammers. Even the screeching
horns seem remote. Guess they were right about that blizzard.

Against a darkening sky and pushed by a gentle
breeze, the heavy snow swirls across the porch above to land on the
circular stairway or settle gently to the ground. It’s peaceful—too
peaceful.

I take a couple of deep breaths, do a few stretches
and start to go back in when I hear footsteps coming down the side
path.

Grateful that Mindy loaned me her .38, I ease it out
of my waistband, slip off the safety and step into the shadows.

When I see that familiar silhouette, my first
reaction is anger. “What in hell are you doing here?”

Bill closes the gap between us and tries to take me
in his arms. “Thank God, you’re all right.”

I duck and step away. “No thanks to you. It’s been
five damn days since you told me not to do anything until I heard
from you. Good thing I’m not much on orders.”

He places his fingers beneath my chin and raises my
mouth to his. There’s always been that electric charge between us.
It thrives despite all I have learned about this man. It thrives
even though there’s so much I still don’t know.

When we break I ask, “What about
Kingsley-Smythe?”

His reaction isn’t what I expect. He’s not at all
surprised by my question, or if he is, he’s a good bluffer. “What
about him?”

Then it dawns. Bill knows everything. He’s known all
along. He’s the one Cliff called.

“How long have you known that your uncle was Sigrid
Hale?” “What difference does that make?”

“This is really important, Bill. Important to what
happens next between us—if anything. So please, don’t answer my
questions with questions.”

He pulls me to him and murmurs, “Why do you always
have to complicate things?”

“Asking you to tell me the truth isn’t complicated.
I need to know.”

I hear his answer resonate against my ear. “Briefly,
because we don’t have much time, when the DEA discovered Uncle
Jason’s role in the operation at The Castle, they pulled me up
here. To them it was the perfect solution—to me it was hell. In
retrospect, I don’t think the old man knew exactly what the setup
out there really was. I think his ‘death’ gave him a way out of the
situation, but I’m not sure why he planned it.”

“What about Sigrid Hale?”

He shakes his head. “There’s a plane waiting to take
Uncle Jason and Cliff out of the country. At least I was able to
arrange that.

“I owe the old man big-time. He literally
strong-armed me into Yale. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be
standing here.” Bill looks into my eyes. “That’s why I’m asking you
to withhold this information. What would be the point in telling
anyone about the true identity of Sigrid Hale? After today, she’ll
no longer exist.”

“Maybe it’s okay for you. You represent your uncle
and Cliff. But the only reason I went back in the townhouse was to
find out exactly who Sigrid Hale was.”

“So you found out. It’s not like you’re a reporter
on a hot lead.”

“True, but I’m an officer of the court, or at least
I once was, and perjury carries a pretty stiff penalty.”

“If you don’t tell, you won’t be lying.” He plants a
soft kiss on my forehead then heads inside to the bedroom. “At
least think about it, will you?”

KINGSLEY-SMYTHE’S FACE is a sickening gray and
there’s a line of sweat coating his upper lip.

I look at Bill, shake my head and slowly lift the
sweater. The man’s shirt is soaked with blood. “He must have tried
to get up. Maybe he heard us talking.”

Footsteps descend the stairs. It’s Cliff carrying
two small suitcases, a turban and those awful pixie glasses.

When Bill starts for the bed, I grab his arm. “You
can’t move him now. If you do, he’ll bleed to death.”

Bill shakes me off. “If we don’t get him out of here
now, he’ll be discovered. And if he’s discovered, we all go
down.”

All go down? What does he mean? I pat my pocket,
where the address book is safely stored. If I have anything to say
about it, no one is going to get into those Swiss bank accounts
except Greene or Jaime and whoever they want to contact.

Bill places the turban and glasses on
Kingsley-Smythe, then says, “Put your arm around my neck, Uncle
Jason.”

“I can’t, dear boy. I’m too weak. Leave me here. Let
me go.” “You know I can’t do that, sir. We have a deal. We have to
do our part or the government won’t do theirs.”

Bill motions for Cliff to take Kingsley-Smythe’s
other side and, between the two, they get him started for the
door.

I stand there, not exactly sure what to do, when
Cliff points to the suitcases and motions me to follow.

Once we reach the end of the path they muscle
Kingsley-Smythe to the rear of a waiting van.

It’s then I notice the sign on the side. “Hermann’s
Oriental Rugs.”