She wondered about the disclaimer. Perhaps it explained the attack on Reinhardt, but what about Mr. McGiever? Or was Hayes even aware of the car bombing?
“Freddy seems to have vanished,” he was saying. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me where he is.”
“Don’t you know?” she said. “I mean, I thought you’d sent him away on business.”
“I have no idea where he is. Believe me, Freddy could fly to the moon and stay there, for all I care. Unfortunately, he’s gone off with a fair sum of my money. My people think he may not have succeeded in getting it out of the country. I want it back.” He paused to stare at her, head cocked. Nicole’s attention was diverted. On the other side of the fireplace, something she’d taken for an untidy pile of animal skins trembled into life. She watched in alarm as a huge canine head rose out of the heap, and a pair of yellow eyes stared out at her. It was an enormous, shaggy dog, she realized—no, two dogs—snoozing next to the fire.
She looked back at Hayes. “Maybe he hid it somewhere in the U.K.,” he was saying. “I was hoping that you, Muriel, might be able to fill us in on the details.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said quietly. “As a matter of fact, he emptied out our bank account. Left me without a cent. You can imagine the position that puts me in.” She was improvising, making it up as she went along.
He gave a smile. “Then you understand it’s in your interest to cooperate.”
“Honestly, Mr. Hayes …”
“Alex,” he said. “Please.”
“Look, Alex …”
“Excellent.” He nodded encouragingly.
“I really wish I did know something,” she went on. “Then I’d tell you and you’d let me go.” She licked her lips, then couldn’t help adding, “When are you going to let me go?”
“All we want is a little information,” he said, ignoring the question. “If Freddy didn’t confide in you, then we can put our heads together and work out where he might have put it. After all, you’re married to the man, and we men are such creatures of habit.”
Again, he paused to study her. “Perhaps you’re in need of pecuniary assistance. Well, I’m a very soft touch, always have been. It’s just that Freddy took a little more than I can afford to lose at the moment.”
“Really?” she said. “May I ask how much?”
“Nearly a million pounds.”
“A million?” she repeated, as if this were news to her. “Well, that is a lot of money to lose, even for someone like you.”
He stared at her. “Someone like me?”
“An international …” she hesitated a moment, then added “um—dealer.”
The word hung in the air. Then he gave a whoop of laughter. “What a load of rubbish,” he said. “I’m just a little pot peddler, and they insist on portraying me as an international bogeyman. I never sell hard drugs, you know, only cannabis, which isn’t nearly as lucrative as you might imagine. But at least I can live with myself. Cannabis has never hurt anyone in the 8,000 years that men…” he paused and gave a quick nod in her direction, “yes, and women, have been using it.”
The moment he said this, Nicole recognized the source of the odd herbal smell she’d noticed. It was marijuana. This explained the man’s garrulousness and his odd behavior. He’d been smoking weed.
“And look at the huge police effort they’re putting into apprehending me.” He chuckled. “Forgive me. You’re not amused, but it’s quite a joke. I suppose I should be flattered. They claim I have billions tucked away in banks all over the world when all I am is a glorified cashier. Money comes in, but it goes out.” His smile disappeared. “Believe me, it does go out. My overheads are staggering. And your Freddy …”
He got up and walked over to the window to stare out, his mood gone sour.
Time passed, and Nicole began to wonder if he’d forgotten her. “Look,” she finally said, “none of this makes sense. If Freddy really did take that money, why would he leave the country without it? Isn’t that what you think? That he went abroad?”
“That’s our best hunch.” He still had his back to her and was gazing out the window.
“Alex, I really don’t know anything. Why can’t you just let me go?”
He turned and looked at her. “Of course I’ll let you go. What did you think? That I was planning to sell you into white slavery?”
