done. But I don’t have to know why it was done, or by whom.”
“Or what Luke was doing in that apartment.”
“None of that. I put a couple of pieces of jewelry in the tub with him, and I rifled some drawers in the bedroom and took some other jewelry away with me. That was to give the cops an easy answer to some of those questions. He was committing a burglary, he had a partner, the partner killed him. And no, I don’t think that’s what happened, but I don’t honestly care what happened.”
“You don’t?”
“I’ve got enough things to worry about,” I said. “Like making sure they drop the charges against me. And finding a way to keep from losing the store.”
“The store,” she said. “I forgot about that, with everything that’s been going on. Bernie, your problems are over!”
“They are?”
“You’ve got the cards, haven’t you? All you have to do is give them to Borden Stoppelgard in exchange for a long-term extension of your lease. Wasn’t that the deal he offered you?”
“More or less.”
“That’s why you’re all dressed up. You’re having lunch with Borden Stoppelgard, aren’t you?”
“No, but you’re close.”
“I’m close? I don’t know what that means. Who’s close to Borden Stoppelgard?”
“Nobody who can help it.”
“But—”
“I’d better get going,” I said. “I don’t want to keep Marty waiting.”
“Marty? Marty Gilmartin?”
“At his club,” I said. “Pretty fancy, huh? I’ll tell you all about it.”
The Pretenders have as their clubhouse a five-story Greek Revival mansion facing Gramercy Park. I walked up Irving Place and arrived no more than three minutes late for my one o’clock lunch date. I gave my name to the liveried attendant at the desk and he informed me that Mr. Gilmartin was awaiting me in the lounge.
I walked down a half flight of carpeted stairs and into a cozy wood-paneled room with a bar at one end and a pool table at the other. Two men stood, cues in hand, while a third took aim at a shot that didn’t look terribly promising. Several stood at the bar, and eight or ten others were grouped in twos and threes at dark wooden tables. They were all over thirty-five, they all wore jackets and ties, and one of them was Martin Gilmartin.
Truth to tell, he wasn’t terribly hard to find. He was seated by himself with a newspaper and a drink, and he looked up with interest when I entered the room. I approached him and said, “Mr. Gilmartin?” and he got to his feet and said, “Mr. Rhodenbarr?” and we shook hands. I apologized for my late arrival and he assured me that was nonsense, I wasn’t late at all. He was an elegant man, tall and slender and silver-haired, splendidly turned out in a tan suit, a deep blue shirt with a contrasting white collar, and a light blue tie. His shoes were cap toes, and looked remarkably like the pair I’d worn home from Harlan Nugent’s the previous morning, although those had been black. Gilmartin’s were a rich walnut brown.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “I told you that you’d need a jacket here, but I didn’t think to mention we’re stuffy enough to require a tie as well. I see they made you put on one of those horrors they’ve got hanging in the cloakroom.”
“Actually, it’s my own tie.”
“And a very nice one, too,” he said smoothly. “We could eat down here, but it’s quieter and a bit more private upstairs in the dining room. Does that sound all right to you?”
I said it was fine and he led me up the stairs and down a hallway to the dining room, pointing out various objects of interest along the way. The ceilings were high, the floors deeply carpeted, and the furniture ran to a lot of dark wood and red leather. The walls were thickly hung with portraits, all of them elaborately framed and almost all of them of actors and actresses.
“Notice the two portraits on either side of the fireplace,” he said. “They’re in matching frames, although they’re the work of two different artists. I don’t suppose you recognize the subjects?” I didn’t. “We refer to them affectionately as the honorary founders of the club. The chap on the left is James Stuart, and on the right we have his son, Charles Stuart. You may remember him as Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
“Pretenders to the English throne.”
“Very good. James called himself James III, but history has called him the Old Pretender, and his son the Young