"Nobody's Perfect" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

Chapter 15

Arnold Chauncey sipped bourbon, stared at the spot on the wall where Folly Leads Man to Ruin had so lately hung, and tried not to look as pleased as he felt. The house was full of policemen, guests were shrieking in every corner, and somehow or other the plot seemed to have gone simultaneously completely wrong and completely right.

The dismay Chauncey had felt when Mavis Orfizzi had taken off in that elevator had been nothing to the cold acid-bath of doom that had washed o'er him when he'd discovered that two private guards, in direct contradiction of his express orders, had taken up posts on the top floor. As for his own behavior, he had to give himself low marks and consider himself extremely lucky that in the clatter of events nobody seemed to have noticed any of the false notes in his performance. His crying out, "No!" for instance, when Mavis entered the elevator. Then there'd been his reaction on seeing the guards come down from upstairs: an angry cry of, "What were you doing up there?"

Fortunately, after that last clinker Chauncey had finally got hold of himself and settled down to more or less appropriate behavior: initial shock and outrage, commiseration and apology toward his guests, helpful determination toward the policemen when they arrived, and stoic fortitude when counting up his own "losses" from his bedroom (Dortmunder amp; Co. had been damned efficient in there, by God). Statements had been taken from the dinner guests first, after which they'd been allowed to leave: Laura Bathing so startled she forgot to tip over a vase on the way out, Major General (Ret.) and Mrs. Homer Biggott limping out to be stacked into their Lincoln by their chauffeur, Sheikh Rama el-Rama el-Rama El departing with a smiling comment about "petty crime increasing as civilizations decline," Martha Whoopley the only one in the household to eat her portion of baked Alaska before departure, Lance Sheath helping her into her fur and leaving with her, chuckling mannishly deep in his throat. Chauncey himself had given the authorities a brief statement – the truth, that he had been at dinner with his guests until the screaming started.

And now the police were dealing with the houseguests, one by one, while the staff awaited their turn in the kitchen and the shamefaced private guards cooled their heels in the first floor lounge next to the dining room in which the interviews were being held.

There was nothing left for Chauncey to do but wait for the dust to settle, and in the morning to call his insurance agent. Nobody could claim this was a faked theft; the closeting of the private guards, in fact, dangerous though their presence had been, adding yet another touch of verisimilitude to the affair. The first bourbon on the rocks he'd given himself had been medicinal in nature, a prescription for his jangled nerves, but the second had been in acknowledgment of a sense of relief, and the third was a toast to a dangerous crossing successfully accomplished. Cheers!

Chauncey was just draining this congratulatory tot when Prince Elector Otto Orfizzi wandered in, fresh from his interview with the police, saying, "Ah, there you are."

"Here I am," Chauncey agreed. His mood was becoming agreeably mellow.

"Bad timing, that," Orfizzi said, gesturing upwards with his thumb.

Not sure what the man meant, Chauncey said, "Was it?"

"If the damned woman had gone up there ten minutes earlier," the Prince explained, "the blighters might have shot her." He shrugged, evidently irritated at his wife's perverse insistence on remaining alive, then rallied himself and changed the subject. "I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw those policemen."

Now what? "I'm not sure I follow," Chauncey admitted. "The man in charge." Prince Otto leaned forward, dropping his voice confidentially. "Black as the ace of spades."

"Ah, yes," Chauncey said, and the combination of nerves and liquor made him add, "Well, at least he isn't Jewish."

The Prince considered that. "I don't know," he mused. "With a Jew, you'd be certain in any event the fellow wasn't in league with the thieves."

"That's true," Chauncey said, and got to his feet, feeling the strong need of another drink.

"Would that be bourbon?" asked the Prince.

"It would. May I offer?"

"You certainly may. Say what you will about jazz, the Hollywood movie, the Broadway musical or the short story, I say America's contribution to the arts is bourbon."

"I agree with you," Chauncey said, in some surprise, and reached for the bottle, only to discover it was empty. And when he looked in the lower cabinet among the extras there was no bourbon to be seen. "Sorry," he said. "I'll have to go downstairs for more."

