"That's unfair."
"I'm sick of it, Sam!" she shrieked. "Hear me. Sick of it! Sick of waiting, sick of worrying, sick of pretending that being Winner's wife is the best thing since-"
"For God's sake! Will you listen to me? Sit down a minute and-"
"I don't want to listen!" She was quivering, shaking with nerves, temper, fear. "Why in God's name should I listen? You never listen to me-"
"Do you think I like the way things are? I've no choice. I've got to go onT"
"Until you drop! Have you looked at yourself lately? Seen how tired you look. Like a beaten old man. A whipped dog! You're down, Sam, but by Christ I won't be dragged down with you. I won't! Won't, won't ..." she collapsed into a flood of tears. I tried to take her into my arms but she shook herself free. "No! NO! It's no good. No fun any more. Dammit, it's not what I want! I won't be sacrificed on the altar of your bloody ego-"
Suddenly an explosion of sound next door rocked the place. The partition wall shivered as something smashed into it. There was a shout of pain, followed by the sound of a chair being knocked over.
Kay screamed. "What are they doing in there? For God's sake is this what you do? Beat people up when they come out for a little fun?"
"Fun? That was fun? Attacking my reputation-" "Reputation? Oh you poor, blind, stupid bastard! Blind, deaf-" Another shattering thump drowned the rest of her words. The noise from the other room was deafening. There was a hell of a crash. Kay set off for the door but I pulled her back. "Kay, will you sit down! Stay here a minute. Give me a chance to see what the hell's happening in there - then we'll talk."
"I don't want to talk. Can't you understand that?" Suddenly the door opened and Paul poked his head round the corner. "Boss, can you spare a minute?" He stopped at the sight of us struggling, resting his eyes on Kay's tear-stained face. Then he mumbled, "I'm sorry but-"
"For Christ's sake, Paul! Can't I have a minute's peace?" He flushed and withdrew just as another terrible crash rocked the place. I cursed aloud and turned back to Kay. I was trembling as much as she was by now. "We've got to talk-"
"There's nothing to talk about." She was crying, her hands to her face, shaking her head. "Nothing left any more. Me - you - I just can't take any more..."
I've never known such emptiness. All the hours of worry - the late nights - the endless cigarettes - the strain - now this? But even as I made one last despairing attempt to reach her, the shouts next door rose to a new pitch. I was across to the door, and wrenching it open before I realised it.
The room was full of people. Martinez was backed up against the far wall, struggling helplessly in the clutches of two uniformed policemen. Faberge and Brooks were on a sofa, flanked by two other policemen. And Paul was arguing with Chief Inspector Davis. Two of Paul's assistants stood shoulder to shoulder with him but despite their efforts he was clearly getting the worst of it. I shouted, "What the bloody hell goes on here?"
The room went suddenly still. Martinez was in an armlock which forced him to his knees and kept him there. Paul stopped talking in mid-sentence. Brooks threw me a frightened look as the policeman next to him tightened his grip. And Chief Inspector Davis is turned slowly to face me. "Ah, Mr Harris."
Martinez giggled. "Mr Winner Harris."
Paul ironed the creases in his face with the back of his hand. "Martinez has been caught in possession, Boss. He claims he got the stuff here."
Davis opened his hand to show me three badly made reefers. "This club is a pick up point for drugs."
I took a deep breath and looked at Martinez. One glance said he was lying. God in heaven, a blind man could see that! He was causing trouble, any way he could. I got a tight grip on my nerves and tried to steady my voice. "One man's word, Inspector," I threw a withering glance at Martinez, "the word of a junky. You'll have to do better than that."
Martinez sniggered, "Pick up point's in the shit house, man. Third one along. Up in the cistern. Everyone knows that."
I glanced at Paul who shook his head. We'd had that trick before - at Josephine's. Ever since then every public lavatory on our premises came with its own attendant - and our security boys inspected them every hour. If Paul said we were clean, I believed him.
"You've checked?" I asked Davis.
He shrugged. "I've got the evidence here." His fingers closed over the reefers and he tapped my chest with his closed fist. "All I need to close this place down," he gloated.
