Night Secrets by Thomas H. Cook Page B

there. I followed her, so I don’t know who picked it up.”
    â€œAre you sure it was—what do you call it—a drop?”
    â€œNo,” Frank admitted. “It’s only a possibility.”
    Phillips’s eyes looked bewildered, then hardened. “I want you to find out everything you can about this man, this Preston R. Devine,” he said vehemently. “And that doctor too.”
    Frank nodded.
    â€œI don’t care what it costs,” Phillips added. Then he stood up. “No one betrays me, Mr. Clemons,” he said darkly. “No one.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, then act. “Virginia and I are going to be out of the city tomorrow morning,” he said, “so you can work on the doctor and that other man.”
    Frank nodded.
    Phillips looked at him. “And I suppose I should show you this,” he said reluctantly, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “It was in her coat,” he added. “I found it yesterday.”
    Frank took the slip and looked at it. It was a pawn ticket from a shop at Eighth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, only a short walk from his office.
    â€œIt looks like she’s been pawning things,” Phillips said. “Probably her jewelry.”
    Frank sank the ticket into his jacket pocket. “I’ll look into it,” he said.
    Phillips nodded. “Yes,” he said crisply. “Thank you.”
    Frank walked him to the door, opened it and waited as Phillips walked past him and into the corridor. For a moment he faced the grim brick wall, then suddenly he turned back toward Frank. “Do you think she’s having an affair?” he asked urgently.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, if she is,” Phillips said, “what would pawning her jewelry and dropping something in Central Park have to do with it?”
    Frank shook his head. “That’s what I’m going to have to find out,” he said.
    The man behind the wire eyed him suspiciously as he came through the door.
    Frank walked up to the counter and placed the lamp Karen had given him on top of it.
    The man’s attention shifted to the lamp. His hand moved gently up its long slender neck. “It’s a nice piece,” he said. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” He looked at Frank and shrugged. “But I don’t get too many calls for something this nice.”
    â€œWhat’s it worth?” Frank asked.
    â€œAt an antique store, you’d get more,” the man told him. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Over on the East Side, they can sell it. But here, the Avenue? People want guitars, knives, ashtrays from Atlantic City. This kind of thing, so nice, they don’t know from something like this.” He laughed to himself. “To the people who come in here, a lamp is something you use to see the bills with. You know what I mean? It don’t mean nothing, but for light.” He touched the lamp again, caressing its stained-glass shade. “This is more what you’d call an art piece, you see what I’m saying? You’d do better on the East Side.”
    â€œI don’t want to go over to the East Side,” Frank said. “What’s it worth to you?”
    The man looked the lamp over again, then shrugged. “I could go a couple hundred bucks.”
    â€œOkay,” Frank said immediately. “But I don’t want the money.”
    The man stepped back slightly. “What is this?” he asked darkly. “I got cameras all over this place. Don’t try nothing.”
    â€œA camera’s what I need,” Frank said. “The one I was using got broken, and I need another one. I was thinking of a trade. For the lamp.”
    The man looked at him unbelievingly. “You want to trade me this lamp for a camera?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Frank said. “I need it for my work.” He pulled out his card and gave