Where Is Bianca? Read Online Free Page B

it.…”
    Samuelson returned with a manila envelope. He handed the envelope to Corrigan.
    A silver ring slid from the envelope to Corrigan’s palm. Attached to the ring was a tag marked with an identification number. Corrigan offered the ring to Lessard.
    Lessard stared at it without touching it. Then he shut his eyes.
    â€œIt’s Bianca’s ring,” he said.
    Corrigan returned the ring to the envelope and handed it to Samuelson. The doctor glanced briefly at Lessard. Then he went out. He did not come back.
    Lessard struggled to his feet His face looked like soft putty that was perceptibly losing shape. He looked ten years older than when he had come in.
    â€œAside from the ring,” Corrigan said. He felt sorry for the man, regardless of other considerations. The fellow had slept with what lay in the drawer. He would have nightmares for the rest of his life, dreams in which he embraced what the rats had left. “Aside from the ring, did you spot anything that pinpoints the body as your wife’s?”
    Lessard shuddered. “No. No.”
    â€œWell.” Corrigan shrugged. “We’ll have to keep going until we pin the ID down.”
    â€œThe ring,” Chuck Baer said.
    â€œWe can’t accept it as conclusive, Chuck, although of course it’s a long step in Mrs. Lessard’s direction. By the way, Mr. Lessard, who is in charge of the Fielding enterprises? Who’s taken care of the administration of the business since the death of your wife’s parents?”
    â€œWhat?”
    Corrigan repeated himself patiently.
    â€œOh.” Lessard’s color was coming back. “A girl named Jean Ainsley. One of those bright young career women. I believe she’s been with the Fielding enterprises for five or six years. Hails from California. Do I have to answer any more questions, Captain?”
    â€œNo, of course not. Sorry I’ve had to put you through this. We’ll be in touch.”
    Baer said, “I’ll drop you off at your place if you’d like, Mr Lessard.”
    â€œWould you?” Lessard said emptily.
    After they left, Corrigan consulted a Manhattan directory and found that Fielding Theatrical Realty had offices in a building in the 1600 block on Broadway. He dialed, identified himself, and asked for Miss Ainsley. The girl at the switchboard kept him waiting a full minute.
    He listened to a warmly pleasant voice identify its owner as Jean Ainsley. Somehow, it did not fit in with his image of a career girl.
    â€œWhat can I possibly do for a police officer, Captain Corrigan?”
    â€œThere’s a matter concerning your employer I have to discuss with you. How soon can we get together?”
    The other end of the line went silent. Then the warm voice said, “Right after lunch, if that’s all right with you. I get back at two.”
    Jean Ainsley turned from the phone on her blond wood desk to the man standing at the tall window in her office. He stood in a contemplative, almost brooding, posture, as if he were philosophizing over the vanity of the minute movements on the streets below.
    Like some statue by Rodin, Jean thought. But it’s just a pose. He’s the model, not the sculpture. Philosophy was far from his thoughts. He was engaged in his favorite pastime, contemplating himself. And she loved him anyway. That was the hell of it.
    At fifty-two, Carlton Ainsley still presented a young man’s waistline; his broad shoulders were still without a hint of curvature. The profile, the walking stick, the elkskin gloves, the carnation in his lapel, shrieked “actor.” There were dozens like him at the Lambs’ Club. His hair was a mane thrown back from the high forehead. Its coloration was striking, an intense black dusted with pulverized silver.
    Just look at him, Jean thought, the youth of him, after all those years of drinking and women and Hollywood parties; even the years in that other horrid place