Venom Business

by Michael Crichton

  She went off to the bathroom.

  “Where is Richard?” he asked.

  “Upstairs. With the others.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, there was a telegram. It is on the tray.”

  She pointed, and continued on. When he was alone he opened it:

  LONDON Wl

  CONFIRM ARRANGEMENTS FOR ARRIVAL AGREE ANY DEMANDS

  LILI MARLENE

  He stared at the telegram, then lit it with a match and dropped it burning into an ashtray. It was still in flames when Dominique padded out of the bathroom.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It was a secret,” he said.

  “Secret messages?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “The very best kind.”

  The phone in the bedroom rang three times. They heard the redhead, Vivienne, groan and say, “Turn the damned thing off.”

  Raynaud went in to answer it.

  “Christ. Charles. Is that you? My bloody head is killing me, absolutely killing me. How do you feel?”

  “I’ve felt better,” Raynaud said, looking at Vivienne, who had rolled over in bed, the sheets sliding away. She was snoring now.

  “Christ I feel half dead. I have to go back to London tomorrow. We must talk, Charles. Can you find the bar of this God-forsaken hotel?”

  “Probably.”

  “In about an hour?”

  “All right,” Raynaud said.

  The bar was cool and quiet at midafternoon. Raynaud sat cradling a cold martini in his hands while Richard, looking red-eyed and exhausted, said, “We’ll go together, of course. And you’ll stay at my flat.”

  “Thanks,” Raynaud said, “but no.”

  “I insist.”

  Raynaud shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “This is a business trip,” Raynaud said. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “London hotels are awful. You’ll hate them.”

  “I rather like them.”

  Pierce lit a cigarette, striking the match feebly several times before it finally burst into flame. “Look here, Charles. I really must insist you stay at the flat. People would talk otherwise.”

  Raynaud raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see, you’re the best man at my wedding.”

  “What wedding?”

  “Well, at the party anyhow. You’ve got to be present at the party. And you’ve got to stay at the flat. We’ll have a marvelous time together, really.”

  “No.”

  “Charles, you must. I’ll be miserable if you don’t.”

  Raynaud sipped his martini and stared at Pierce’s reflected image in the bar mirror.

  “You’re very eager to have me around, Richard.”

  “You are my closest and dearest friend. Believe it or not.”

  “I don’t. What’s on your mind?”

  Pierce sighed. “It’s the party. I admit I can’t stand the thought of it. And my dear mother. You’ve got to come along, for moral support.”

  Raynaud shook his head. “Try again.”

  “That’s the truth, really.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Pierce waved to the bartender for more drinks. He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he said, “You’re stubborn, Charles.”

  “Very.”

  Raynaud smoked his cigarette and waited until the drinks had come, and the bartender moved away. “All right,” he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come to London with you, and stay at your flat, and go to your party with you, and do whatever you want me to do. For five hundred dollars a day.”

  Pierce choked on the drink. “What?”

  “I think it’s reasonable,” Raynaud said,

  “Five hundred a day? Are you out of your mind?”

  “That’s the going rate,” Raynaud said, “for a good bodyguard.”

  “You’re being absurd. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. Absolutely not. The very idea—”

  “Okay,” Raynaud said, shrugging. “Forget it.”

  Pierce hesitated, staring down at his glass, swirling the pale liquor. “Four hundred,” he said.

  “No. Flat rate: five hundred a day. Take it or leave it.”

  “Four hundred.”

  Raynaud shook his head.

  “Christ,” Pierce said. “All right, have it your way. Five hundred.”

  Raynaud sat back and smiled slightly. “How long will you need my, ah, services?”

  “I don’t know. At least a month.”

  “Then I’ll want half in advance.”

  Pierce frowned.

  “Half in advance,” Raynaud repeated. “A check for, say, three thousand pounds would be adequate.”

  “Let’s say two,” Pierce said, taking out his checkbook.

  “Let’s say three.”

