Crimson Jade

by George B Mair

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Petra. ‘If you want to die fairly easily just carry on and give me the story.’

  Grant drew on his imagination and tried to estimate what might really have happened. ‘So some years passed, and then Helena Mauriac met my old friend Maya, a Russian ballerina whom I smuggled out of the U.S.S.R. some years ago. Maya gave me a good write-up as a strong-arm man and Mauriac realised that she might be able to use me. Use me to destroy you, I mean, so she tried to get me professionaly interested by hinting that she had heard rumours about a possible assassination on opening night. Then she talked about Scarpia and made me think about double-cross. She even made me argue that women in opera were more dangerous than men and since only two women were listed to figure in the little drama around your dinner table she hoped I would eventually think about Sureen and yourself. Incidentally,’ said Grant quietly, ‘is Sureen still alive?’

  Petra smiled cynically. ‘Do I care? Mauriac and she were ganging up on me. Sureen Socosani knows too much. Schoolgirls talk, and I talked to her about Cyp. She’s known for years that Maria Theresa Bosca was my mother, and she is the only possible person who could have given Mauriac’s mother the facts. Because remember that Mauriac had met her even way back in those days and knew we had been at school together.’

  ‘Petra, darling,’ said Grant gently, ‘why did things blow up today? That bomb? You’ll never sleep easily until you know the facts, the real facts, about that.’

  ‘Which are?’ Cyp interrupted for the first time, and Grant wondered why a naked man and woman could look so normal in a naturist camp, yet seem so sinister as they stood in front of him, their confidence ruffled, yet one part of them still suspicious that he was bluffing.

  Grant’s body was now one vast ache, but he had begun to sense that Krystelle was planning her own next move and it was his job to keep the couple as close together as possible. If his guesses were accurate things would happen fast and when the time came it would be all or nothing. The best he could hope for would be to rivet their attention, no matter how absurd his story might sound.

  ‘Helena Mauriac met you when she was only twenty but beginning to attract attention. And, as I told you, she hated you when it became clear that you were using her. Because artistes, as you know, are jealous about sharing talents. Anyhow! Opera is a world of fantasy, yet during the next few years she watched a real-life story unfold which seemed just as impossible to believe as any operatic theme, and one part of her loved being involved as a silent witness behind the scenes. The rôle appealed to her artistic temperament, and I remember her saying over dinner how really great courtesans were always the power behind both thrones and presidents. But she really meant that she was the unknown sword of Damocles behind Cyp here, and that she could destroy him any time she wanted.

  ‘Then she had discovered a good deal about myself through Maya, and when I arrived she actually felt that destiny had taken a hand. The scene, she believed, was set for a show-down. In fact it was almost incredible: her half-brother Mikel heading one table: the woman she hated heading another: Cyp, who had not only driven her mother’s lover to death but then seduced the woman he had married, at the third. Sureen Socosani, who also knew the truth, had been able to confirm her mother’s suspicions only because Petra had spoken out of turn when they were at school together. And she too was there!’

  He paused. ‘I hope you’ve got the picture. Because it really is slightly grand operatic. Anyhow next day at the Colon she persuaded an electrician to make up a harmless bomb. She used chemicals which are in standard use behind the scenes in a place like the Colon, though I don’t quite understand how the tear gas came to be included. Probably an accidental chemical reaction! But it doesn’t matter anyhow. She came home with her toy and waited until the two people she hated most were in my own room. Her maid probably told her. And of course she had beginner’s luck. She simply walked upstairs on to your sundeck roof, leaned over and glimpsed us sitting together. She then lit the fuse and pitched it through my window.’

  Grant forced himself to smile, in spite of the sweat now running down his cheeks. ‘That bomb took everyone by surprise. Mikel saw the thing explode on his closed circuit television screens and wondered what the hell had happened. Cyp and you probably thought again about the fifth man. But after putting on an act, pretending that you weren’t in a hurry to leave me or let me wash up in peace, you did push off and got to work real fast. Roca was then told to get me out of the room so that you could examine everything in detail yourselves. But he took his instructions too literally and forced me to pitch him through the window. Now to settle a bet, Petra, who did kill him?’

