Quicksilver (Nameless Detective) Read Free Page B

doors—angry sounds in the stillness.
    I said, “What was it you wanted to see me about, Mrs. Gage? Your husband mentioned something about presents, but he didn’t elaborate.”
    “I’m glad he didn’t. He gets emotional on the subject.”
    “What sort of presents are they?”
    “Expensive ones. Different pieces of jewelry. The latest was a white jade ring.”
    “Who’s sending them to you?”
    “I don’t know,” she said.
    I raised an eyebrow.
    “That’s the problem,” she said. “That’s why I want to hire you —to find out who’s doing it.”
    “Let me get this straight. These gifts come in the mail?”
    “Yes. First-class.”
    “No return address?”
    “None.”
    “Insured?”
    “No.”
    “Postmarked where?”
    “Here in the city—all of them.”
    “No accompanying notes or anything?”
    “Only with the first one. A one-line note.”
    “What did it say?”
    “It said, ‘With all the love in my heart.’ ”
    “Just that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you still have the note?”
    She nodded. “I saved it and the wrappings from the last couple of packages. I’ll have Art get them for you. The jewelry, too.”
    “When did the first package arrive?”
    “A little over two months ago.”
    “How many others have there been?”
    “Three. One last Saturday, another yesterday.”
    “And you say they all contained expensive jewelry?”
    “Yes. Four pieces, each one different, worth a total of over eight thousand dollars. I had them appraised.”
    “That’s a lot of money for anonymous gifts.”
    “Exactly,” she said.
    “And you have no idea at all who’s sending them?”
    “None. It’s driving Art crazy. He thinks I either had or am having an affair.” She gave me a level look. “He’s wrong. If they were that sort of present I certainly wouldn’t have told him about them, would I?”
    “I don’t suppose you would.”
    “Art is like a little boy sometimes,” she said, and the tone of her voice indicated she felt that was pretty much true of all men. I decided I would not have liked being married to her. But then, I wouldn’t be her type anyhow. Art Gage was her type; I had a feeling she hadn’t picked him by accident.
    I said, “Is your husband’s jealousy the reason you decided to hire a private detective?”
    “Not really. At first the presents were amusing; every woman likes the idea of a secret admirer. But now I’m getting worried. Whoever he is, he has to be at least a little crazy. Who knows what he might do?”
    I made an agreeing noise: she was right.
    “I want to know who he is,” she said, “and I want him to stop sending me things. And I don’t want him bothering me in any other way.”
    “Has he bothered you in any other way? Anonymous phone calls, cars following you, anything like that?”
    “No. Just the gifts. I’ll even give the jewelry back to him if that’s what it takes.”
    “You mean you’d prefer to keep it?”
    “Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”
    I just looked at her.
    “Well,” she said, “he’s put me through all this worry. And now there’s the expense of hiring a detective. Don’t let this house fool you; Art’s dad is a realtor and he got it for us cheap and gave us part of the down payment as a wedding present. We aren’t all that well off. Designing wallpaper makes us a good living, but there’s no extra money for luxury items. And I like nice things. What woman doesn’ t?”
    Neat rationalizations. But I was not going to argue with her; what she did with the jewelry was her business, not mine.
    “Your admirer is probably somebody you know,” I said. “It usually works that way. Do you have many male friends?”
    “Not many, no. Mutual friends of Art’s and mine, mostly. But none of them has eight thousand dollars to spend on fancy jewelry. Besides, they’re all perfectly normal guys.”
    Sure, I thought. Except that nobody knows what goes on inside another person’s head. Any number of “perfectly normal” people