"Your evidence is against him," I nodded at Martinez, "not against the club."
"We'll see about that," Davis said grimly.
There was a knock on the door from the salon and another uniformed policeman came in. He looked at Davis and shook his head. I shuddered at the thought of the search going on outside. Well heeled gamblers hate the police watching them enjoy themselves. It would kill our business and be another nail in the Apex coffin.
It took half an hour to get rid of Davis and the boys in blue. They took Martinez away with them, and Faberge and Brooks left at the same time, muttering assurances about bail to Martinez while threatening action against the club, Apex Holdings and Winner Harris in particular. Paul poured me a stiff drink. I noticed his hand tremble slightly. The strain was getting to all of us, shredding our nerves to pieces. I swallowed the whisky, then went back to the other office, wondering how on earth to deal with Kay in her present mood. But she had left, by the other door. I was stunned. I know I wasn't thinking straight, but I had expected her to wait. Dammit, we needed to talk. We had to sort things out!
I went to Rex Place, telling Paul where to contact me in emergency, and to pass the word round the other clubs. But there was no sign of Kay at the cottage. I telephoned Ashley Grange and after five minutes Mrs Jones, our housekeeper, answered. No, Kay had not returned home. Nor had her guests (Faberge, Brooks and Martinez - all of whom were house guests at the time). I told Mrs Jones to ask Kay to call me the minute she got in - and after that I hit the bottle fairly hard until about five in the morning. I suppose I dozed off then - I must have done because the post startled me when it fell through the letter box two hours later. I phoned Mrs Jones again, but the answer was still the same. Kay had not been home all night.
I was worried sick until the papers arrived - then I read all about it. The more sensational of them ran the story on the front page. There was even a picture of Martinez leaving the club, flanked by policemen, with Davis in the background. And a photograph of Kay leaving the police station an hour later. It was a toss-up which was the bigger story - 'Martinez on drugs charge' or 'Winner's wife puts up bail'. The Winner's wife bit got the edge because two of the three papers led with that, and a gossip columnist dripped acid over an inside page.
APEX BOSS LOOKS A LOSER
Sam Harris - better known as Winner to intimates of the West End club scene - looked a loser all the way tonight. First there was trouble at The Park Lane Club when England's Hostess with the Mostess - Sam's own quotable wife Kay - arrived for a spot of late night gambling with her live-in pets, Faberge, Brooks & Martinez of Tin Pan Alley fame. Observers say that after dropping a bundle at the tables FB & M were on the point of leaving (one way or another, if you take our meaning) when their departure was interrupted by Scotland Yard's Drug Squad. Pipo Martinez, later charged at Wells Street with possession of the dreaded weed, spent the night in the cells - despite a sporting offer from Winner's Wife to stand bail. Breakfast with Winner might have made an amusing meal this morning but Cool Cat Kay showed aristocratic disdain (Daddy is Lord Hardman, Chairman of Apex) by deciding to give it a miss. Instead she booked into the Connaught with - no prizes for guessing - Faberge and Brooks. All three are expected to show at Wells Street Court this morning when Pipo Martinez makes his unscheduled appearance. After that, who knows?Lunch at Winston's perhaps? With Winner?
I phoned the Connaught but there was no answer from her room. Not even half an hour later when I tried again. I was tempted to go round there but the thought of the newspapers dissuaded me - we had all t
he publicity we could handle for one day. So I washed and shaved, and got ready for work. I was at the office by eight thirty and on the phone to Lewis Collins an hour later. He sent one of his people to the court for me and phoned back afterwards to tell me about it.
He sounded disgusted. He always did when he spoke about people who incurred my displeasure. As if he really cared about my problems. It was why I trusted him I suppose. "Martinez got a suspended sentence," he growled, "plus a Mickey Mouse fine and costs. That's all. If you ask me magistrates are far too lenient-"
"Was Kay there?"
"You bet! Kay was there - Fleet Street was there - and you couldn't move outside the court for TV cameras. I just hope to Christ she didn't say anything, that's all."
