The Tomb

  With the utmost reluctance, he handed the ruby back to MacDougal. He would play for bigger stakes. And to do so he had to appear completely unconcerned about money.

  “I guess no harm has been done. Sell that for what you can and divide it up between the men. And divide it equally, hear?”

  MacDougal appeared about to faint with surprise and relief, but he managed a sharp salute.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Westphalen tossed the Enfield back at him and walked away, knowing that in MacDougal’s eyes he was the fairest, most generous commanding officer he had ever known. Westphalen wanted the enlisted man to feel that way. He had use for MacDougal, and for any other soldier who had been in Bharangpur for a few years.

  Captain Sir Albert Westphalen had decided to find this Temple-in-the-Hills. It might well hold the answer to all his financial problems.

  THREE

  Manhattan

  Friday

  1

  Jack awoke shortly before ten feeling exhausted.

  He’d come home jubilant after last night’s success, but the glow had quickly faded. The apartment had had that empty feel to it. Worse: He felt empty. He’d quickly downed two beers, hid the second half of his fee behind the cedar plank, then crawled into bed.

  After a couple of hours of sleep, however, he’d found himself wide awake for no good reason. An hour of twisting around in his sheets did no good, so he gave up and watched the end of Bride of Frankenstein. As the dinky little Universal plane went around the world and said “The End,” he’d dozed off again for another couple of hours of fitful slumber.

  He now pushed himself out of bed and took a wake-up shower. For breakfast he finished off the Cocoa Puffs and started on a box of Sugar Pops. As he shaved he saw that the thermometer outside his bedroom window read 89 degrees—in the shade. He dressed accordingly in slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, then sat by the phone. He had two calls to make: one to Gia, and one to the hospital. He decided to save Gia for last.

  The hospital switchboard told him that the phone had been disconnected in the room number he gave them; no Mrs. Bahkti listed as a patient. His heart sank. Damn! Even though he’d spoken to the old lady for only a few minutes, the news of her passing hurt. So senseless. At least he’d been able to get the necklace back to her before she packed it in. He told the operator to connect him with the nursing desk on the old lady’s floor. Soon he was talking to Marta.

  “When did Mrs. Bahkti die?”

  “Far as I know, she didn’t.”

  A flash of hope: “Transferred to another floor?”

  “No. It happened during the change of shift. The grandson and granddaughter.”

  “Granddaughter?”

  “You wouldn’t like her, Jack—she’s not a blonde. Anyway, they came to the desk at shift change this morning while we were all taking report and thanked us for the concern we’d shown their grandmother. Said they’d take care of her from now on. Then they walked out. When we went to check on her, she was gone.”

  Jack pulled the receiver away from his ear and scowled at it before replying.

  “How’d they get her out? She sure as hell couldn’t walk.”

  He could almost feel Marta shrug at the other end of the line. “Beats me. But they tell me the guy with one arm was acting real strange toward the end of the shift, wouldn’t let anyone in to see her for the last few hours.”

  “Why’d they let him get away with that?” For no good reason, Jack was angry, feeling like a protective relative. “That old lady needed all the help she could get. You can’t let someone interfere like that, even if he is the grandson. You should have called security and had them—”

  “Cool it, Jack,” Marta said with an authoritative snap to her tone. “I wasn’t here then.”

  “Yeah. Right. Sorry. It’s just that—”

  “Besides, from what they tell me, this place was a zoo last night after a patient on Five North climbed out a window. Security was all tied up over there. Really weird. This guy with casts on both hands breaks through his room window and somehow gets down the wall and runs away.”

  Jack felt his spine stiffen. “Casts? On both hands?”

  “Yeah. Came in through the ER last night with comminuted fractures. Nobody can see how he climbed down the wall, especially since he must have got cut up pretty bad going through the window. But he wasn’t splattered on the pavement, so he must have made it.”

  “Why the window? Was he under arrest or something?”

