Part 17 (1/2)
He'd brought this on himself, Saint Just knew that the moment he'd first opened his mouth and heard himself spouting those lines from one of his books-words Maggie originally had put in his mouth. Only one more example of his knowledge that he was, thanks to Maggie, invincible. Which did not mean that Maggie was, or that he himself couldn't end up rather creased at the conclusion of this encounter.
Which did not, as it happened, keep him from neatly inserting his cane between the buffoon's legs as the fellow stupidly attempted to advance on Maggie, and then bringing it up with a considerable amount of force. After all, even a gentleman should be allowed a little fun from time to time.
The thud of the man's body hitting the landing, to be followed by his rather high-pitched whimpers, served as their introduction to Valentino Gates, who opened his door to check on the commotion.
”Mr. Gates?” Saint Just asked, raising his voice above the whimpers, inclining his head to the slightly-built man with the look of a poet whose greatest wish would be the opportunity to starve in a garret. ”Mr. Valentino Gates?”
”Ah ... er ... yes, I suppose so.” Gates looked down at the man who was now rather inelegantly grasping his most private parts as, bent double, he did his best to climb to the next landing. ”What did you do to Quentin?”
”Quentin?” Maggie deserted her corner. ”You'd think he would have gotten himself a nickname. Butch, Spike-something. No wonder he's so angry. I'll bet he had the snot beaten out of him on the playground every day before he grew that big. By the way, nice job, Alex.”
”Thank you, my dear, I do my best.”
Valentino Gates looked ready to bolt. ”Who are you people? And ... and what do you want from me?”
Saint Just was fairly certain Quentin wouldn't be back for an encore any time soon, but he'd already made up his mind about Valentino Gates. The man had all the s.p.u.n.k as well as native intelligence of a sea sponge, and couldn't possibly have killed anyone. It was best to simply make up some farradiddle out of whole cloth and then take their exit as quickly as possible.
With a wink to Maggie, who he knew could be trusted to follow where he led-not happily, but she would follow, and only afterward verbally tear a strip off his hide-he said brightly, ”Mr. Gates, a fair question. Yes, most definitely. Allow me to explain, my good sir. We are members of the Francis Oakes fan club, Manhattan division. Ah, poor Francis. I am Blakely, Alexander Blakely, acting president, and my companion here is our recording secretary, Miss Kelly, Miss Ma-”
”Velma Kelly,” Maggie interrupted, sticking out her hand to the astonished-looking man. ”We inquired at Toland Books as to who, locally, had written fan letters to Mr. Oakes in the past, and your name was among those given to us. We're taking up a collection to help with the ... um ... the arrangements, and wondered if-”
”Velma Kelly? Isn't that the name of one of the characters from that movie, Chicago?”
”Broadway musical. It was a Broadway musical before it was a movie.”
”Who cares? You're no Catherine Zeta-Jones, I know that. What's the other one's name? You know, the blonde with the chubby cheeks? She was really cute.”
”Mr. Gates,” Saint Just said quickly, because Maggie had opened her mouth again and he was fairly certain Valentino Gates would not be happy with whatever she chose to say. ”The donation?”
”Yes, you said that. A donation for arrangements. What arrangements? And, for the record, I never wrote a fan letter to that pitiful hack. He couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. And they turn me down?”
Saint Just and Maggie exchanged looks, Saint Just's one of wry amus.e.m.e.nt, Maggie's one that very clearly telegraphed her feeling that they'd been wasting their time.
”Mr. Oakes was killed a few days go, Mr. Gates,” Saint Just said, then watched for the man's reaction. ”Murdered. Murder most vile, one might say.”
Valentino Gates staggered backward, but then seemed to collect himself, although he had gone quite pale. ”I ... I didn't know. Murdered? Gee, that stinks, doesn't it?”
”Yes, indeed. It's not for public knowledge, you understand, but we've been led to understand that the sad event took place very shortly after Mr. Oakes received a rather disturbing package.”
”Package,” Gates repeated.
”A rather disturbing package.”
”Disturbing,” Gates repeated.
”A rather disturbing package containing a dead rat and a threat.”
”Threat? You mean ... you mean a threat to kill him?”
”No, a threat to not kill him,” Maggie said, her sarcasm level rising once more. ”Of course a threat to kill him.”
”I ... I don't know anything about that. I ... I've got to go now.” Gates dug into his pocket and came out with a ten-dollar bill. ”Here-for Oakes.”