So did I. It was the end of the morning by this time. For once I had no luncheon appointment and I was glad of it. I fidgeted through the paperwork on my desk, waiting in vain for Kay to call. When I phoned the Connaught they said she had booked out - and when I tried Ashley Grange there was no answer at all. That worried me until I realised it was Wednesday. Mrs Jones went to her sister's on a Wednesday. I tried to work out where Kay would go. Eventually I was too tired and worried to think straight so I decided to call it a day and go home. Home to Ashley Grange. Kay would have to return there at some time, and I planned to be there when she did.
But first I spent an hour on the phone to the clubs, speaking to the managers; then I called Tom, my chauffeur, and asked him to collect me. We stopped at Rex Place first, but there was still no sign of Kay, so twenty minutes later we were on the motorway, heading for Oxford.
It was five past five when we arrived. Funny remembering that now, but I suppose those next few minutes will live with me until I die. I remember a great sense of relief at the sight of Kay's blue Jaguar by the front door, slung carelessly across the drive, as if she had parked in a hurry. Tom asked what time I wanted him in the morning. I said to phone me before leaving town, then I sent him on his way. I walked across the drive to the front doors. The Jaguar's engine was cold, I felt the bonnet as I walked past. Then I went up the steps and into the house.
The smell of pot was everywhere. Unmistakably. Enough of the stuff is around the club scene for me to be quite sure. The drawing room was drenched in it. I flung open the windows and looked round the room. Kay's mink was thrown across the back of a sofa, and her shoes were kicked under a chair. I checked the other rooms: dining room, music room, Kay's private snug, the kitchen, even my study. They were all empty. Then I went upstairs.
I heard the sounds as I reached the half-landing. A long moan "Oh my God - my God!" A man's voice, Brooks I think. Then there was a sort of muffled groan.
I sprinted up the stairs two at a time. I think I called Kay's name but I'm not sure. I heard Faberge's rasping voice cry out, "Baby, that's sensational!" Then I was through the doors and into the master bedroom.
A man should never see some sights. Shock etches the details into his brain for the rest of his life. Seeing Kay like that - on the bed with the three of them - servicing the three of them -was that kind of experience. I couldn't believe it. My mind rejected the picture of all those intertwined limbs. My ears tried to blot out the noises. Then the realisation drilled every tiny detail into sharp focus. Sounds crashed around in my brain. One of Kay's arms was turned towards me. Her small white hand obscenely around Brooks' black penis. But even as I turned my eyes away I saw the blue bruising on her inner arm. The kind of bruising which comes with a needle.
Emotion overrides judgement at such moments. Disgust. Anger. Pity. Self-pity? You react without knowing it. I was pulling bodies apart, then my hands closed round Faberge's throat, forcing his head back, trying to snap his neck. Martinez was screaming like a woman. Brooks rolled off the bed and onto the floor; then he was upright, one black arm encircling my head while his knee slammed hard into my back. But my fingers remained locked around that scrawny throat. I would not let go. For some reason Faberge was the worst, he was my most vicious enemy. The man I hated most! Brooks got both hands to my face, pink palms pressed over my nose, stifling air. I slipped his grip and smashed Faberge backwards against the headboard. His face was turning black, mottled and bruised, his eyes widening, pleading, pleading for his life. Then, suddenly, pain exploded behind my ears as something hard crashed down on my head. Another blow, a taste like iron in my mouth, a red mist, and then unconsciousness.
By the time I came round the local doctor had sewn nine stitches into my scalp. Mrs Jones stood at the foot of the bed, her hands busy screwing a handkerchief into a tight little ball. I got her outline first, then her face, and after that the colours and complicated floral design of her dress.
"Oh, thank heavens," she said, "I thought you was dead, sir. I got back at six. The front doors were wide open, things all over the place. I was that frightened I can't tell you."
But she was about to try when the local doctor came in from the bathroom. We had met once, when I watched him play cricket for the village, but I had never consulted him professionally. He was a gentle giant of a man with soft hands and a booming voice.
I got the rest of the story while he checked me out for concussion, waving fingers in front of my eyes and looking into them with a little torch. Apparently the signs elsewhere were of a burglary. Some of Kay's clothes were missing and a good deal of her jewellery cupboards had been ransacked downstairs, some silver had gone, that sort of thing.