  “That’s the really weird thing. He could have walked out the front door if he wanted to. Anyhow, we all figure the grandkids snuck old Mrs. Bahkti out during all the commotion.”

  “What’d the guy who went through the window look like? Did he have a patch on his left eye?” Jack held his breath as he waited for the answer.

  “I haven’t the faintest, Jack. Did you know the guy? I could find out his name for you.”

  “Thanks, Marta, but that won’t help. Never mind.”

  After saying goodbye, he cradled the receiver and sat staring at the floor. In his mind’s eye he was watching Kusum steal into a hospital room, grab a young man with a gauze patch over his left eye and casts on both arms, and hurl him through a window. But Jack couldn’t buy it. He knew Kusum would have liked to do just that, but he couldn’t see a one-armed man being capable of it. Especially not while he was busy spiriting his grandmother out of the hospital.

  Irritably, he shook off the images and concentrated on his other problem: the disappearance of Grace Westphalen. He had nothing to go on but the unlabeled bottle of herbal fluid, and had only a vague gut suspicion that it was somehow involved. He didn’t trust hunches, but he decided to follow this one for lack of anything better.

  He picked up the bottle from where he’d left it on the oak hutch last night and unscrewed the cap. The odor was unfamiliar, but definitely herbal. He placed a drop on a fingertip and tasted it. Not bad. Only thing to do was to have it analyzed and see where it came from. Maybe by some far-out chance it was connected to whatever had happened to Grace.

  He picked up the phone again, intending to call Gia, then put it down. He couldn’t bear to hear the ice in her voice. Not yet. Needed to do something else first: Call that crazy one-armed Indian and find out what he’d done with the old lady. He dialed the number Kusum had left on the office answering machine yesterday.

  A woman answered, her voice was soft, unaccented, almost liquid. She told him Kusum was out.

  “When will he be back?”

  “This evening. Is … is this Jack?”

  “Uh, yes.” He was startled and puzzled. “How did you know?”

  Her laugh was musical. “Kusum said you’d probably be calling. I’m Kolabati, his sister. I was just going to call your office. I want to meet you, Repairman Jack.”

  “And I want to know where your grandmother is!”

  “On her way to India,” she said lightly, “where she will be cared for by our own doctors.”

  Jack was relieved but still annoyed. “That could have been arranged without sneaking her out the back door or whatever you did.”

  “Of course. But you do not know my brother. He always does things his way. Just like you, from what he tells me. I like that in a man. When can we meet?”

  Something in her voice caused his concern for the grandmother to fade into the background. The old lady was, after all, under medical care …

  “Are you staying in the States long?” he asked, temporizing.

  He had a rule that once he was through with a job, he was through. But he had an urge to see what sort of face went with that seductive voice. And come to think of it, this woman wasn’t a customer—her brother was.

  Jack, you should have been a lawyer.

  “I live in Washington, DC. I rushed up as soon as I heard about grandmother. Do you know where the Waldorf is?”

  “Heard of it.”

  “Why don’t we meet in Peacock Alley at six?”

  I do bel
ieve I’m being asked out for a date. Well, why not.

  “Sure. How’ll I know you?”

  “I’ll be wearing white.”

  “See you at six.”

  He hung up, wondering at his reckless mood. Blind dates were not his style.

  But now for the hard part: a call to Gia.

  He dialed Nellie’s number. After precisely two rings, Eunice answered with “Paton residence,” and called Gia to the phone at Jack’s request. He waited with a curious mixture of dread and anticipation.

  “Hello?” Her voice was cool, businesslike.

  “How’d things go last night?”

  “That’s none of your business, Jack!” she said, her voice rising in anger. “What right have you got to pry into—”

  “Hey!” he said. “I just want to know if there’s been any ransom note or phone calls or any word from Grace! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Oh … sorry. Nothing. No word at all. Nellie’s really down. Got any good news I can tell her?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Are you doing anything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “Detective stuff. You know, tracing clues, following up leads. That kind of thing.”