  Irritably Pierce wrote out the check, his pen scratching in the quiet of the bar. He tore the check off, waved it dry, and handed it to Raynaud.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Almost. Tell me who’s trying to kill you.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid about the whole thing.”

  “But you must fear someone.”

  “We can discuss it in London,” Pierce said.

  “We can discuss it now, just as well.”

  “London,” Pierce said. “It’s a long story. London.”

  They left in the morning.

  6. LONDON

  THE RAIN FELL FROM gray, dreary skies as they left the arrivals building of Heathrow Airport and got into the chauffeured Rolls Royce. Richard slumped down in the back seat and nodded to Medgars, the driver.

  “Welcome back, sir,” Medgars said.

  “Thanks for nothing,” Pierce said. He closed the glass partition separating front and back seats.

  Medgars gave a small shrug and started the car, driving smoothly down the ramp and through the tunnel, then turning right toward London.

  Raynaud said, “Is this your car?”

  “Christ no. Lucienne’s.”

  “Nice.”

  “She likes it,” Pierce said indifferently. He had a marked distaste for Rolls Royces. For one thing, the sellers were such bastards. Lucienne bought a new one every second year, always in a different color. She alternated between Jack Barclay and Owen’s. But they were both bastards. Stiff-upper-lip bastards.

  Medgars drove smoothly; the sound of the motor was a low, well-bred purr.

  “It drives well,” Raynaud said.

  “It’s all right. Medgars has been to the school.”

  “The school?”

  “Yes. Rolls runs it, for chauffeurs. Teaches the sons of bitches to drive. Smooth shifts, gentle stops, all that sort of thing. Very chi.”

  “I see.”

  Pierce stared out the window. They were coming in from the west, through a dreary, dismal industrial area. He sighed. Undoubtedly Violet would not have the flat in shape, and undoubtedly Lucienne would be in an evil mood. He had to get more money from her. A lot more: he owned a thousand quid to Lonny from that chemin game four weeks ago. And the new rugs in the living room would be several hundred more.

  He opened the glass partition and leaned forward to speak to Medgars. “How is she these days?”

  “She, sir?”

  Medgars. Always the polite sod.

  “Mrs. Pierce, damn it.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” Pierce said dryly.

  “Will you be seeing her, sir?”

  “Later.” Bloody sod.

  “Yes, sir. Shall I tell her, sir?”

  “No,” Pierce said. “Let it be a surprise.”

  It was always a surprise for Lucienne, always a nasty shock. The minute he walked through the door she reached for a ciggie and a drink to help her through the trauma of a meeting. A cripple, she was, without a ciggie and a drink. And always nervous, with that pinched-up, bitchy look on her face the whole time. Any mention of money ti
ed her lovely face into knots of agonized pain.

  They came into Chelsea and continued north and east, past the Royal Hospital.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My flat.”

  Pierce anticipated Raynaud’s reaction to the flat with some pleasure. He had bought it two years ago and had spent nearly a year fixing it up. He had put more than six thousand pounds into it, over Lucienne’s wails of fiscal pain.

  The flat was in Belgravia, not far from Sloane Square. It was a white-washed building with a black wrought-iron railing in front; Pierce had the second floor. The ground floor was occupied by a retired MP and industrialist who was, fortunately, deaf as a bat, so there was no problem with parties.

  Medgars carried the bags up and Pierce unlocked the front door, which was painted a cherry red—he had specifically insisted upon the color, cherry red—and had a burnished brass plate reading “Now is the time for all good men to come.” Lucienne had objected violently to that plate, which made it all the more amusing.

  Raynaud saw it and laughed. A simple, American sort of laugh, rather dumb and automatic.

  Still, he was glad to have Raynaud with him. Bloody animal, Raynaud. Reflexes of a cat. No wonder he’d gone to the jungle, it suited him perfectly. It was reassuring to have him with you, going about with you, even if it cost three thousand quid.

