Snowball in Hell

Sid smiled sourly. «Nope. They weren't talking that night. He was with a reporter. What's his name from the Tribune-Herald. Doyle, that's it. He was with Doyle the last time I saw him.»
   
 Chapter Two  
Carl Winters Bookseller read the black and gold script on the sign above the long bow window, and beneath, in smaller letters: The Fine, the Rare, the Antiquarian.
Bombastic, in Nathan's opinion. The man sold words, he didn't write them. Or at least not that Nathan knew of. But then he didn't know a lot about Carl Winters. What he did know wasn't heartwarming.
He pushed through the door and found himself in one of those hushed and rarefied establishments where tomes were sold by the size and matched leather bindings-and cracking a book's spine was a hanging offense. Plush maroon carpet deadened his footsteps as he made his way through Ming vases, Chippendale chairs, and a few strategically placed bookshelves to the front desk. This long black wood construction could never be called a counter, and nothing so plebian as a cash register sat there. A cool and elegant blonde wearing a pair of horn-rim spectacles that had to be for show observed his approach.
«May I help you?»
«I'd like to speak to Mr. Winters.»
She didn't quite allow herself a smirk, but her «Did you have an appointment?» was clearly rhetorical.
«No. I'm Nathan Doyle.» He showed her his press pass.
Her pointy little nose twitched. «Mr. Winters is not speaking to the press.»
There was an answer to that, but Nathan bit the inside of his cheek. She didn't look like she had much sense of humor. «Okay. Well, could you remind him we met Saturday night at the Las Palmas Club?»
She tipped her head, studying him over the top of her glasses, then, reluctantly, she abandoned her front desk post and sashayed through a pair of oversized carved doors, vanishing into a discreet back room.
Nathan leaned back against the front desk and studied the very nice watercolors on the wall. England probably. A very different England than the last time he'd been there. He supposed you could still find places like that, rural pockets mostly untouched by the war. He hadn't seen any. Not in England. Not in North Africa.
Outside the shop windows holiday shoppers in raincoats, umbrellas tilted against the rain, bustled along the wet street, laden with parcels and shopping bags. Funny, that. Come wind or rain or sleet or world wars, people still celebrated the holidays. Maybe it said something about the human spirit. Or maybe it said something about the strength of habit.
«Mr. Doyle?»
He turned as Carl Winters approached. He was alone. There was no sign of the Dresden figurine sales girl. That alone assured Nathan he was on the right track.
Winters was a trim and dapper mid-forties. He wore a pale yellow carnation in his lapel and Nathan could just about see his reflection in the gleam off Winters' hand-stained antique copper brogues. His lustrous hair was prematurely white, but
the face beneath was tanned and youthful. Though he was smiling, his eyes were wary, and Nathan understood why.
They shook hands briefly, and Winters said-heading Nathan off, it seemed-«Is this a sympathy call or a request for an interview?»
Nathan studied his face. «I can't say I'm particularly sorry about Phil,» he said. «Are you supposed to be?»
«He was a lowlife. A creep. That's off the record and on.»
Nathan smiled.
«But I didn't kill him,» Winters added.
«Sure. Any ideas about who might have?»
«Anyone who had the displeasure of his acquaintance.»
«Including your sister?»
«Leave Claire out of this.»
«She brought herself into it by showing up at the Las Palmas Club on Saturday night.»
«That was … nothing,» Winters said curtly.
«It was something.» Nathan was gentle but definite. «The police are liable to think so, anyway.»
Winters' face changed, grew ugly. «I see. This is a-a shakedown, is that it?»
Nathan shook his head. «I couldn't keep it quiet if I wanted to. Too many people saw your sister threaten Phil. Too many people saw all three of us at the club on Saturday.»
«That's right,» Winters said. «But Phil was still alive and kicking when Claire and I pulled out. We left him to your tender mercies.»
Nathan shrugged. «Phil was alive when I left him.» He considered Winters levelly. «The story is he was grabbed by
kidnappers. But I guess you would have heard that from your sister.»
Winters didn't so much as blink.
Nathan nodded thoughtfully. «You don't buy the kidnapping story either.»
«I buy it. I'm just waiting for you to accuse me of kidnapping and murder.»
«Times are tough,» Nathan said. «Not many people have leisure or luxury to read these days.» He glanced at a copy of William Blake's Songs of Innocence under glass on the ebony counter. «Not at these prices.»
«I do very well,» Winters said. «It's not a crime. Even in wartime.»
Nathan just studied him, and Winters said edgily, «I don't know what you think you've heard…»
«We both know what Arlen was,» Nathan said coolly. «I heard enough on Saturday to figure out that he was putting the screws on you. I can make an educated case as to what he had on you.»
«What he thought he had on me,» Winters corrected.
«If you were paying him to keep his mouth shut-and apparently you were-«
«That doesn't mean anything,» Winters interrupted. «I paid him because scandal can ruin a man in my position. It doesn't matter if it's true or not, just the hint of it's all it takes. That's the way the world turns.»
«Maybe so,» Nathan agreed. But he was thinking that if Winters had nothing to fear he would have told his brother-in-law to go to hell. He hadn't because he didn't want Arlen
planting that seed of doubt in anyone's minds. It was liable to start people looking and Winters couldn't afford that. Nathan understood that line of reasoning because he couldn't afford people to start looking either.
He added, «I guess you weren't happy about the way he was treating your little sister.»
«No, I wasn't happy,» Winters said. «But, believe it or not, Claire loved that little rat. She wouldn't have thanked me for removing him from this mortal coil.» He swallowed hard. «This is liable to kill her.»
«She seemed healthy enough to me on Saturday,» Nathan replied. «Healthy pair of lungs on her.»
Winters' face darkened again. «She didn't kill him. And I didn't kill him. And as far as paying Phil hush money, what were you paying him for?»
Nathan's smile was wry. «I didn't pay him. I couldn't afford to.»
Winters stared at him. «Then it seems to me,» he said, «you've got as good a motive for murder as anyone.»
«It does seem that way,» Nathan agreed.
* * * *
Philip and Claire Arlen lived up the road a bit from the Robert Arlens in a fashionable five-story Spanish-Italian apartment hotel called the Los Altos. The hand-tinted postcards sold in the lobby said the Los Altos «Catered to a Particular Clientele,» which always amused the hell out of Nathan.
He ran through the stone courtyard, fountains gurgling with rain and water, and ducked in under the ornate stone entrance. The lobby was carpeted in red, the walls creamy, and the light muted. A large flocked Christmas tree stood at one end, a spill of gaily wrapped, for-display-only «presents» beneath its feathery limbs. Nathan went up a couple of flights of stairs, down a hall with intricately carved wooden panels, and rang the buzzer of Philip Arlen's apartment. Veronica Thompson-Arlen opened the door.
«Oh,» she said, surprised. She did not seem like a woman frequently caught off guard. She had been a navy nurse, Nathan remembered; Bob's nurse after he cracked up his B-25 Mitchell during a failed bombing run over Japan. Love among the bedpans. Bob hadn't come out of it too badly. A game leg, a scarred face, a beautiful young wife, and a nice cushy job waiting for him. A lot of guys had it a lot worse.