City of Flaming Shadows by Grant Stockbridge

Author:Grant Stockbridge [Stockbridge, Grant]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2012-05-19T14:45:59+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Hairy Hands

Outside Wentworth glanced at the white gold dial of his watch, saw that the hands stood at three minutes to twelve. It was late, but not too late to return to the reception of Tamara Lamaris. Ten minutes to change at the Waldorf, ten more for a taxi….

At precisely twelve-seventeen, Wentworth his bleached hair glinting blandly in subdued lights, his made-up face seeming even more sallow in artificial illumination, was bending again over the hand of Tamara Lamaris. She placed her other hand in his also.

“It was really nice of you to remember your promise after all that has happened,” she smiled.

Wentworth looked at her slowly, from head of flame, over the shimmering green of her dress that seemed part of her, an actual soft iridescent skin like a gorgeous snake—but Tamara’s flesh would be warm!—down to the shapely small ankles, the high-arched feet in slippers of dull red.

“Nice?” he repeated softly. “Nice to myself!” She laughed in her low throaty laughter that would have seemed almost masculine in its depth, if a man could utter such seductive, soft sounds.

“It is a pity such men as you must die,” she told him, “and all policemen die someday, don’t they?”

Wentworth frowned. “You have to mention death,” he complained, “and remind me of duty.” He sighed. “Well, you’ll suffer for it. I must straightway turn to business. Is Lally here?”

She nodded slowly, eyes intent. “Is your business with him?”

Wentworth shook his head. “Come along and find out.” He offered her his arm.

They passed through crowded rooms. A grave-faced youth sat cross-legged in a chair, thumbing a guitar with a muscular hand, and sang bawdily to its uncertain accompaniment. Five women stood about him with intertwined arms and giggled.

Tamara’s green eyes flashed at the man. Wentworth looked, too. The youth was familiar. He noticed then that he’d lost a thumb off his left hand and memory flooded back. This was Russell Daliot, one of those who had met with Tamara in the theatre the night of the Tarantula’s first raid. Wentworth turned veiled, curious eyes on Tamara. What was the connection between these two, he wondered.

They moved on.

Wentworth, leading his partner deftly, brought up presently before the skillfully tailored paunch of Big Tim Lally. His whole person was polished, from the nacent baldness of his red, sloping forehead, to the tips of his patent leather shoes. His voice was polished, too—with oil.

“Inspector Barton,” Lally bowed with extreme unction, his murmuring tones like a moist-palmed caress. Wentworth surveyed him through expressionless eyes.

“You’d better surrender to Deputy Commissioner Penrose right away,” Wentworth told him in conversational tones. “He found your gun in a bank the Tarantula robbed tonight.”

Lally jerked erect, his mouth gaping, his vague eyes popping with surprise.

“My… gun?”

Wentworth heard Tamara exclaim, too, but did not turn. He nodded. “Yes, a pretty, rather useless thing, all plate and mother of pearl. And Penrose told me you didn’t have an alibi.”

“But… but…” Lally mopped his reddened forehead with an ample silk handkerchief held in a fat-padded, heavy hand.

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