Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 32

After Jerry, the driver, turned his cab off Connecticut Avenue and into Kalorama Circle, Partain asked Millicent Altford if they were lost.

“I heard that,” Jerry said.

“Well?”

“We picked up a tail.”

“That I know,” Partain said. “But what I don’t know is why you’d head for a circle drive to lose it.”

“Don’t wanta lose him. What I wanta do is let you all out, then do me a drop-behind, get on his butt and stick there till I find out where he lives and who he is.”

“What’s he driving?” Altford asked.

“He’s not,” Jerry said. “Got himself an old black ’seventies Caddy limo with a driver. Thinks it makes him invisible.”

The cab slowed, then stopped, and Altford said, “We’re here. The littlest house on the circle.”

Looking to his right, Partain saw a four-story gray stone house that was tall enough to need an elevator and large enough to serve as an embassy for either Hungary, Portugal or the erstwhile Yugoslavia.

As if anticipating his question, Altford said, “The General’s second wife died and left it to him along with a few million dollars that kept company with the one and a half million his folks left him.”

“What happened to the first wife?”

“She broke her neck and left leg skiing Aspen in ’sixty-seven while he was in Vietnam. She left him another million or so and her house in Aspen. He never quite got over her.”

“Or you,” Partain said.

“Or me,” she admitted. “Or Hank Viar’s wife for that matter, who also had a few bucks.”

“You all ever gonna get out?” Jerry said.

“You have Vernon’s number?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“When you find out who’s following us, call me.”

“Right.”

“Where’s the old Caddy now?” Partain said.

“Three houses back, peeping around the curve. Lights off. Still invisible.”

Once out of the cab, Partain took her left arm and felt it stiffen through her thick dark gray cashmere coat. There was just enough street and security lighting for him to inspect the house that had a black slate roof, a lot of black or dark gray shutters and a deeply recessed entryway.

When they reached the front door he let her ring the bell while he turned to watch Jerry’s cab pull away. Seconds later the old black Cadillac limousine, its rear windows tinted, its lights off, drifted slowly by the General’s house.

The thick carved door was opened by Winfield, who smiled and said, “Come in and let me take your coats, or coat, since I notice Mr. Partain’s not wearing one.”

Once they were inside, Altford turned, let the General have he coat and said, “There’s something you could do for me tomorrow, sugar.”

“Anything.”

“Take Twodees in hand and buy him a couple of decent suits, a jacket, some pants and a nice but not too heavy topcoat he can wear in California on the nine days of the year he’ll need it. Throw in some shirts, ties, socks and underwear. Charge everything, give me the receipts and I’ll write you a check.”

With Altford’s coat now over his arm, the General turned to Partain and said, “I don’t wish to impose.”

“What I wear embarrasses her,” Partain said. “Maybe you can pick out something that won’t.”

“What time?” the General said.

“Around noon — right after Hank Viar’s funeral?”

“It’s at eleven, I’m told, so why don’t I pick you up at the Mayflower at, say, ten-fifteen and we’ll go to the funeral together. May I lend you a shirt, tie and jacket?”

Partain agreed with thanks and the General turned back to Milli-cent Altford. “Are you planning to go?”

“I liked Violet a lot, but I despised him and can’t think of any reason why I ought to be at his funeral.”

The General nodded his understanding. “I remember what good friends you and Violet were.”

“You should,” she said. “You introduced us.”

Partain guessed that the General’s library on the second floor contained at least 9,000 volumes. It was about the size of Partain’s high school library in Bakersfield but smelled pleasantly of leather and furniture polish instead of library paste and janitor. Partain wanted to spend months in it.

There were a number of high-back upholstered chairs and just-so floor lamps. There were also a big carved desk and a black walnut magazine table and a couple of rolling ladders to reach the top three or four shelves.

Two big leather chairs were drawn up in front of the fireplace. Curled up in the left one, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, was Jessica Carver, who rose, put the mug down, kissed her mother on the cheek, patted Partain’s and announced that there was a pot of just-made hot chocolate in a Pullman kitchen behind the folding doors.

Her mother said she wanted a stiff drink, not chocolate, but Partain chose chocolate and the General served everyone, not forgetting a whiskey for himself. After they were settled around the fire, General Winfield asked, “How did it go with the Congressman?”

“I lectured him and the subcommittee’s new counsel on ancient history and then discoursed briefly on the primacy of money in politics. By the time I’d finished, they were pleading with me not to appear before them, but write ’em a letter instead. A short one.”

“Were they — competent?” the General asked.

“They were young. The Congressman was a smart-enough forty-two or-three. The counsel was thirty, if that, and tiresome. He may’ve been the one who set me up. I’ll nose around town tomorrow and try and find out if any of those Little Rock kiddy snots put him up to it. If so, I’ll do something about it.”

“What?” Partain asked.

“Explain the rule.”

Partain smiled. “Which is?”

“Don’t fuck with Millie Altford.”

“How far back did the ancient history lecture go?” the General asked, but before Altford could reply, the telephone rang. The General murmured an apology, rose and crossed the room to answer it.

Partain looked at Jessica Carver and said, “Want to go to Henry Viar’s funeral tomorrow?”

“Why should I?”

“There’re a couple of people I’d like you to meet. Nick Patrokis and Viar’s daughter, Shawnee.”

She looked at him for a moment and said, “You want a second opinion on her, don’t you?”

It was then that the General said the call was for Altford. She gave him an inquiring look before reaching for the phone, and the General, his hand over its mouthpiece, murmured, “Sylvia.”

“Aw, shit,” Altford said, took the phone, put it to her ear and said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

She listened, then shuddered visibly, sucked in a deep breath and used it to say, “I’m so sorry, Sylvia, so very, very sorry. Where is he?” She listened, nodded and said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Back at the fireplace, the General at her side, Altford took another deep breath and said, “Jerry’s been shot. He’s in intensive care at Sib-ley and they don’t know if he’ll make it. That was Sylvia. His wife. I have to be there.”

“I’ll drive you, if the General will lend us his car,” Partain said.

“Of course,” Winfield said.

Millicent Altford studied Partain for a second or two, then nodded and said with great formality, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Partain.”