Free The Greenwich Apartments by Peter Corris Page A

get much out of Jackie. I’ve never been able to decide whether it’s because she hasn’t got anything to say or because she thinks talking’ll put lines on her face. Have a drink, full measure, and put that bloody gun away.’
    I put the gun in my pocket and took out the photograph. I let Darcy put the drink on a table beside one of the armchairs. I hadn’t had a full view of him while he made it and I’ve seen
The Maltese Falcon
three times. Ever since Gutman drugged Spade I’ve watched how the drinks are made. I put the photograph on the back of the couch beside a woman’s silk-lined trench coat that was thrown across it. Half-covered by the coat was a leather shoulder bag with a nameplate reading ‘Jackie George’ on it. ‘That’s you in this picture, isn’t it?’ I said.
    He had to take a few steps to look. He bent over, didn’t touch it. ‘Looks like it. So what?’
    â€˜Know the woman?’
    He looked again and sipped his drink. ‘Maybe.’
    â€˜Seen her lately?’
    He shook his head. Just then, he wasn’t smiling. His big, tanned face seemed to be deciding whether to set into an attitude of anger or amusement. In the end, it stayed neutral. He glanced across at Jackie who was sitting with her back straight, chin up, knees together, looking out the window expressionlessly. Her stillness and mine seemed to annoy Darcy; he swung around and raised his glass. ‘To Jackie,’ he said, ‘the chatterbox.’ He laughed. ‘Come on, Hardy. What’s this all about. Have a drink, man.’
    I wanted a drink. I went over to the bar and poured some Scotch from the decanter into a glass. Darcy nodded approvingly as I squirted in some soda.
    â€˜That’s the way. Now …’
    â€˜I want information on the woman in that photograph.’
    â€˜Why?’
    I drank some Scotch, considered telling him, but decided against it. It’s all a horse-trade in this business, and he hadn’t told me anything at all yet. ‘Her name is Tania Bourke. Looks to me as if you two were on the way to something here.’ I nodded at the photograph.
    Jackie’s eyes swung towards the couch. Just for a second and with no movement of the head. That was all, but I saw it. Darcy chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. Look, what is this? A few snaps of friends at lunch somewhere? I go to lunch every day. Sometimes I go twice a day, don’t I Jackie?’ He slapped his stomach as if to show the results. Jackie didn’t respond except to finish her drink, stand up straight-legged and go over to the bar to make another. As she passed the couch she looked at the photograph.
    â€˜Maybe you know the man who took the picture?’
    â€˜Maybe. What is he? Some faggot in a pink shirt?’
    â€˜He’s been described as ordinary. Wears a blue uniform.’
    He spread his hands. ‘I ask you. A cop, a parking attendant, petrol station guy? Hardy. I’m getting bored with this. I thought you’d be more interesting to meet.’
    Something about his manner told me he was lying. He was alerted to danger. It was there in the body language—the way he raised his glass and pulled at the knee of his trousers. It was plain in the way he shot looks across at Jackie who’d resumed her statue impersonation. ‘Maybe I can get something out of the Geordie,’ I said. ‘He probably scares the girls to death with those keys but …’
    â€˜He’s only been with me a year.’
Relief in the way he said it?
I thought.
    â€˜Yeah, this goes further back than that,’ I said.‘Maybe two years, maybe three.’ Jackie took a drink. I stood and collected the photograph. ‘Well, I know you’re lying but it’d be messy beating it out of you.’ I put my glass back on the bar. ‘Jackie’d get blood on her blouse and we’d have Connelly back here with his keys or