Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [141]
“Unless, of course, you want to talk about it?”
Fitz’s voice had a harsh edge to it. “You shouldn’t have said that, Olympe.”
“Oh? Do I have to make excuses to little Miss Haven for being with you?”
“Olympe, I’m sorry. She’s just a kid … I would have given anything for that not to have happened.”
She may be young, thought Olympe, but Venetia certainly hadn’t shown up at Fitz McBain’s cabin, dressed—or rather undressed—like that to play any childish games. Shrugging her negligee over her shoulders she walked to the door.
“You should remember, Fitz, that young girls like that can be dangerous,” she warned. “They take things so seriously. They don’t understand your sort of games—my sort of games. One of you could end up getting hurt.” The door closed softly behind her. Olympe never slammed doors.
The phone rang suddenly and Fitz picked it up impatiently. Who the hell was calling at this time of night?
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said the duty officer, “but it’s a Mr. Ronson calling from Los Angeles. He said it was urgent.”
“Very well, put him on.”
Bob Ronson’s voice came on the line. “Good evening, Mr. McBain. I apologize for the late hour, but I thought it was important that you knew right away. It’s about the special matter you asked me to look into.”
Fitz was all attention. “Right. How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, sir, if you can call it ‘good.’ I have the information you needed, it’s all here. I have it on tape, Mr. McBain. I don’t want to go into details on the phone, but I think it would be worthwhile your hearing this as soon as possible, sir. I could take an evening flight out, if you wish.”
“No,” he replied quickly, “don’t bother, Ronson, I’ll come there. We might have some interesting meetings coming up. Thanks, Bob. You’ve done a good job.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. McBain.” Ronson’s normally businesslike voice sounded pleased; he hadn’t missed that switch from “Ronson” to “Bob.” “Then we’ll expect you tomorrow, sir?”
“Right. I’ll let you know later what time. Good-night, Bob, and thanks again.”
Fitz sat at his desk wondering what it was Ronson had on the tape. Then he placed a call and left a message for his pilot to have the plane ready for a flight to Los Angeles at eight in the morning.
23
Bill fiddled with the knot of his sober blue tie, nervously rebuttoning the jacket of his gray flannel suit as he waited in the hallway of Fitz McBain’s Bel-Air house, wondering why he was here. The phone call had come out of the blue—not McBain himself, but some assistant or secretary: “Mr. McBain will be in Los Angeles on Thursday and would like to meet Mr. Kaufmann to discuss a business matter.”
Perhaps McBain was thinking of getting into the movie business, or more likely cable TV or satellite, but if so, why ask him? There were other, more impressive, names who would have welcomed Fitz McBain’s interest. That was what was making Bill so uneasy. He had the sneaking feeling something was wrong. But, if so, what?
He peered at the tiny painting propped on a gilt easel next to a tape deck, on a table by the sofa. He’d bet his boots that it was a Matisse….
Fitz stood by the door, watching him, watching Jenny’s ex-agent, ex-friend. Her Judas. Or one of them; one was already dead.
“It’s a Matisse,” he said. Bill jumped back awkwardly. “It was one of my first purchases when I started making money. Real money, that is.”
Ignoring Bill’s outstretched hand, he waved him to a chair. “Sit down, Kaufmann. What I have to say will not take long … I’m sure you are a busy man.”
“I can’t think how I can help you, Mr. McBain,” replied Bill, “but just let me know what I can do….”
“I’ll certainly do that.”
Bill shifted uneasily in the deeply cushioned chair. Why had McBain not shaken hands? What the hell was all this about?
“I’m here to discuss Jenny Haven,” said Fitz, “and the interests of her three daughters.”
Jenny! Jesus Christ, so that was it, those girls had put him up to something.
“A very sad