“What do we wear?”
“Black tie, of course,” Pierce said. “Uncle John is rather proper, in his own way.”
Pierce grinned at himself in the mirror as he shaved. He felt good; Raynaud had been impressed as hell with the apartment. But then, everybody was. Damned fine flat. Everybody said it. And the nice thing about living in a chi place like Belgravia was that there was never any scandal. The cops were circumspect; they had to be, with the Danish ambassador right next door, and the German ambassador around the corner, and the German ambassador’s mistress across the street. To say nothing about the mistress’s girl friend, who had once been very close to the Yugoslav cultural attaché.
Chelsea was raided all the time, and Battersea was too, now that it was getting up as a fashionable place. And Bloomsbury was impossible, the coppers practically lived there.
But not Belgravia. Not with all the important people and the big industrial firms and diplomatic immunity for every second town house.
Before moving to Belgravia, he had lived in Chelsea, in the rich part off King’s Road. His parties were broken up five times in as many months, and finally he decided to be done with it. Lucienne, bless her frosty heart, had approved of the move. Thought it would be good for his manners, or his soul, or something. But then she knew a lot about the Belgravia crowd—she’d seen nearly every bedroom ceiling in the area.
Dear, dear Lucienne.
He glanced over to the toilet. Normally he kept a picture of her above the toilet; it wasn’t there. Violet must have moved it. Violet was Richard’s cleaning lady. She was a stiff old bird of seventy who seemed very proper until she got angry; then she poured out the language of her dead husband, a sailor in the merchant marine. But Violet liked Lucienne, and disapproved of Richard’s keeping her over the toilet.
Just where she belonged. Dear Lucienne: all her life she had managed to make him feel like a worthless sod. Very skilled at making men feel worthless.
But soon, he thought, all that would change. Shore Industries would be an immense success; he would inherit the Pierce fortune.
And absolutely everything would change.
7. BLACK
IN THE GUEST ROOM, Charles Raynaud sat on the bed and bounced experimentally. As he did so, he examined the room carefully, noticing every detail: including the television camera, located high up by the ceiling, imbedded in the wall with nothing but the barrel of the lens protruding.
That would have to be fixed.
He climbed up on a chair and quickly stuffed tissues into the barrel, blocking the lens. He smiled as he did so. Poor Richard with all his gadgets. He was like a child in an amusement park, with this apartment. A fabulous array of purring, whirring gadgets. Pierce obviously loved every one of them. They were possessions, shining devices to be pointed out, displayed, explained, and demonstrated. He treated women the same way. He would offer you a woman the way he offered you a chance to try his new pressurized cork-remover. The same childish delight in his face: “Try it out. Isn’t it clever?”
He took a shower and reminded himself that he must be careful. It was a mistake to underestimate Richard. A serious mistake. He had made such mistakes in the past.
Like the Delaware business.
Six years before, he had taken a Middle Period Aztec water pitcher in the shape of a turtle to an industrial chemist living in Delaware. While he was there, he had taken a liking to the chemist’s bored wife and transported her across state lines. Her husband, a fat and apparently lethargic man, was not amused and called the police; the motel was raided. Raynaud later discovered that the woman always took her men to the same motel. In the end, the chemist got his water pitcher for nothing, and Raynaud returned to Mexico shaken but wiser. He had learned something about people, particularly people who chose to appear foolish.
Pierce, he knew, was not a fool. He would have to be very, very careful.
He tied his bowtie and straightened it, looking into the mirror. He looked at his own face, and saw the boyish features which were, in a way, like Pierce’s. For a moment the similarity disturbed him.
Pierce stuck his head around the door. “Ready to go? We mustn’t keep Uncle John waiting.”
The garage was located in the mews behind the house. It opened at the sound of an ultrasonic whistle, emitted from a gadget in Pierce’s pocket, exposing a sleek, wine-red machine which stood barely four feet off the ground.
“Maserati,” Pierce said. “Hop in.”
It was a two-plus-two. Raynaud dropped into the comfortable bucket seat, feeling the real leather. He looked at the dashboard, which was covered in black leather, elegant and businesslike. The gearshift was mounted between the seats. In front were two chrome air vents.
“Air-conditioning?”
Pierce laughed. “Of course.”
He started the car. It came to life with a deep rumble exaggerated by the confines of the garage.
“Air-conditioning in London?”
“Comes with the car,” Pierce said. “These wops. Always hot.”
He backed out.
“Ghia body,” he said, “and a four-point-seven engine that will bring you bloody close to two hundred miles an hour. We’ll have to take it out to M-one some day and give the Jags something to think about.”
He roared down the narrow alley and onto the street. The speedometer climbed quickly to sixty, though traffic was heavy.
“Learned to drive at Brands Hatch,” Pierce said. “They have a little circuit there, give you lessons in speeding safely. Never fear.”
He weaved expertly through the dense clutter of minis, black humpbacked taxis, and private cars.
“Where are we going?”
“Saint John’s Wood. Very chi-chi part of Hampstead. Uncle John’s quite a success, as doctors go.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“Psychiatrist. Psychoanalyst, actually. At one time he had a large Harley practice, but he’s given all that up now. He’s gone over to research.”
