Read Online Scent of Evil by Archer Mayor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Archer Mayor
Tags: USA
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asked, “Charlie, I can’t find one of my white blouses. Do you still have it? Call me before Thursday.”
I pursed my lips. Why was it friends never identified themselves on the phone? Gail never did either. I was used to it now, of course, but at first it had thrown me for a loop, forcing my brain to scramble through its entire voice catalog in a desperate search for the right one, all while I tried to converse with utter self-confidence.
The machine spoke again—another female voice, hesitant, soft, almost fearful. “Charlie? I was wondering… I’d like to… Call me, okay?”
A beep again and I heard the muted “shit” that had caught my attention to begin with. I thought for a moment, still looking at the machine, and then reached for the telephone book nearby. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“ABC Investments.”
“Hi. Is Mr. Jardine there?”
“The office is closed, sir. This is an answering service. May I take a message?”
“Oh, sure. Actually, it would be for his partner.” I paused.
“Mr. Clyde.”
I quickly flipped to the front of the phone book, talking while I did so. “Yeah, that’s it—he’s the one I really want to chat with.” I found the listing. “Mr. Arthur Clyde.”
The voice on the other end took on a slight edge. “That’s what I said, sir, Mr. Clyde. What’s the message?”
“I changed my mind—it’s a little delicate. I think I’ll wait until I see—” But the line had gone dead.
I smiled to myself and dialed again. A man answered—I could tell I’d woken him up. I altered my voice. “Is this Arthur Clyde, of ABC Investments?”
“Yes.” His tone became slightly wary.
“You around tomorrow? I was wondering if I could come by to discuss some investments I’d like to make.”
The wariness yielded to controlled irritation. “I’m around, but I’d prefer that you called my secretary tomorrow at the office. She’ll set up an appointment. Good night.”
I hung up. Not knowing anything about Clyde or ABC, or even much about Jardine, I didn’t want things to move too quickly. I wanted to learn what I could from Jardine’s records before telling Clyde of his partner’s death, and I knew that task might take me a good part of the night. The phone call had told me I had the right man, and that he’d be available in the morning. I turned to the sound of Ron Klesczewski coming into the office.
“Finding much?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’d say the guy was a monk if it weren’t for all the women on his answering machine. I’ve seen two-year-olds with more material possessions.”
Klesczewski gave an uncharacteristic smirk. “He was no two-year-old, and I think his interests were way outside religion.”
He crooked a finger at me and led the way upstairs. Given the layout of the house on the ground floor, I expected a conventional equivalent above. I was dead wrong. The entire second floor consisted of two enormous rooms—a bedroom and a bathroom, both of which had cathedral ceilings going right up to the apex of the roof.
The contrast didn’t stop there. The rooms were not only disproportionately large, they were also as gaudily furnished as the downstairs was staid. The bed was circular, huge, and covered with a fake-fur coverlet and black satin sheets. It was a four-poster, but instead of supporting the traditional fabric canopy, the posts carried a round mirror reflecting back down on the bed.
There was also a fireplace—gas-fired for intimacy at the twist of a wrist and flanked by mirrored panels—and before it was an eight-foot-square fur rug with pillows. One wall had an elaborate stereo and TV system, controlled by a couple of remote units I saw parked on the half-round headboard of the bed, next to copies of The Joy of Sex and The Sensual Massage . The lighting was dim and indirect, as if designed for some Hollywood seduction scene. The walls were painted a dark, sensuous red.
The bathroom was similarly excessive, with thick
I pursed my lips. Why was it friends never identified themselves on the phone? Gail never did either. I was used to it now, of course, but at first it had thrown me for a loop, forcing my brain to scramble through its entire voice catalog in a desperate search for the right one, all while I tried to converse with utter self-confidence.
The machine spoke again—another female voice, hesitant, soft, almost fearful. “Charlie? I was wondering… I’d like to… Call me, okay?”
A beep again and I heard the muted “shit” that had caught my attention to begin with. I thought for a moment, still looking at the machine, and then reached for the telephone book nearby. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“ABC Investments.”
“Hi. Is Mr. Jardine there?”
“The office is closed, sir. This is an answering service. May I take a message?”
“Oh, sure. Actually, it would be for his partner.” I paused.
“Mr. Clyde.”
I quickly flipped to the front of the phone book, talking while I did so. “Yeah, that’s it—he’s the one I really want to chat with.” I found the listing. “Mr. Arthur Clyde.”
The voice on the other end took on a slight edge. “That’s what I said, sir, Mr. Clyde. What’s the message?”
“I changed my mind—it’s a little delicate. I think I’ll wait until I see—” But the line had gone dead.
I smiled to myself and dialed again. A man answered—I could tell I’d woken him up. I altered my voice. “Is this Arthur Clyde, of ABC Investments?”
“Yes.” His tone became slightly wary.
“You around tomorrow? I was wondering if I could come by to discuss some investments I’d like to make.”
The wariness yielded to controlled irritation. “I’m around, but I’d prefer that you called my secretary tomorrow at the office. She’ll set up an appointment. Good night.”
I hung up. Not knowing anything about Clyde or ABC, or even much about Jardine, I didn’t want things to move too quickly. I wanted to learn what I could from Jardine’s records before telling Clyde of his partner’s death, and I knew that task might take me a good part of the night. The phone call had told me I had the right man, and that he’d be available in the morning. I turned to the sound of Ron Klesczewski coming into the office.
“Finding much?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’d say the guy was a monk if it weren’t for all the women on his answering machine. I’ve seen two-year-olds with more material possessions.”
Klesczewski gave an uncharacteristic smirk. “He was no two-year-old, and I think his interests were way outside religion.”
He crooked a finger at me and led the way upstairs. Given the layout of the house on the ground floor, I expected a conventional equivalent above. I was dead wrong. The entire second floor consisted of two enormous rooms—a bedroom and a bathroom, both of which had cathedral ceilings going right up to the apex of the roof.
The contrast didn’t stop there. The rooms were not only disproportionately large, they were also as gaudily furnished as the downstairs was staid. The bed was circular, huge, and covered with a fake-fur coverlet and black satin sheets. It was a four-poster, but instead of supporting the traditional fabric canopy, the posts carried a round mirror reflecting back down on the bed.
There was also a fireplace—gas-fired for intimacy at the twist of a wrist and flanked by mirrored panels—and before it was an eight-foot-square fur rug with pillows. One wall had an elaborate stereo and TV system, controlled by a couple of remote units I saw parked on the half-round headboard of the bed, next to copies of The Joy of Sex and The Sensual Massage . The lighting was dim and indirect, as if designed for some Hollywood seduction scene. The walls were painted a dark, sensuous red.
The bathroom was similarly excessive, with thick
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