  He was coming into a crucial time. Crucial with Lucienne, crucial with Shore Industries. He had worked bloody hard with Shore Industries. He had great hopes for it. Nothing must be allowed to spoil that.

  Soon, of course, Raynaud would begin asking questions, but Pierce could handle that. He could keep the answers vague and mysterious. Just enough truth to satisfy Raynaud.

  “Why are we standing outside?” Raynaud asked.

  Pierce laughed, shaking off his thoughts, and swung open the door. They went into the living room. It was very mod: a thick white rug and stark white walls; a minimum of furniture, all of it Meister, chairs and couches in black leather with stainless legs. The coffee table was inch-thick smoked glass on a stainless frame. On one wall was a giant painting of a hamburger, dripping catsup; on another was a large spiral in red and orange which made you dizzy if you looked long enough.

  “Wow,” Raynaud said.

  “Like it?”

  “Superb.”

  Along one wall was his Clairtone G, a rectangular teak box with two spheres at either end. He picked up a small hand-held box and pressed a button: music filled the room. Raynaud nodded, impressed, and he should have been: the whole thing had cost nearly five hundred pounds.

  “This is rather neat,” Pierce said. He went to the wall, and pressed the light switch, which was a round push button. The lights went on; he pressed again, and nothing happened.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. It’s a delay switch. Sixty seconds before the lights go out. The same everywhere in the house.”

  He pressed a second button, and the drapes slid closed over aluminum runners.

  “Pretty clever, eh? The motors are specially silenced.”

  Pierce, enjoying Raynaud’s expression, led him to the guest bedroom. It was luxuriously done, with an orange rug and a double bed.

  “I think of everything. Durex in the second drawer of the night table. If you need it. Most of the birds take pills.”

  He showed him how the push-lock doors worked on the closet, and then led him to the guest bathroom, completely outfitted. It even had a bidet.

  “Just in case,” Pierce said. “One never knows.”

  They went back into the living room, and through to the kitchen.

  “There was no second bathroom when I first arrived,” Pierce said. “Had to be installed. And all the wiring had to be torn out and done over. Then the central heating ducts and the air-conditioning and filters…”

  “It must have been expensive.”

  “Worth it,” Pierce said.

  The kitchen was small but bright and modern; counter tops of Formica and stainless steel. Pierce was proud of the kitchen. Birds liked it; they appreciated it. A small bar; six-burner electric stove; two ovens, one powered by infra-red so it never got hot. A special charcoal broiler which he had imported from California. A large hooded duct and fan to carry away cooking smells. Electric can opener, mixer, blender: very good for frozen daiquiris.

  On one wall, attached by a clip, was another hand-box. He picked it up and pressed a button; the music changed.

  “Can do it from any room in the house. Also this.”

  He turned a round fixture that looked like a thermostat, and the lights dimmed.

  “Rheostat. Works everywhere.”

  Raynaud pointed over the refrigerator at a small television screen. “Why do you keep that there?”

  Pierce laughed. He pushed a button on the set and it lighted immediately—transistorized, no waiting for warm-up—to show the downstairs hall. Another button, and it showed the hall outside his front door. Another, and the screen showed Raynaud’s room. Finally, the scene shifted to another, larger bedroom which Raynaud gathered was Pierce’s.

  “Concealed in the walls,” Pierce said. “It’s very small, a Japanese thing. One of these days, I’m going to buy a video tape unit, but that’s another three hundred pounds and Lucienne has been difficult lately. Still, it’d be fun. Instant replay, blow by blow.” He laughed. “So to speak.”

  Raynaud, the bastard, was not amused. Probably wondering who would be looking in on his own bedroom action.

  “Come along,” Pierce said. “I’ll show you the workroom.”

  They went into the master bedroom. It was as large as the living room, styled in sharp contrast to the rest of the house. The walls were covered in red velvet, and the rug was one-and-a-half-inch red pile. And washable.