When she didn’t reply, he let out an exasperated laugh. “Christ, that look on your face. You really do think I’m some sort of monster. I assure you, I’m extremely nonviolent. Just look at this shooting lodge. Since I bought it, I’ve never permitted a single person to fire a gun here. I’m a bloody vegetarian, for heaven’s sake.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then shook his head. “Never mind, Muriel. Your opinion of me isn’t important. But you will have to cooperate. Otherwise I’m afraid I’m going have to take steps we’ll both find extremely unpleasant.
“If you choose not to be helpful,” he went on, “well, that’s your prerogative.” He said this reproachfully, as if it certainly wouldn’t have been his choice, or the choice of any reasonable person. “Now, I want you to go back to your room and think this over very carefully.”
He reached over to push a buzzer on the wall and then resumed his vigil at the window.
He didn’t speak again. Nor did he look around, even when she got up and made her way to the door. As she was turning the doorknob, she paused to look back. Hayes, still staring out the window, didn’t seem to notice she was leaving, but over by the fireplace, one of the dogs was rising to its feet.
Hastily, she stepped out into the hall and shut the door. Before she had a chance to turn around, someone grabbed her. Her heart dropped to her shoes as he shoved her against the wall, then pulled her around to face him. It was the man from the hotel, the one who’d struck Reinhardt with the gun. She drew in a big gulp of air and screamed.
The library door opened. “That’s all right, Ben,” Hayes said. “Catherine will see her back to her room.”
“Catherine isn’t here, sir,” the man said.
“She’s on her way. Just give Mrs. Lowry a seat out there. Oh, and Ben ?”
“Yes, sir?”
“While she’s waiting, I strongly suggest you keep an eye on her.”
On the way back to the room, Catherine walked beside Nicole with a firm grip on her arm. As they climbed the stairs, Nicole stopped, resisting Catherine’s determined pull, for a look at something she hadn’t noticed on the way down — the skin of a leopard that was hanging like a tapestry on the staircase wall. The creature had been slit down the belly and hung to display its luxuriant, spotted back. The legs were splayed outward, the tail sadly flattened and drooping toward the floor. The animal’s large, majestic head, the only part that remained three dimensional, pointed upward. Nicole couldn’t see its eyes, and for that she was grateful.
Once again, she thought of Hayes’ disavowal of violence. Even if she’d believed him, the creature’s remains were proof that he was lying. No self-respecting vegetarian would leave something like this hanging on the wall, even if it had come with the house.
As they reached the third floor, she heard voices. The door to her room was standing open; inside, two young women were busy cleaning. They were dressed in matching cotton dresses of the same gray fabric as Catherine’s smock. One girl was vacuuming the rug while the other pulled fresh towels from a cart. They both looked up and stared as Catherine steered Nicole into the room. Then, after a nervous exchange of glances, the two returned to their tasks.
As Catherine helped her back into her nightgown, Nicole’s eyes fell on the cleaning cart, parked near the foot of the bed. A set of keys dangled from the handle.
Once she had Nicole changed, Catherine busied herself folding up the jeans and sweater. Nicole could see the woman planned to take the clothes away. This was another way of controlling her, making sure she didn’t escape.
Nicole concentrated on the keys, trying to think o
f a way to get her hands on them. Then it came to her. She turned to Catherine and said, “I have a terrible headache. Could I please have some aspirin?”
Catherine patted the pockets of her smock and, finding nothing, turned and went into the bathroom, where a cleaning girl had just disappeared with fresh towels. Now only one girl remained in the room.
Nicole made an anguished face at her, silently mouthing, “Help me, help me,” over and over. The girl’s eyes grew very wide. She gaped at Nicole for a moment, then turned on the vacuum cleaner and steered it into the opposite corner, where she busied herself running the machine back and forth over the same spot.
As soon as the girl’s back was turned, Nicole moved to the supply cart, grabbed the keys and tossed them under the bed. Just as she’d hoped, the roar of the vacuum cleaner covered any noise they might have made hitting the floor.
She’d just straightened up when Catherine reemerged from the bathroom, carrying a glass of water. She handed the glass to Nicole along with two white pills. Then she stood and waited for Nicole to swallow them. Nicole prayed they were nothing stronger than aspirin.