  She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. ‘I did. But get on with your story.’

  ‘You then examined the room, and discovered the television lenses. Because, remember, Mikel had left the place so fast that he forgot, for once, to ease the cameras away and replace the wooden plugs.’ Grant was speaking easily, confident that his guesses were near the mark. ‘You then acted on the belief that he had heard everything which passed between us, and you probably suspected that he would also have a video-tape of our orgy, which meant that unless you took steps to clear up the mess Cyp was going to face many very immediate problems. So you decided that Mikel had to go and planned to kill him while he was talking to me.’

  Grant had long ago learned to respect his own capacity for allowing facts to click and ripple through his mind, and accepting almost any solution which his subconscious ultimately threw up to the surface: yet even he was surprised to see that both Cyp and Petra had again been thrown a fraction off balance by what, he was forced to believe, must have been the general accuracy of his story. Yet it was only a story which had been processed through what Krystelle had come to call the computerising levels of his brain, levels which tossed all the known facts together and then came out with a reasonable solution which would hold water.

  ‘How,’ said Cyp viciously, ‘did you discover all that?’

  They seemed to have forgotten everything else in the room as Petra stared at Grant with an intensity of passion which made her eyes glow like cinders in a fire as their brownness dissolved into pulsating, quivering circles of menace which bored into his mind.

  It was the sort of moment for which Krystelle had been waiting. One level of her own consciousness had watched the drama unfolding around her without recognising any need to interfere until Petra had rung the changes and used her power to dominate her husband. But even then Krystelle had continued to relax, because only through relaxing completely could her muscles lose all their tone, and every joint slowly change shape under the weight of her body. Sweat had also helped, and for over five minutes she had concentrated on confirming that her thin, limp wrists would now slip through the nylon ropes at will. But even then she knew that nothing could be done about her ankles. The best she could hope for was to throw herself forward in an arc at a time when both Cyp and Petra were within easy range and hope to control both, until, somehow, one or other had been forced into setting her free. She knew that Grant realised what she was doing and that he was controlling their attention by what she guessed was an effort, not only of will-power, but of fantastic intellectual concentration joined to a quality intelligence.

  She allowed her full weight to bear upon both wrists and concentrated upon sliding them through the ties when Grant began his reconstruction of the dinner party from Mauriac’s point of view, and her arms had been free for over four minutes, every second of which had been used to encourage return of circulation through aching limbs. Each muscle group had been contracted and relaxed a score of times without attracting one passing suspicious glance but when Grant began to wilt under Petra’s stare Krystelle saw that it was time to act. She always boasted that her skull was harder than any ever made for a pure Caucasian woman and had programmed every move in what she accepted could be a one and only attack. Hands and forearms pressed hard against the board behind her and as she coiled every muscle fo
r maximal take-off they threw her forwards, pivoting her flying body on the ropes around her ankles.

  She lowered her chin and increased power by miraculously pressing forward with her heels as her forehead crashed into Petra’s right temple. She heard the woman gasp, but in the same split second brought Cyp down with her left arm clamped around his neck. They hit the floor together, but his body cushioned the force of her fall and while he was still gasping for breath she fixed both hands under his jaws and drove his head against the floor. Grant thought for a moment that she had gone berserk as she systematically knocked him unconscious, until he appreciated that she was operating with cool method and stopped the instant that he ceased to struggle. Though even then she checked that he wasn’t foxing before she finally rolled painfully away and wriggled into a position which would give her the best chance to reach her ankles.

  Krystelle’s legs were longer than average, a point which helped to set off her unusual beauty but which made it even more difficult for her to handle the ties which now mattered.

