“Anton and I, as I said, had an unusual relationship,” Marina said, settling back deeper in the chair, her deep eyes growing distant and veiled. “He was very intellectual, very introverted. He never liked crowds or people in general. He preferred to stay here or at my place, just the two of us, quietly listening to records. He liked Bach, of course, and Mozart, but he had a special feeling for Palestrina.”
“He smoked?” I asked, making my questions sound casual.
“Only his pipes,” she answered.
“I was told he came on strong,” I said and she frowned.
“What does that mean?” she asked genuinely.
I smiled.
“It means he was a sensual man, a lover of sexual pleasures, a big man with women,” I answered.
Marina was frowning and her low, soft voice was almost indignant as she replied. “Ridiculous,” she said. “He was an almost shy man, a man of the intellect not the body. That was the one...” She cut herself off and I grinned.
“Finish what you were going to say,” I said. Her eyes narrowed.
“It was nothing,” she answered.
“You were going to say it was the one missing thing in your relationship,” I grinned.
She looked at me, her face set and beautifully composed. Only the flare of dark fire in her eyes told me I’d hit home.
“I hope I never get that intellectual,” I grinned.
“You won’t,” she said with some asperity. “Anton could appreciate a woman’s mind and sensitivity.”
“So can I, honey,” I said. “But not at the expense of ignoring the rest of her, and what you have just shouldn’t be ignored.”
She looked at me for a long moment and then laughed, a deep-throated, musical laugh, muted bells. “I could like you,” she said. “You’re so different from Anton.”
I almost said that Anton was apparently pretty different all by himself, but she got up and started for the door.
She knew more than she’d revealed to me, I was certain, but that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want her to go. Her eyes had held moments of hesitation, of holding back, and I wanted to know what she knew.
“Must you leave?” I said. “You’re a very beautiful woman. I really wish you’d stay.”
Her glance at me was veiled, but the veil didn’t completely hide the interest in her eyes.
“Perhaps we’ll be talking again,” she said.
“You can count on it,” I said. “And stop holding back. Help me find your friend Anton, and you’ll be doing him a great favor.”
She paused at the door and searched my eyes. “I am at 9 Avenue Hassan Souktany,” she said. “I will, as you Americans say, sleep on it.”
I watched her walk off, her rear sinuously moving, ungirdled, inviting. I wondered, fleetingly, if beautiful women realized how easily they inflamed and excited and I knew the answer almost as soon as I’d had the thought. Yes. They knew it. They damned well knew it.
I closed the door and smiled to myself. Karminian had more than conflicting personalities; his taste in women was equally far apart.
I wondered if he were one of those men who assumed a completely different personality with different women, a man in whom different women brought out different things. I’d known that to happen, though not to such extremes as with Karminian. I also wondered if I were being lied to and by whom.
Aggie Foster’s description of the man had been echoed by the rug dealer and by Fatasha with her nymphets. Marina and the barkeep at the Chez Caliph knew a very different Karminian.
The scream cut into my musings like a knife into soft butter. It was Marina’s voice, the velvet cover tom off by terror.
I flung open the door, paused to grab two tubes of paint from my paint box, and raced down the flight of steps. I was just in time to see two burley men throw her into the back of a long, black Mercedes 600 Pullman limousine.
One shot a glance at me and I saw his square, crew-cut, thick-necked head, small blue eyes in a beefy face that might as well have been stamped MADE IN RUSSIA.
I also caught the glint of lamplight on blue gun metal and I dove down and to the side. The slug tore past my head and into the wood of the doorway, sending big splinters flying. It must have been at least a .44 Magnum with a 240 grain slug.
I got up to see the big, black Mercedes 600 pull around the corner and I ran into the street and hailed a taxi.
“Follow him,” I yelled, pointing to the twin dots of red disappearing around the corner. The cab was an old London Austin taxi and the driver a reluctant dragon. The Mercedes was pulling away fast and my man was more interested in keeping his
“Pull over!” I yelled as we rounded a corner. He stopped, I ran out and yanked him from the driver’s seat.