“In psychiatry?”
“I don’t know, exactly. It has to do with pigeons and monkeys and so forth. I never understood it. You’ll have to ask him.”
Raynaud nodded.
“Uncle John,” Pierce said, with slight awe in his voice, “is frightfully intelligent.”
The room was nearly square, and high-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood which gave it a close, almost stuffy atmosphere. Antiques were everywhere, mostly silver, and mostly in need of polishing. Several yellowing photographs were hung on the walls; Raynaud was looking at them when the butler, dressed formally in black, came in to say that Dr. Black was detained briefly at the laboratory and asked that they make themselves comfortable. What would they drink?
Scotch, they said. When they were alone, Pierce said, “Uncle John approves of scotch.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He’s Scottish himself. From Edinburgh. He’s from a family of doctors, all living in Edinburgh. He’s the only one who came down to London. Because he was so dreadfully clever.”
Pierce touched an antique drinking cup, wiping away the dust on the rim. “I’m afraid, though, that he doesn’t keep the place up well. A bit tacky all around. He isn’t here much, and I don’t suppose it matters to him.”
“He lives alone?”
“Yes. He was married, but his wife died. A long time ago.”
“I see.”
“Nobody knows quite what happened. It’s all a bit mysterious, and Uncle John never talks about it. They say it was a heart attack.”
“Is he actually your uncle, or just a family friend?” Raynaud was staring out through dusty curtain at the trees and rolling hills of Hampstead Heath.
“Oh, no. A true uncle. He was first cousin of my father. There’s a picture here, somewhere. Wait a bit…yes. There it is. Over to the right.”
Raynaud saw two men in hunting jackets, standing with shotguns in the crooks of their arms. One held a pheasant. They wore caps and their faces were partly in shadow;
it was difficult to see their features. They stood rather stiffly for the photograph, but with them was a young woman who was standing casually, one hand on her hip, laughing, her head thrown back. She seemed to be very amused about something, but there was an exaggerated falseness to her pose.
But she was certainly sexy.
“Who’s the girl?”
“Lucienne. My stepmother. Uncle John and my father had rather a falling out after my father married Lucienne. Uncle John got along well with Lucienne, you see—sometimes too well.”
“Your stepmother? Was your father married before?”
Pierce looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? I was adopted. Parents died during the war. Pierce isn’t my real name; it’s Trevor-Carter. I was adopted when I was six years old.”
“No,” Raynaud said, “I didn’t know.”
Pierce grinned. “You seem annoyed.”
“Why should I be annoyed?” In fact, he felt a strange, deep sort of anger.
“Lucienne is annoyed,” Pierce said. “For her, it is the final infuriating irony of the whole thing. That I will inherit the estate without even being the biologic heir. She has only herself to blame, you see.”
“How do you mean?”
“She would never have a child by my father. Absolutely refused.”
Raynaud noticed that Pierce always referred to Herbert as his father, but Lucienne as his stepmother.
“Your father and Doctor Black didn’t get along, then?”
“No. There were rumors at the time. Personally, I never believed any of them. Uncle John is a marvelous person, and he’s been a great help to me.”
“How?”
“Dealing with Lucienne,” Pierce said. “He doesn’t like her any more than I do, but he knows how to get round her, and I don’t. So he’s been a great help to me.”
At that moment, a deep voice said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Raynaud turned to face the ugliest man he had ever seen.
Jonathan Black was a huge man with a powerful physique, but it was the face that you noticed first: a hawk beak of a nose, curving to a blunted tip above a thick, fleshy mouth. A skull totally bald. Heavy, black thick, eyebrows. He looked like a strange, lumbering bird of prey as he advanced into the room.
And the eyes: a peculiar, washed-out gray, very cold, and constantly moving beneath heavy lids. He walked with his chin habitually tilted up, as if to compensate for the lids.
“Uncle John, meet Charles Raynaud.”
“How do you do.”
Black’s grip was cold and firm, the fingers hard.
“Charles is in the snake business,” Pierce said.
“Oh?” Black smiled slightly, and rang for the butler. “In what sense?”
“I supply animals and venom for research groups,” Raynaud explained.
“Not Central Scientific in Cleveland, surely?”
“No. Mexico.”
“Ah,” Black said. “Herpetology, Incorporated. Is that it?”
Raynaud nodded, wondering how Black knew. The butler came and Black ordered a scotch.
“I’ve had a few dealings with your organization,” Black said. “In my own work, we occasionally use various venoms. Mostly the anticholinesterases. Of course, I’m off that for the moment. Are you here for the convention?”
Raynaud nodded.
“I hope to attend a few sessions myself,” Black said. “It’s this weekend, as I recall.”
“Yes,” Raynaud said.
“What convention?” Pierce said.
“The International Congress of Zoologists and Herpetologists,” Black said. “They’re having their annual meeting in London.”
Pierce looked quickly at Raynaud, but said nothing.
Black sat down, not slowly and heavily as Raynaud expected, but lightly and swiftly.
“Well, now,” he said, “and how long will you remain in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“At least a month,” Pierce said.
“Oh?”