Catherine and the other two gathered their cleaning gear onto the cart and wheeled it out of the room. The door closed behind them, and there was a long silence. Nicole held her breath, picturing the three of them searching the cart, then going through their pockets for the missing keys.
Then a key turned in the lock, and Nicole realized that the job of securing the door would have fallen to Catherine, since Catherine was in charge. Even when the cleaning crew noticed their keys were missing, they might not report it for fear of being fired.
When the hallway was quiet, Nicole retrieved the keys under the bed. She worked her way through them until she found one that unlocked the door to the hall. She opened it a crack, peered into the empty hallway, then closed and relocked it.
She remembered Hayes’ threat: “If you choose not to be helpful, that’s your choice.” What would they try next? Torture? Putting a gun to her head?
She had to get away before they came back for her. But first, there was the matter of clothes. She couldn’t leave the house dressed only in a thin nightgown.
Nicole went over to the armoire; after trying several keys, she found one that worked. Inside, an assortment of garments was neatly arranged on hangers. The clothes, mainly black evening wear in a number of sizes, seemed intended for the use of houseguests who might have forgotten something essential for a weekend in the country. This, she realized, also explained the cache of makeup in the vanity table.
She pulled out the most promising item: a lightweight wool jersey jumpsuit studded with rhinestones. It was too big, a size eight, but after rolling up the sleeves and pant legs and cinching the middle with the belt from a cocktail dress, she decided it would do. Draped over a hook was a royal blue maillot swimsuit, plain and utilitarian, the sort of thing a channel swimmer might wear. Hanging beneath it was an aqua terrycloth beach coat. This, she decided, could be worn over the jumpsuit as an extra layer against the chill. She pulled it down and put it over her arm.
On the bottom of the armoire sat several pairs of black kidskin pumps with impossibly high heels; she decided against them.
As she closed the armoire, she noticed the light reflect on something on top. She had to stand on tiptoe to get a look. When she saw it was a black purse, she felt a surge of hope. Could it be the one she’d lost? She grabbed the chair from the vanity and climbed up to get it.
To her disappointment, the purse was an unfamiliar black clutch, worn but of good quality, with an oversized gold clasp. Among the items inside was a passport. With a sense of foreboding, she opened it and stared at the photo.
A headshot of Alice stared back at her, the face framed with an unfamiliar blonde pageboy cut. The name under the picture read, “Muriel B. Lowry.”
Twenty-Four
Nicole stared at the woman in the passport photo, and her heart froze. What could this possibly mean? That the woman she’d known as Alice was really Muriel Lowry? That everything Alice — or Muriel — had told her was a lie?
She remembered, suddenly, the body the police had identified as Alice McConnehy. At the time, Nicole had thought Keaton was lying; how could Alice have been dead for several days when she herself had seen Alice the afternoon before? Now it struck her that Keaton might have been telling the truth. The real Alice was dead, and Muriel Lowry had taken her identity for reasons of her own. Nicole wondered how she could have been so gullible. She’d believed Muriel’s story — every word of it—even the overblown melodrama about her dead brother.
As she stared at the passport, other questions presented themselves. Had Muriel been in this house, this very room? When? And what had become of her? The purse didn’t appear to be dusty, which suggested it hadn’t been here long. She took it to the bed and dumped out the contents. Inside was a wallet, in which she found a £100 note. It was tightly folded into a square, just like the £20 note she’d found in the backpack.
She picked up the passport and examined it more carefully. The dark blue cover was stamped with the familiar gold eagle and the words United States of America. This confirmed at least one part of Alice/Muriel’s story: that she was an American and not a Brit. Then she remembered the musical pattern of her speech, the heavy Irish accent. My God, even that had been fake.
