Part 11 (1/2)

”Why don't you live with your father anymore?” Auntie Lil asked abruptly.

The girl looked up in surprise. ”He told you that?” she said.

”No, we went to see him and I looked in your room. I could tell you had moved out. Where are you staying?”

”With a friend,” she said. ”And I'm not telling you who because then you'll tell my father and he'll come and get me and try to make me come home. He sent you, didn't he?”

”No, he did not. Why don't you want to go home?” Auntie Lil asked.

”Because my father lives at home,” Julie said simply. ”And I hate my father.”

She slipped her dancer's bag up on one shoulder and stepped between them, walking away as naturally as if she had just bid them a loving farewell. Two cabs screeched to a halt on Ninth Avenue when they saw her and she hopped into one nimbly, zooming away without a backward glance. Her silhouette was framed in the back window of the cab and looked as regally unmovable as the bust of an ancient Egyptian queen.

CHAPTER NINE.

The next day Auntie Lil wasted no time in moving forward. The lawsuit had piqued her interest in Bobby Morgan's ex-wife, Nikki. And she knew a way to get to her. As Auntie Lil suspected, her lawyer, Hamilton Prescott, knew the partners of the firm representing Bobby Morgan's children. He arranged a meeting between Auntie Lil and Nikki Morgan for the next evening, but balked when told he could not attend.

”That is most unwise,” he warned Auntie Lil. ”I cannot allow it.”

”I'm not going to talk about the lawsuit,” she said. ”Just her ex-husband.”

”Her lawyers will be there,” he warned her. ”I can't let you go alone.”

”I'll tape the entire conversation and bring Theodore,” she promised. ”But I cannot go in looking like I have litigation on my mind. I want to talk to her about everything but the lawsuit, don't you see?”

Prescott sighed. He knew there was no arguing with Auntie Lil. When she had her mind set, she was more immovable than a hound dog intent on sleep. ”What about her lawyers?” he asked.

”Let me handle them,” Auntie Lil said. ”Don't worry. I will make no promises. I'll hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”

Yes, the lawyer thought, and you'll end up making monkeys out of us all. ”Good luck,” he told her. ”And tape it.”

”I will,” she said, though she had no intention of bringing a tape recorder. She knew that Nikki Morgan would be reluctant enough to talk as it was. The newspapers had carried few comments from her on Bobby Morgan's death.

T.S. needed little convincing to attend the meeting. ”Sure,” he said. ”The evening is fine.” He'd be done with his dance lesson by then.

But when he returned from his lesson with Herbert, he found a most surprising individual waiting for him in the lobby of his high-rise. Mahmoud the doorman had allowed the visitor to wait for T.S. and was maddeningly nonchalant about the fact. ”But he is an injured man,” Mahmoud explained with feigned peasantlike simplicity when T.S. complained. ”How could I turn him away into the streets?”

T.S. glanced at the forlorn figure of Hans Glick slumped on an upholstered love seat near the elevators, his right foot encased in a heavy cast. Crutches were propped against the wall behind him. ”Did I leave instructions to admit any visitors?” he asked the doorman, teeth gritted.

”But Mr. Hubbert,” Mahmoud protested, spreading his arms wide. ”You live such an exciting life. I am but a humble doorman. I cannot resist the impulse to partic.i.p.ate in your adventures. Please forgive me.” His dazzling smile did little to lessen T.S.'s suspicion that Mahmoud lived to torment him. Still, there was nothing to be done.

”How do you do,” he said, extending a hand to Hans Glick.

Glick struggled to stand. ”You must forgive the intrusion,” he said in his clipped accent. ”I took the liberty of looking your address up in the phone book. I hope you do not mind.”

Despite his apology, T.S. noticed, Glick did not hesitate to hobble after him into the elevators. ”How can I help you?” T.S. asked as the elevator doors shut. He reminded himself to get an unlisted phone number and address as soon as possible.

”I must speak to you,” Glick explained. ”Businessman to businessman. I know your aunt relies on your good judgment. I have seen you with her often, and I have heard from my business colleagues that you are a most meticulous man. Like myself. That is why I have come to you and not to her.”

”My aunt doesn't rely on anything except her own common sense,” T.S. said firmly. Asking Glick inside was redundant, he realized. The man had no intention of going anywhere else.

