Crang Plays the Ace by Jack Batten

taking in both Catalano and me, “I’ve had cause to question the nature of the relationship between my cousin and Charles Grimaldi.”
    â€œOh-oh,” I said, “they playing footsy around the office?”
    â€œDon’t be vulgar, Mr. Crang,” Wansborough said. “It’s simply that they may be spending more time together socially than is strictly necessary in business. Or so I’m informed by my wife’s friends.”
    â€œWhat are we talking about here?” I said. “Something more than working lunches? That kind of thing?”
    My questions were making Wansborough uncomfortable.
    â€œI concede it’s hearsay, Mr. Crang,” he said. “But twice, different friends of my wife have reported seeing the two of them, Alice and Grimaldi, dining out around town.”
    â€œTwice isn’t much.”
    â€œAlice was observed holding his hand.”
    â€œWell, well, handsy can definitely lead to footsy.”
    â€œWhatever it is,” Wansborough said, “it wouldn’t do for you to create an upset within the family by revealing too much to Alice.”
    â€œThere might be an upset down the line.”
    â€œNot if all of us handle our tasks with due precaution.”
    I swallowed the rest of my drink and ripped the doodle off the small white pad in front of me. As I left, Tom Catalano was talking soothing words to Wansborough. I walked down the hushed corridor and out of the building.
    An affair between Alice Brackley and Charles Grimaldi? This was more like it. Not just the suspicion of crime at Ace but the chance of romance, passion, seething emotions.

14
    A LICE BRACKLEY was one of those women who have a tremor in their voices. She sounded like Loretta Young on the other end of the line. I called her at the Ace offices on Wednesday afternoon. After I’d introduced myself, and told her I was a lawyer and wanted to speak to her on a matter that concerned a client of mine, she added a note of defensiveness to the tremor.
    â€œWhat is it in relation to?” she asked.
    â€œI’d rather discuss that when we meet.”
    â€œI see,” she said. “I don’t know you.”
    It was a statement, not a question.
    â€œI’m as cute as the dickens and I promise to be charming, Ms. Brackley.”
    â€œI haven’t the time to waste on frivolous conversation.”
    â€œMeet with me and you won’t find it unrewarding.”
    There was a blank from her end of the line.
    â€œCrang?” she said. “Your name was Crang?”
    This time it was a question.
    â€œIt’s still Crang,” I said.
    â€œYes, all right.” She seemed to want me off her phone. “But it won’t be here at the offices. I’ll meet you in the bar on the first floor of the Four Seasons Hotel at six o’clock this evening. Do you know it?”
    â€œThe bar’s called La Serre.” I wasn’t what you could call a regular.
    She put down the phone without saying goodbye.
    I dressed to match the tasteful opulence of the meeting place. Charcoal-grey trousers, a cream-coloured double-breasted summer jacket, a blue buttoned-down Brooks Brothers shirt that I bought the year I took Annie to the Kools Jazz Festival in New York City, navy blue tie with red polka dots, and shiny black unadorned loafers. I looked in the full-length mirror on the hall door outside my bathroom and whistled. Too much elegance to waste on Alice Brackley. I phoned Annie and got her answering machine. I told it that if its owner wanted to be swept off her feet she should show up in the Four Seasons bar at seven o’clock that evening.
    A pianist plays Rodgers and Hart after nine in La Serre. Until then, patrons make do with the decor. It runs to the kind of look that makes me feel comfortable in a bar—dark wood, exposed brick, dim lighting. A forest of ficus benjamina grows out of the planters scattered among the tables. Martinis cost five