"Amateurs," said the doctor, "that's what the police think. There's a sergeant downstairs now, but you've no need to see him until the morning if you don't want to."
I lay there thinking of Kay. Not of the scene I had witnessed earlier. I tried to blot that out of my mind. Tried and failed. So I superimposed others over it. I remembered how happy we were when first we married. Both so sure it would last for ever. And now now this? Christ, she had to be sick - sick to do - do what I had seen. With those - those animals. Why? What sort of gratification- what sort of kicks - what would drive her to something like that? My absences? My apparent indifference? Boredom? Drink? Drugs? Jesus, I had been blind. Those marks on her arm! Blind and stupid. Hadn't she called me that - last night at the club. "You blind, stupid bastard!" Injections. Heroin? That shit? Mainlining? Was that it? Most of her crowd were into the occasional joint, sniffing, cocaine - but mainline heroin?
I groaned and the doctor looked at me carefully. "Head ache? I'm afraid it will for a while." He smiled sympathetically, "They must have been worried about you though. They put a pillow under your head after they busted you."
Kay did that. I nearly said it. Kay put the pillow there. Dammit, there was still a spark - a spark of something left. Wasn't there? I smiled and thanked the doctor for his help. After that they let me doze for a while, until about an hour later when Mrs Jones came back with a bowl of hot soup.
"Lord Hardman is downstairs," she said, "he's asking to see you if you're up to it." She sniffed with disapproval as she shook her head, "I told him the morning would be better, but he's very insistent."
I was up to it but I didn't want to see Edgar. He would ask questions about Kay, where she was, with whom, why and all the rest of it.
"I'll tell him the morning then shall I?" Mrs Jones nodded, "That's the best. He said he'll stay overnight if need be, and-"
"No!" I snapped. Edgar staying in the house was the last thing I wanted.
It would be better to face him now. Make up some story. Get it over and done with, then send him on his way. I said, "Dammit, Mrs Jones, I only had a bump on the head. I'll live, don't worry. You'd better send him up."
I was too sharp with her. I cursed my clumsiness, and as she turned to go, I added, "Oh, and Mrs Jones, you did very well very well indeed. I really am most grateful."
Her disapproval melted to blushing confusion and she went off to fetch Edgar. I looked around the room. It was fairly tidy. There were even clean sheets on the bed. I wondered who put them there? Kay, before she left? I hoped the smell of marijuana had cleare
d from the drawing room.
Edgar arrived in a mood of embarrassed agitation. "Ought to be carrying a bunch of grapes," he grumbled, "but all the damn shops were closed."
Typical of him to be surprised by something like that. When Edgar wanted something he expected Fortnum and Macon on hand to provide it. But he never arrived anywhere empty-handed and Mrs Jones followed him in carrying a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.
"Doctor says you can have half a glass," she sniffed her disapproval at Edgar's back, "persuaded against his better judgement if you ask me."
But neither of us did. When she left Edgar said, "Doc says you'll be all right by the morning. Bit shaken up, eh?"
"I'm okay."
His blue eyes searched my expression. "Bad business though one damn thing after another, eh?"
I sipped champagne and nodded.
"Burgled. Knocked on the head. Man should have a wife around at a time like this." He looked at me carefully. "The local CID asked where she was by the way. Dunno why, but I said the first thing that came to my head - said she was at my place in town. Damn silly of me really," he shrugged, "still said now, can't be mended."
I wondered how much he knew? What did he expect me to say to something like that? I could think of no way of answering, so I sipped champagne and said nothing.
He stood up and crossed to the window. It was almost dark outside, the fag end of twilight. He peered out while he talked to me over his shoulder. "Mind you, daresay the police read the papers, just like the rest of us."
Edgar was fishing. I was determined not to bite, but clearly he was as worried as I was.
"Tried the Connaught," he growled, still with his back turned to me, "but she booked out this morning."
"I know."
He swung round with enough agitation to spill his drink. "God in heaven, Sam, she's is some sort of trouble isn't she? What the devil's going on? You're here with stitches in your head. Papers are full of nonsense. One blasted thing after another. She ought to be here - now - looking after things."
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 53