Glick glanced about T.S.'s immaculate apartment with approval. Modern chrome furniture gleamed immaculately atop spotless white area rugs and a highly polished wooden floor. The built-in shelves, understated sculpture, and open s.p.a.ce appealed to his spartan sensibilities. ”I see we are alike in our living tastes,” he said.

But his look of approval turned to one of apprehension when Brenda and Eddie crept from their favorite hiding spot behind the couch. Tails switching, they slunk in unison toward the stranger, sniffing cautiously. Glick sat down on the couch abruptly, as if the weight of the cast had suddenly proved too much. He held the crutches in front of him and eyed the cats. ”Why do they twitch their tails in that manner?” he asked faintly.

”Habit,” T.S. replied. ”Relax. They're big for house cats, I admit. But they are house cats.”

Brenda and Eddie reached out their paws to scratch at the smooth surface of Glick's cast. Glick endured the contact with stoic dignity. ”As I was saying,” he said. ”I have come to appeal to your good sense.”

”In what way?” T.S. asked. He would not offer Glick a drink. The man's smooth exterior irritated him. T.S. had worked for decades with such men and had learned long ago not to trust them.

”Two things,” Glick explained. ”Your aunt seems convinced that I am to blame for this misunderstanding about the liability insurance.”

”Oh?” T.S. asked. ”If you are not to blame, who is?”

Glick frowned. ”It appears one of my a.s.sistants failed to send in the quarterly premium, believing that the other policy would take effect sooner than it did.” He paused. ”I will have to fire her, of course.”

”Why not just cut off her head?” T.S. suggested. ”In the middle of Lincoln Center would be nice. We could invite all the board members and maybe Reverend Hampton could arrange for a few protesters.” He wasn't usually so sarcastic, but Glick's attempt to blame some poor hapless subordinate offended his personnel manager soul.

”I beg your pardon?” Glick's eyes widened. Humor was not in his repertoire-particularly humor directed at him.

”Never mind,” T.S. said, sighing wearily. The day's dance lesson had exacerbated his sore right knee and he hated reminders that he was growing inescapably old. ”What else did you want to discuss?”

”You haven't asked about my foot,” Glick said. ”I presume you have heard how it happened?”

T.S. knew, of course, but was not eager to admit that he had been lurking in the wings and seen everything. ”I heard,” he offered.

Glick's expression was grim. ”I was not interfering,” he explained. ”I was merely correcting a glaring error. Martinez had no right to threaten me. I may well sue him over his actions. They led directly to my injury.”

”Good idea,” T.S. said absentmindedly, gazing longingly at his liquor cabinet. There was a fresh bottle of Dewar's inside.

T.S.'s wandering eye escaped Glick. ”That is not important, however. What is important is that I have had an epiphany.” Glick held a hand in the air and pointed toward heaven.

”An epiphany?” T.S. asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eddie's tail begin to switch more rapidly.

”Yes.” Glick leaned forward breathlessly, staring intently at T.S. ”As I was falling off the stage and into the orchestra pit, it suddenly occurred to me. I know how Morgan was killed.” He let a dramatic silence fill the apartment, though it was marred by the scratching of Eddie's paw on Glick's cast. The cat had discovered that fine dust could be created by clawing the plaster and was busily making his mark on the unsuspecting guest.

”Tell me your theory,” T.S. said, his Dewar's forgotten as a new thought intruded. He wished Auntie Lil was there to help him evaluate Glick's manner. Was he being too smooth? A little too enthusiastic? Had he seen them at the theater after all, up in the catwalk? Did he know they had already figured out how Morgan was killed? Was he trying to join their team, as it were, before he was suspected himself?

”Morgan was killed before the rope went around his neck,” Glick explained triumphantly. He was not strangled during the performance. Otherwise someone backstage would have seen him. I would have seen it.” He stared intently at T.S. ”Very little escapes my attention,” he added. ”I have wondered ever since the murder why I did not see the killer myself. I was backstage watching everything. I felt it my duty to ensure a smooth production. My honor was on the line as a member of the board.”

Yes, and you are const.i.tutionally incapable of letting well enough alone, T.S. thought.

”I was all over that stage area,” Glick explained. ”The entire first act. I didn't see anyone unusual at all. Where then had the killer hidden? Where had the struggle taken place? Who had done the killing?” Glick's eyes gleamed and T.. wondered if the hospital had given him pain pills for his broken foot. He seemed stimulated well beyond his usual Swiss reserve.

”Go on,” T.S. said, hoping the man might reveal more.