  Gia made no reply. Her silence was eloquent enough. And she was right; wisecracks were out of place.

  “I don’t have much to go on, Gia, but I’ll be doing whatever can be done.”

  “I don’t suppose we can ask for more than that,” she said finally, her voice as cool as ever.

  “How about lunch today?”

  “No, Jack.”

  “A late dinner, then?”

  “Jack…” The pause here was long; it ended with a sigh. “Let’s just keep this businesslike, okay? Just business. Nothing has changed. Any lunches you want to have, you have them with Nellie. Maybe I’ll come along, but don’t count on it. Capisce?”

  “Yeah.”

  He fought an urge to rip the phone out of the wall and hurl it out the nearest window. But he made himself sit there, say a polite good-bye, hang up, and place the phone gently on the table, right where it belonged.

  He forcefully removed Gia from his thoughts. He had things to do.

  2

  Gia put down the phone and leaned against the wall. She’d almost made a fool out of herself a moment ago when Jack had asked her how things had gone last night. She’d suddenly had a vision of him trailing her and Carl to the restaurant and from the restaurant to Carl’s place.

  They’d made love for the first time last night. She hadn’t wanted their relationship to get that far this soon. She’d promised herself to take this one slow, to refuse to rush or to be rushed. After all, look what had happened with Jack. But last night she’d changed her mind. Tension had been building in her all day since seeing Jack, building until she’d felt it was going to strangle her. She’d needed someone. And Carl was there. And he wanted her very much.

  In the past she’d gently refused his invitations back to his place. But last night she’d agreed. Everything had been right. The view of the city from his windows had been breathtaking, the brandy smooth and burning in her throat, the lighting in his bedroom so soft it had made her bare skin glow when he’d undressed her, making her feel beautiful.

  Carl was a good lover, a patient, skilled, gentle, considerate lover.

  But nothing happened last night. She’d faked an orgasm in time with his. She didn’t like herself for that, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Carl had done everything right. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t even come close to the release she needed.

  All Jack’s fault.

  Seeing him again had got her so uptight she couldn’t have enjoyed Carl last night if he’d been the greatest lover in all the world. And he was certainly a better lover than Jack.

  No … that wasn’t true. Jack had been good. Very good. There had been times when they’d spent the whole night—

  Nellie’s front doorbell rang. Since Gia was passing by, she answered it.

  A messenger from Carl to pick up the artwork she’d told him about last night. And something for her: a bouquet of mums and roses. She handed the messenger the artwork and opened the enclosed card as soon as the door was closed. I’ll call you tonight. A nice touch. Carl didn’t miss a trick. Too bad—

  “What lovely flowers!”

  Gia snapped alert at the sound of Nellie’s voice.

  “Yes, aren’t they. From Carl. That was Jack on the phone, by the way. He wanted to know if there’d been any word.”

  “Has he learned anything?”

  Gia shook her head, pitying the almost childish eagerness in the old woman’s face. “He’ll let us know as soon as he does.”

  “Something awful has happened, I just know it.”

  “You know nothing of the kind,” Gia said, putting her arm around Nellie’s shoulders. “This is probably all a big misunderstanding.”

  “I hope so. I really do.” She looked up at Gia. “Would you do me a favor, dear? Call the Mission and send them my regrets. I won’t be attending the reception tomorrow night.”

  “You should go.”

  “No. It would be unseemly.”

  “Don’t be silly. Grace would want you to go. And besides, you need a change of scenery. You haven’t left this house all week.”

  “What if she calls?”

  “Eunice is here to relay any messages.”

  “But to go out and have a good time—”

  “I thought you told me you never had a good time at these affairs.”

  Nellie smiled, and that was good to see.

  “True … quite true. Well, I rather suppose you’re right then. Perhaps I should go. But only on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You go with me.”

  Gia was startled at the request. The last thing in the world she wanted to do on a Saturday night was stand around in a room full of UN diplomats.

  “No. Really. I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you can!”

  “But Vicky is—”

  “Eunice will be here.”

