The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [101]
“Which is what he told the police.”
“Yes.”
“And what really did happen?”
“We went to a club in the neighborhood.”
“I see.”
“It’s a private, quite exclusive club. Private members only.” She gave her little hiccup of a laugh. “Actually, it’s more like members’ privates only.”
“A sex club?” I asked, trying to resist a swell of titillation.
“If you want. You can keep it social, too. You and Di might want to try it.”
I nodded, but dubiously. I wondered if Di and I still existed. “What happens when you go there?”
“There’s a couple of reception rooms, nicely appointed. In one of them there’s music and you can dance if you want to. And drinks. You mingle and talk, meet people. If you hit it off with someone or with a couple, you retire to one of the suites.”
“So you and Max went there?”
“Until about midnight.”
“Did you meet anyone else?”
“A very nice couple from Argentina. Gio and Marla, if those were their names.”
“And you …?”
“We had a foursome you wouldn’t believe. Gio had this blow …”
“Blow?”
“Cocaine.”
“I see. Can anyone else vouch for your presence on the night in question?”
“Edgar.”
“Edgar?”
“Edgar’s the guy who runs it. He doesn’t get involved. Otherwise there are only club names.”
“What’s yours?”
“Puss n’ Boots.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Boots are my thing.”
Her seafood salad and my turkey club arrived. We ate with hungry relish, largely silent at first but not uncommunicative as our eyes caught just long enough for significance.
To break the dawning spell, I asked, “So where can I contact this Edgar?”
She looked doubtful. “I’m not sure he keeps any records.”
“But he charges …?”
“Four hundred. For an evening. In cash.”
“Per person?”
“Per person. But it’s all very posh.” She used the word as though testing it on me. “And exclusive. You need a doctor’s certificate. No STDs allowed.” She laughed. “And it includes breakfast.”
She worked on her salad. She sipped champagne. “I think you and Di might like it. Di tells me you’ve got the goods.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“Oh, more than once. Really, Norman, don’t be so modest. Di’s discreet. But, you know, a girl likes to brag now and then.”
Just the mention of Diantha’s name set off a complex mix of anger, wistfulness, and need within my heart. I sighed. I smiled. I said, as casually as I could, “So how’s Diantha doing these days?”
“You should ask her.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Silly girl. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight if I ever got my hooks into you.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Which made her laugh.
“Tell me, Merissa, is she seeing that old boyfriend of hers?”
“Really, Norman, I’ve never been one to tattle on a friend.”
“Is there something to tattle on?”
She didn’t answer except to give me a smile of sympathy.
I got back to business. “So this Edgar. If he takes the money, then he keeps records. Somewhere.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
I tried to dissemble an edge of prurience in asking, “Where are the premises?”
“Devon Street. Right next to the First Seaboard Bank.”
“Really? Does it have a name?”
“Garden of Delights. GOD for short.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
“I’m trying to tempt you.”
“No. Seriously.”
“Because, if and when things get hot and heavy, I want it on the record that I was otherwise occupied. And the cops trust you.”
“So why not just tell them?”
“Well, you know, Max isn’t quite divorced yet. And his wife’s …”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s none of the cops’ business. They ransacked the whole house trying to tie me in to this thing. They went through my things, my really personal things …”
“That’s their job.”
She tittered again. “I know, Norman, I know. But they shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much.”
The waiter, a blank-faced older man, came by and asked us if we would like coffee or desert.
“Both,” Merissa said, looking at me.
“A regular coffee, black.”
“A cappuccino, the cheese selection, and another bottle of the Taittinger. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Room