Elsinore by Jerome Charyn

Author:Jerome Charyn [Charyn, Jerome]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Hard-Boiled, Mystery & Crime, Detective
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

They woke like a married couple. She’d already squeezed some orange juice. They drank it together in that apartment without a view. Holden didn’t mind the brick wall. He had little Judith. She was wearing a flannel robe. He didn’t question her about the fall of Phippsy’s empire. He wasn’t S. Holden, president of Aladdin Furs. He wasn’t Phipps’ companion. He was the boy who’d traveled out of Queens and landed in the country of Manhattan, with excursions to Paris, Rio, Rome, London, Madrid, and Pescadores. He was comfortable in their morning silence.

He watched her dress, arrange the bow in her hair. She handed him a key. Holden bathed and put on his billionaire’s suit. He locked little Judith’s apartment with his key. A sadness fell over him. He knew he’d never use that key again.

He took a cab to the Flatiron Building. It looked like a building that belonged in Cairo. Holden had never been to Cairo. The Flatiron Building had Egyptian columns and rippled stone that could have been rubbed by a lion’s paw. There were hieroglyphics in the walls, stone faces that must have told a story. But Holden didn’t have the right key.

He rode up to the fifth floor and searched for a particular suite: THE JUPITER COMPANY. Holden waited until five after ten. Then he opened Jupiter’s door. He passed the receptionist and entered the inner office. He saw Herbert Garden. He saw big Judith, wearing the cape of a corporate queen. He saw half a dozen other Manhattan Mimes, in the costume of young execs. He saw an older man, Herman Branley, the bauxite baron, one of the last allies Howard Phipps had left. Holden recognized him from a portrait in Manhattan, inc.

“Mr. Branley, whatever they’re peddling, don’t believe it. They want you to hate Howard Phipps.”

Branley tightened his silver eyebrows. “Do I know you, sir?”

“I’m Sidney Holden, president of Aladdin Furs. We’re specialists in sable and mink.”

“I have nothing to do with sable,” Branley said. But while he moved his lips, the Mimes closed their little shop, stuffing all the contents on their desks into briefcases, and disappeared.

“I don’t understand,” Branley muttered. “I don’t understand. I thought I was …”

The entire suite had been picked clean. Could Frog tell Branley that he’d broken up one of big Judith’s installations? That Herbert Garden had become his own little spy? It would have taken a month, and Branley would never believe him.

“Who are these people?”

“Swindlers, Mr. Branley. They’re employed by Howard Phipps’ competitors.”

“And you, sir. You’re president of …”

“Nothing really. I’m just a Pinkerton man.”

“I thought so,” Branley said.

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