“He’s going to be my best man, Uncle,” Pierce said.
“That’s wonderful,” Black said, looking at Raynaud from beneath heavy lids. “Just wonderful. London is amusing at this time of year. You have, I gather, known Richard here for many years.”
“We were in school together.”
“Ah. Excellent. And you’ve kept in touch all this time.”
“Not exactly,” Raynaud said. “As a matter of fact, we met in Paris quite by chance.”
“How extraordinary,” Black said, in a voice which did not sound in the least surprised.
He did not continue the subject, and Raynaud found that odd. He wondered whether it was merely the bland acceptance of a psychiatrist, or whether it was something else. Because Raynaud had a brief, unsettling feeling that Jonathan Black had known all along that Pierce and Raynaud would meet. Almost as if he had planned it himself.
Dinner was served with a simple elegance that contrasted with the clutter of the living room. They began with cold cucumber soup, then crayfish in drawn butter.
“Are you still in practice?” Raynaud asked. “Richard tells me you’ve gone mostly to research.”
“I’ve gone entirely to research,” Black said. “In fact, you are eating it now.”
He laughed as he saw Raynaud’s startled look. “I mean the crayfish,” he said. “I began with the crayfish ten years ago. At the time I was tired of neurotic people telling me their fantasies for twenty pounds an hour. I wanted something more challenging. There is nothing, you know, very challenging about clinical psychiatry. I have often felt the most effective psychiatrist would be a man without vocal cords: all he could do is listen, and give no advice. Since the patients don’t want advice, he’d be a rousing success.”
He sighed. “Anyway, I tired of it, and turned to crayfish. There was a group working on them in Cambridge. Biochemical people, all involved with synapses and transmitter substances and end-plate potentials. All quite basic: learning what makes a nerve cell fire, learning how it carries its information, how it is propagated from cell to cell. The crayfish is good to study because it has large, simple nerve cells and simple ganglia. You need large cells so that you can stick your electrodes into a single cell and be assured you are measuring one cell, not two or five. We measured voltage potentials and changes and nerve-firing patterns. I found it interesting for a time. More wine?”
He nodded to the butler, who took the bottle around.
“But finally I tired of crayfish as well. Basically, crayfish are tiresome animals. They eat nothing but garbage. So I turned to drugs and psychopharmacology. I wanted a larger field, with broader implications for people. This was about six years ago: researchers were finding all sorts of new drugs that affected the mind. It was an exciting, restless field. I’ve been in it ever since then.”
“What kinds of drugs are you working with?” Raynaud asked.
“Nothing very spectacular, I’m afraid.” Black made a deprecating gesture. “Not lysergic acid or tryptamine derivatives. Nothing to expand the consciousness or warp the mind. No, I’ve been doing rather simple and straightforward work with anger.”
“Anger?”
“Yes. Anger has always fascinated me. It is a common reaction, shared by man and many animals alike, but we understand practically nothing about it. We accept it. But we do not understand it. A man can become angry for a variety of reasons, and can, while angry, perform a variety of acts he would not otherwise perform. He can kill, he can destroy, he can respond in the most bizarre manner. And we say, ‘it’s because he’s angry,’ as if that explained it.”
Raynaud sipped his wine.
“But there must be physical reasons for anger,” Black said, “and there must be biochemical reasons. The brain must, in some way, become altered. An angry man is different from a calm man. How? That is what I have set out to discover.”
“And what have you found?”
“That it is a very frustrating field,” Black
said. “Progress is slow. In fact,” he smiled, “on occasion, it makes me quite angry myself.”
Driving home, Richard Pierce said, “What did you think of him?”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” In fact, Raynaud had been disturbed by him. Everything about him—his manner, his voice, his dusty house on Hampstead Heath—was strange and faintly bothersome.
“Yes,” Richard said, “he’s a fascinating man. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’d do without him. Since my father died, he’s been almost a substitute father to me. Strange, when you think about him and Lucienne.”
Pierce paused. “By the way, was it true what you said about the International Congress of Whatever?”
“That I’m going?”
“Yes.”
Raynaud nodded. “It’s true.”
“Why are you going?”
“It’s expected. I’m in the snake business, remember.”
Pierce laughed. “Speaking of snakes, wait until you meet Lucienne.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Don’t,” Pierce said.
When he was alone in the house, Dr. Jonathan Black dialed a number and spoke quietly for several minutes. “I have met Raynaud,” he said. “He should be ideal.”
When he hung up, he poured himself a brandy, then seemed to think better of it. He left the brandy on the arm of the chair in the living room and walked upstairs to his bedroom. There, in a drawer, he found a stethoscope and unbuttoned his shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He took a deep breath, and placed the stethoscope bell against his chest.
He listened, in frowning silence, for a long time.
8. SHORE
THE GIRL COULD NOT have been more than eighteen. She walked gracefully down Regent Street in the afternoon sunlight, her long legs bare beneath the miniskirt, a pocketbook swinging from her shoulder. The skirt was yellow velvet, and the ruffled blouse was stretched tight over enormous breasts.
Richard Pierce, hung over, seemed to revive. He pulled the car to the curb and leaned out the window. “Hey, Pet!” he called.
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