When she studied the photo more closely, she could see a slight resemblance between herself and the other woman. With her hair blonde, as it was in the picture, Muriel’s coloring was similar, and there was something about her mouth and the shape of her face. This made it easier to understand why Chazz and Kevin might have confused her with Muriel.
She walked over to the window and stared out, still struggling to understand. Okay, she thought, maybe Muriel had been in this house as a guest or a prisoner. But since Chazz and Kevin were part of Hayes’ London operation, maybe they weren’t here at the same time.
She thought of the implications of her own attempt to pass herself off as Muriel. Hayes would know she was lying, and this lie compounded her problems. But what did it matter? Hayes already had a pretty good hunch that she might know where his money was.
Nicole took another look at the items from the purse. Aside from Muriel’s passport, there was a checkbook with her name and address, a driver’s license, and a Barclay’s’ Visa card. These weren’t the sort of things a person easily left behind.
She glanced at her watch. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
She returned the purse to the top of the armoire, shoving it all the way to the back. Then she unlocked the door to the hall and leaned out. The corridor was empty, and she still didn’t see any sign of a surveillance camera. Reassured, she left the room and relocked the door.
At the rear of the house, Nicole found an alcove leading to the back stairs. This area hadn’t been modernized like the rest of the house, and it was easy to imagine the armies of servants who must have used the steep, winding staircase when the place was new. The walls of the stairwell were done in ceramic tiles: the lower half in a checkerboard of maroon and mustard, the upper part in faded yellow and dull, metallic blue. Dominating all was a narrow window of multicolored glass that appeared to reach all the way to the bottom floor.
She gripped the rail at the top and looked down. Below her, the wrought-iron staircase spiraled in a sharp, dizzying descent. She carefully placed her bare feet, one at a time, on the cold metal slats. As she descended, a man’s voice floated up from a lower floor. He spoke in a harsh tone that suggested an argument, but she couldn’t catch enough to make sense of it.
Abruptly, on the second landing, the spiral staircase became a broad, carpeted one. She was almost down the next flight when a door opened below. She hesitated, then retreated a few steps before turning to scramble back up the stairs.
Reaching the landing, Nicole opened the door, entered a dim hallway, and pressed herself against the wall, her heart racing until the footsteps hurried on up t
he stairs. A door slammed above, and the house was quiet again.
When she decided it was safe, she continued down the stairs to the bottom. Here she encountered two closed doors. The one directly ahead, where the staircase would logically continue downward, was locked.
The other door opened into an enormous laundry room. It was warm and steamy, the air charged with the chugging and churning of several industrial-size washers and dryers. Passing through, Nicole caught sight of an impressively-equipped workbench in one corner, complete with lathe and electric saw. She headed for a large alcove on the other side of the room that appeared to lead to an exit. Sure enough, the door to the garden was only a few steps away. Outside, daylight was fading. Through the slightly warped glass, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of neatly manicured lawn.
Next to the door, a rack held rows of rubber rain boots in a variety of sizes and colors. She grabbed a yellow pair that seemed about her size and tucked them under her arm.
Just as she’d expected, the back door was locked. She was reaching into her pocket for the keys when she noticed the lock, which appeared to date back to the original construction of the house. The keyhole was perhaps triple the size of a modern one, far too large for any of the keys on the stolen ring. She didn’t even bother trying them.
If this door was locked, the other exits probably were, too. To get out, she had to find the right key or get her hands on a tool that could be used to pick the lock.
She paused, standing first on one leg and then the other to pull on the rubber boots. Then she made her way back to the laundry room. All manner of tools were hung on a pegboard over the corner workbench. She located an awl that appeared the right size and shape, as well as a small screwdriver. In a drawer, she found a small folding knife and a leather pouch for carrying the tools.
Nicole put these things in her pocket and was checking around for a flashlight when she heard footsteps. In a panic, she looked around for a hiding place. Her eyes fell on a small closet with panels of blue and white checked fabric hanging over the doorway. She darted inside where she had to fight for space among a forest of brooms and mops.
The Swap Page 25