Once the door had closed, Saint Just held up the bill. ”Lunch is on Valentino, if your appet.i.te doesn't extend beyond hot dogs on the street.”
”You're impossible,” Maggie told him as they headed hack down the stairs. ”But did you see the look on the guy's face when you started talking about the package and the threat? I thought he was going to pa.s.s out. Oh, no, he knows nothing about any package, does he? Oh, and he didn't even know Francis is dead. You caught that, right? That's the one part I believe. n.o.body's that good an actor.”
”I agree,” Saint Just said, holding open the door to the street, then enjoying his first breath of air in some ten minutes that did not contain the pungent aroma of incontinent cats and, he believed, week-old cabbage. ”Mr. Gates is officially removed from our list of suspects in the death of Mr. Oakes. He is not, however, removed from the list of those who might have had something to do with the package and threat. In fact, I believe he has just leapt to the top of the latter list. Or do you disagree?”
”No, I'm right there with you. He knows something about the packages. It's possible we've got two things going on here-my Rat Boy and your unsub, to borrow your description of the killer. After all, Francis is the only one who's dead, not that I'm wis.h.i.+ng anyone else dead, you understand. Most especially me. I've got ... I've got unfinished business, and I'm not ready to go yet.”
”Ah, a topic for an interesting late-night conversation one day soon, I do believe,” Saint Just told her as he guided her along the street, turning at the corner to approach Bryon's bookstore, as he had planned out his route earlier, using a city map. ”Are you ready for suspect number two?”
”Not really, no, considering how suspect number one really shot a hole in our theory. But let's get it over with and then go see Faith, G.o.d help me. Just in case Valentino back there is the best actor in the world. Oh, and what was all that with Quentin? I should be mad, but it was kind of fun, actually. Were you showing off for me, big boy?” she asked, grinning at him.
”Truthfully, I don't know why I behaved as I did, other than to say that I've noticed that, sometimes, when thrown into certain situations, I open my mouth and your version of me comes spilling out.”
”So it's my fault Quentin will be walking funny for a week. Is that what you're saying?”
Saint Just smiled at her. ”Yes, let's, as you say, run with that one.”
”Bite me. Where's this bookstore?”
Bryon's Book Nook was located in the middle of the next block, a rather narrow store wedged between a Thai restaurant and a print shop. There was a single show window that hadn't seen a cleaning rag in possibly decades, and the interior was musty-smelling, with towering, odd-shaped bookcases jammed in cheek by jowl, leaving little room for Saint Just and Maggie to walk without turning sideways.
”Rather a charming hodgepodge, don't you think?”
”I think I've just discovered that I'm claustrophobic,” Maggie told him, whispering, as if perhaps they were in a library, or a church. ”I want to check out his mystery section, see if I'm there.”
”Naturally,” Saint Just said, following where she led. ”Ah, there we are.”
”Yeah. We,” Maggie muttered as she went down on her haunches, as the D's were shelved on the bottom shelf. ”One, two-he's got five of the latest hardback, so that's good, considering the size of this place. And one each of my backlist.” She got to her feet. ”I think I'm going to like this Bryon guy. Be nice to him, okay?”
”Me? I am nothing if not congenial.”
”Yeah, tell that to Quentin, now that's he's going to have to sing soprano in the church choir.”
”Your attempts at bawdiness are delicious,” he told her, which earned him another of her very speaking looks just before a middle-aged gentleman approached dressed in baggy corduroy trousers and a dandruff-dusted black turtle-neck sweater that seemed to serve to keep his chin raised, it was that tight and that high.
”May I be of some a.s.sistance? You appreciate a good mystery novel?”
”Actually,” Saint Just said, knowing Maggie would never do so, ”my friend here is an author, and has learned, to her delight, that you have deigned to shelve her books in this very prestigious establishment. Is the owner in? I'm sure Miss Dooley would like to convey her thanks to the gentleman and then perhaps autograph the copies on the shelves.”
”Dooley? Oh, yes, you mean Cleo Dooley. My a.s.sistant, Bruce, insists I carry her, and I must say, she sells very well to a ... certain element. I'm George Bryon, the owner. And you'd be Ms. Dooley?”
”Yeah, good guess. What certain element?”
George Bryon lifted his hands in a slightly fluttering movement. ”Oh, you know. The popular fiction crowd.”
”Ah, yes, I understand what you mean now. The hoi polloi, the great unwashed-that crowd?” Maggie countered, stepping closer to Saint Just. ”I take it all back-be as snarky as you want to be.”