  Gia racked her brain for excuses. There had to be a way out of this.

  “I’ve nothing to wear.”

  “We’ll go out and buy something.”

  “Out of the question!”

  Nellie pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed her lips. “Then I shan’t be going either.”

  Gia did her best to glare angrily at Nellie, but only managed to hold the expression for a few seconds before breaking into a smile.

  “All right, you old blackmailer—”

  “I resent being called old.”

  “—I’ll go with you, but I’ll find something of my own to wear.”

  “You’ll come with me tomorrow afternoon and put a dress on my account. If you’re to accompany me, you must have the proper clothes. And that’s all I shall say on the matter. We shall leave after lunch.”

  With that, she turned and bustled away toward the library. Gia watched her with a mixture of affection and annoyance. Once again she’d been outflanked by the old lady from London.

  3

  Jack walked in the main entrance of the Waldorf at six precisely and trotted up the steps to the bustling lobby. Despite a hectic day he’d managed to get here on time.

  He’d arranged for analysis of the contents of the bottle he’d found in Grace’s room, then had gone down to the streets and looked up every shady character he knew—and he knew more than he cared to count. No talk anywhere about anybody snatching a rich old lady.

  By late afternoon he’d been drenched with sweat and feeling gritty all over. He’d showered, shaved, dressed, and cabbed over to Park Avenue.

  Jack had never had a reason to go to the Waldorf before so he didn’t know what to expect from this Peacock Alley where Kolabati wanted to meet him. To be safe, he’d invested in a lightweight cream-colored suit and a pinkish shirt and paisley tie to
go with it—at least the salesman said they went with it. He thought at first he might be overdoing it, then figured it would be hard to overdress for the Waldorf. From his brief conversation with Kolabati he sensed she’d be dressed to the nines.

  Jack absorbed the sights and sounds of the lobby as he walked through it. All races, all nationalities, all ages, shapes, and sizes milled or sat about. To his left, behind a low railing and an arch, people sat drinking at small tables. He walked over and saw a little oval sign that read “Peacock Alley.”

  He glanced around. If the Waldorf lobby were a sidewalk, Peacock Alley would be a sidewalk café, an air-conditioned model sans flies and fumes. He didn’t see anyone at the outer tables who fit his image of Kolabati. He studied the clientele. Everyone looked well heeled and at ease. Jack felt very much out of his element here. This was not his scene. He felt exposed standing here. Maybe this was a mistake—

  “A table, sir?”

  A middle-aged maître d’hôtel was at his shoulder, looking at him expectantly. His accent was French with perhaps a soupçon of Brooklyn.

  “I think so. I’m not sure. I’m supposed to meet someone. She’s in a white dress and—”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “She is here! Come!”

  Jack followed him into the rear section, wondering how this man could be so sure he had the right party. They passed a series of alcoves, each with a sofa and stuffed chairs around a cocktail table, like tiny living rooms all in a row. The paintings on the wall added to the warm, comfortable atmosphere. They turned into a wing and were approaching its end when Jack saw her.

  He knew then why there had been no hesitation on the part of the maître d’hôtel, why there could be no mistake. This was The-Woman-in-the-White-Dress. She might as well have been the only woman in the room.

  She sat alone on a divan against the rear wall, her shoes off, her legs drawn up sideways under her as if she were sitting at home listening to music—classical music, or maybe a raga. A wine glass half full of faintly amber liquid swirled gently in her hand. She bore a strong family resemblance to Kusum but was younger, late twenties perhaps. She had bright, dark, wide-set, almond-shaped eyes, wide cheekbones, a fine nose dimpled over the flare of the left nostril where perhaps it had been pierced to set a jewel, and smooth, flawless, mocha-colored skin. Her hair too was dark, almost black, parted in the middle and curled at the side around her ears and the nape of her neck. Old-fashioned but curiously just right for her. She had a full lower lip colored a deep glossy red. And all that was dark about her was made darker by the whiteness of her dress.