  The fact that she paused only to flash a smile towards Grant was proof that she knew she was working against time as she contorted herself into a near-ballet exercise, but with the difference that her legs were widely stretched apart and her feet eight or nine inches above floor level. She was handicapped by lying face down, but after one swift appraising glance at Petra and Cyp she twisted her trunk round until she could grasp her right thigh, and then, using it as a lever climbed towards the ropes, jacked herself into a point of balance on her left buttock and systematically untied the knots. It was the sort of incredible feat of controlled strength which ignored pain, or fear, or self-pity, and which was typical of the girl. ‘Won’t be long, David,’ she said as she kicked her right foot free, but Grant realised that her shortness of breath alone was proof of what the effort had cost her, because Krystelle kept herself in top physical condition and could put out a more action-packed sustained effort than anyone Grant had ever known.

  The rest was simple. Still lying on her back, she wriggled close to the board and dealt with the left side, then double-checked on both Petra and Cyp before crawling across the room to where a knife lay on the floor. Her fingernails were bleeding, and Grant knew that someone would pay a heavy bill in costs before she was finished. Krystelle rated her fingers high and her expressive hands were still one more of the beauty points which attracted attention wherever she went.

  Grant slithered to the floor as she slashed the nylon cord, and for one long blissful moment she clasped him in her arms. ‘David, man,’ she said, and her throaty voice was husky with relief: ‘I don’t like any of this. But we’re on the home stretch, so let’s cool off and then organise.’

  Grant explored a built-in wardrobe while Krystelle poured a long fresh lime from the fridge. His slacks were too big for her, but she had worn them before and looked very fetching with the bottoms rolled up and a tuck round her waist. A towelling T-shirt did fit her reasonably well and Grant was slicking his own hair after changing into hipsters and polo-neck when Krystelle suddenly dived across the room and seized one of the two guns which were in sight. ‘Move, honey,’ she said easily, ‘and you get a slug through your left tit. From side to side and with nothing lethal all the way. Just Krystelle’s trademark. So careful, doll. Savvy?’

  Petra sank back to the floor and Grant decided to play it safe as he bandaged her eyes with a cummerbund from his own evening kit. He felt that Krystelle had earned the right to decide what happened next, but he also knew that for at least another half-hour she would either rest or systematically exercise until she was certain that she had fully recovered from near crucifixion. He also knew that after danger she appreciated a long, tranquil silence and that she would be happy to sit drinking her lime until he himself had, at long last, strung the details of the Brandt-Moreiro-Bosca story together and tied it up with his own briefing back home.

  He could still see Admiral Cooper puffing at his pipe and pretending not to notice that Miss Sidders, his elderly but super-efficient secretary, had now gone anti-smoking and was plaguing him to stop. ‘You go to Buenos Aires,’ he had said. ‘But everything is vague. You’ve met that woman Brandt and she’s said to have some unusual habits, so continue to be rather careful. But we want to know as much as possible about both her brother and husband. The brother is going to an important embassy and some people say he’s mad. But no real evidence. Rumours about nastiness in the jungle. If so he won’t be an acceptable appointment: which always makes for difficulties!

  ‘Then the husband, Mikel Brandt. Two chaps in British intelligence have reported that he’s a Peronista and planning a coup on behalf of the General. Since he’s twenty-plus years younger he could be successor, and we don’t want that either. The Argentines are nice people and a new Peron set-up would disturb the whole of Latin America.’

  Grant’s request for special equipment had been turned down flat. ‘Because this is really just a social exercise, David. No risk element according to those who think they know all the answers.’ And then the Admiral had grinned with deep amusement. ‘But if they’re wrong and I can prove that they risked my best man because of a lot of neurosis about nerve gas or things I’ll have their heads on chargers. Whatever chargers are! So if you do hit trouble make the most of it when you send in your report.’