  The bed was eight feet square, with a large headboard.

  “Like it?” Pierce said.

  “Very much.”

  “Rather like a Victorian bordello, don’t you think?”

  “A bit.”

  “They love it,” Pierce said. He touched a concealed button and opened a closet door. The inside of the door was covered in with neat scratches. “One hundred and seventy-four,” he said, “by actual count. Not bad for a year and a half.”

  “Not bad at all.”

  “They love it. Feel the bed. It’s soft, but not too soft.”

  Raynaud dutifully felt the bed. He was moving slowly, as if in a trance. Must be a bit hard to take, Pierce thought happily.

  “Bought it at Harrods,” Pierce said. “Gave them rather a shock, actually. I went in and asked them what bed was best for fucking. Funny little salesman hemmed and hawed before he came up with this one. It’s stuffed with gnu hair, the mattress. Gives it that soft, springy resilience.”

  “Very nice.”

  “I’m fond of it. The bathroom is here.”

  Pierce led him into the bathroom, also carpeted in red. It was large, with a sunken tub, a built-in shower, bidet, and toilet with electrically heated seat. A small closet on one side was filled with small bathrobes, frilly nightgowns, colognes, and cosmetics.

  “Completely equipped. Oh, I almost forgot. The headboard.”

  They returned to the bedroom, and he showed Raynaud the built-in bar, refrigerator, stereo speakers, and clock telly.

  “Well, that’s the lot. Drink?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Good.” As they left the bedroom, Pierce said, “It was that or ostrich feathers.”

  “What?”

  “The mattress. I think I made a wise choice. I’ve been on an ostrich-feather mattress. Cynthia has one. Definitely inferior—though of course she likes it.”

  “Ummm.”

  In the living room, Pierce mixed two stiff drinks. Raynaud looked as if he needed one. He was doing his best to remain unimpressed, but he wasn’t succeeding. In fact, he seemed a little green.

  Well, there would be more to come. “I’m rather dreading the party day after tomorrow,” Pierce sai
d. “Shall we get some girls for tonight? A last bash?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Good.” He reached for the phone. “There’s a marvelous thing you’ll want to meet. She models and does credits for movies.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You know, they flash the titles across her tits. She has a super body. She’s been in those spy things.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s too big for me, but she’ll be just right for you. I’ll ring her up.”

  “Fine.”

  “Throws a wild one,” Richard said. “You’ll be exhausted.”

  As he reached for the telephone, it rang. He picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Richard, my boy, how are you?”

  Pierce recognized the deep, warm voice immediately. “Hello, Uncle John,” he said.

  “Just get back?”

  “Yes, actually. Half an hour ago.”

  “Come over for dinner,” Uncle John said. “If you feel up to it.”

  “Fine. I’m here with a friend.”

  “Bring her along,” he said.

  “It’s a he, actually.”

  Uncle John laughed. “Switching, are you?”

  “An old school friend.”

  “Oh?” He seemed surprised. He knew Richard wasn’t much on old school friends.

  “Yes,” Pierce said. “Ran into him in Paris. Pure luck.”

  “Well, I’ll look forward to meeting him. Drinks at seven, is that all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  When he hung up, Raynaud said, “Who was that?”

  “My uncle.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “He’s invited us to dinner. No girls for tonight, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “And the engagement party is day after tomorrow. That leaves just one evening.”

  “Which reminds me,” Raynaud said. “This weekend I’ll have to leave you for a few hours.”

  “Your business?”

  “For a few hours.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Pierce said. “I shall be away. I’m leaving with Sandra, right after the party. Be gone the whole weekend.”

  Raynaud raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want me along?”

  Richard laughed. “Rather not.”

  “Won’t you be worried?”

  “I only worry,” Pierce said, “when I’m alone. Besides, we’ll be in a quaint little hotel in Wales. Nobody could find us there.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway. We’d best dress now, if we’re going to make drinks by seven.”