"Oh, don't bother, I'll be perfectly happy with Scotch. As happy as one can be with that woman in the house, of course."

"It isn't any bother," Chauncey assured him. "I'd rather stick to bourbon myself." And it would be pleasant to be away from the Prince for a few minutes.

But that was not to be. "I'll stroll along with you," the Prince announced, and did.

The main liquor storage was in a closet on the ground floor, next to a similar closet converted to a wine cellar, the latter with its temperature and humidity maintained at a dry fifty degrees. Chauncey and Orfizzi rode down together in the elevator, and to fill the time Chauncey described the wine cellar, as it was a recent conversion. "I'd like to see it," the Prince said.

"I'll show it you."

On the ground floor, they walked together down the corridor, and about halfway to the rear exit Chauncey stopped at a pair of doors on the right-hand side. "Liquor storage is on the left," he explained, "and this is the wine cellar." And he opened the door to look at the bleak eyes and shivering body of Dortmunder. "Ump!" Chauncey said, and quickly shut the door again, before the Prince could get around it to look inside.

"I didn't see it," said the Prince.

"Urn, yes," Chauncey said. "I, urn, I've just had an awful thought."

"You have?"

"I may be out of bourbon. Let's see." And Chauncey opened the other door, which displayed a floor-to-ceiling rank of horizontal bottle – storage spaces made of criss-crossed wooden slats, about two-thirds filled with liquor and liquor bottles. "Oh, of course," he said. "I have plenty." And he grabbed two bottles and put them in the startled Prince's hands, then took a third from the stacks for himself, the while gesturing with his free hand, saying, "You see the style. The wine cellar is identical, except of course for the humidity and temperature controls. Not needed in here, naturally."

"Naturally," agreed the Prince. He was holding the two bottles by the neck, as though they were small dead animals and he wasn't quite sure what he was expected to do with them.

Closing the door, Chauncey took the Prince by the elbow and led him off toward the elevator. "Now to our drink, eh?"

"But–" The Prince looked back over his shoulder at the closed wine-cellar door. "Oh," he said doubtfully, as Chauncey continued to propel him away. "Identical. Yes, urn, right."

Back to the elevator they went, boarded, and Chauncey pushed the button before the door closed. But then, as the door was sliding into place, he suddenly thrust the third bourbon bottle into the Prince's arms, said, "Join you in a minute. Something I have to take care of," and slipped out of the elevator.

"But–" The Prince's startled face disappeared behind the closing door, and the elevator whirred upward as Chauncey tore down the hall, flung open the door, and cried, "What are you doing in there?"

"Freezing to death," Dortmunder told him. "Can I come out?"

Chauncey looked both ways. "Yes."

"Good." He emerged, and as Chauncey closed the door he said, "Get me out of here."

"I don't under– Yes, of course." Chauncey frowned up and down the corridor, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"We had guards," Dortmunder said. "Not to mention elevators."

"Things happened," Chauncey said, distracted by his own thoughts. "Come with me." He took Dortmunder by the arm, and as he led him down the corridor toward the back there was a faint clink from inside his leather jacket. A vision of two full bourbon bottles in the sitting-room storage cabinet came clear to Chauncey's mind, and he offered Dortmunder a sidelong jaundiced glance, saying, "I see."

Dortmunder seemed too disgusted by events to reply, and the two of them progressed as far as the mudroom by the back door, where Chauncey took out his key ring, slipped one key off, and handed it over, saying, "This unlocks the door to the passage. Also the one at the other end. Get it back to me later."

Dortmunder gestured at the door beside them. "Won't we set off the alarm when we open this?"

"I'll say it was me, I thought I saw something in the garden. Hurry, man."

"All right." Dortmunder took the key.

Struck by sudden doubt, Chauncey said, "Are there any more of you still in here?"

"Only me," Dortmunder said, as though the fact spoke volumes about his life.

"What about the painting? It's gone, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," Dortmunder said, looking surly. "That part went okay." And he left.