  Grant watched Krystelle slowly return to normal and again recapped on his briefing. It had boiled down to a few simple suspicions: that Petra was kinky; her ‘brother’ Cyp a suspect psychotic; and her husband a revolutionary. Confirmation was wanted, and if proof was, in fact, collected, then Cyp had to be politically destroyed.

  He felt himself begin to unwind, even although he knew that too many loose ends still remained to clear up. Mauriac, for example. Where was she? And how many of his guesses had really been spot on?

  Sureen Socosani had also been cut down. Grant thought she was suffering from brain damage but could do nothing about it. Yet, as Petra’s only real confidante, she could, under certain circumstances, be a key witness. Meanwhile she had been laid on a divan, and Grant, putting first things first, hoped for the best. The whole affair had been a messy lot of perversions, lies, treachery and lust which made him feel that normal city crime was clean by comparison.

  Krystelle had a fantastic instinct for self-preservation and her senses lived pricked for action at almost any time, but this mission had bothered her. David had been too cool about it: his briefings too casual: his assumptions too reasonable: and his equipment far below acceptable level, though she knew that he was now maximally switched on and converted into a finely tuned fighting machine which could cope with almost anything. And that one part of her mind which had clung to what some people called reality, while she rested her body in a semi-trance, had filed every fact which mattered. Which meant every fact, because who could say what, even now, might turn out to be important?

  She drained the last of her lime and checked on the gun. ‘A talk with Petra,’ she said briefly. ‘And Petra’s going to sing good. Get her into that deep chair, David, but keep her blindfold.’

  The girl allowed herself to be guided by Grant and sat down on the edge of the cushions. ‘Right back,’ snapped Krystelle. ‘Deep into it, Mrs. Mikel Brandt. And play it safe or you get a slug where it can make a big impression.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said the girl. ‘Only a lunatic could expect to get away from this house without being caught. And this is now a police job.’

  Krystelle became very serious. ‘Know something, Petra? I’m not crazy. But you are. Cyp and you are both psychos. And the world will be safer with Mikel in a padded cell. All three of you are plain old-fashioned mad, but sane enough from time to time to bluff and bluster and lie and hate and fight for life and money and power. So David and I don’t quite know what to do with you.’

  ‘I once offered him a million. The offer could still stand.’

  Krystelle grinned broadly. ‘But, Petra, honey, David isn’t allowed to take br
ibes. Not even a million.’ She paused and her laugh became infectious. ‘Though I am. ’Cos I’m not strictly a regular member of David’s outfit. So what do you want me to do to earn a million? And incidentally let’s get it clear from the start: American dollars or sterling?’

  ‘Sterling,’ snapped Petra. ‘A million into the Bank of London and South America tomorrow if you let us both go free and kill Mikel.’

  ‘Well now!’ Krystelle stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘Y’know, David, a million is a lot of money. For a working girl like me a million is almost a fortune.’

  Grant wondered what game she was playing. It was true that no one would say too much if she took whatever she could get, and that her rating was only unpaid unofficial personal assistant to David Grant during a visit to South America. But it was doubtful if she would accept money from Petra, because Krystelle had curiously complicated attitudes about taking personal things from her enemies. On the other hand Grant knew her well enough to estimate that where a million was concerned Krystelle might well be able to swallow her pride.

  ‘When would you pay over this cash?’ she continued. ‘ ’Cos right now I don’t have an account at the London and South America. And something tells me they would ask questions before handing over a million to a girl they didn’t know. ’Specially when the person signing the cheque wasn’t around to confirm that the deal was on the level. Or am I wrong?’

  Petra’s voice became very hard. ‘I can give you my jewels,’ she said at last. ‘All except one necklace from my father. They’re insured for two million American dollars, and should bring you around eight hundred thousand sterling if you sell them in the right places.’

  ‘Honey doll,’ said Krystelle quietly, ‘if there’s one thing I know better than most others it’s exactly where to sell hot jewels. So where are they? In the bank vaults or what?’

  ‘In this house. But how can I trust you?’