“Please, please, there’s been some mistake—”
“Why were you following us?” Pierce said.
“I wasn’t following you. I was simply—”
Raynaud struck him, hard, across the cheeks. “Answer the question.”
“Please, I wasn’t, I don’t know…”
Raynaud said to Pierce, “You recognize him?”
“No.”
Raynaud slapped the fat man again. “What’s your name, friend?”
Quite unexpectedly, the man began to shout for the police. He had a high, squeaking voice, but quite loud. Raynaud stepped back, and at that moment, the man twisted free and ran down the street, shouting for the police.
“Let’s get out of here,” Raynaud said.
They ran down the block, around the corner; then Pierce slipped into a pub, and Raynaud followed him.
They paused at the door to catch their breath, then sat at the bar. They each had a whisky, then Raynaud said, “All right. What’s this about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?”
“Positive.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I’m going to have another scotch,” Pierce said. “Then I’ll feel better.” He motioned to the bartender. “By the way,” he said, “that little man. Was he armed?”
“No,” Raynaud said. “Why should he be?”
“I don’t know.”
Raynaud watched Pierce a moment. Something odd had happened: Pierce was no longer trembling. His hands were steady and calm.
And he genuinely did not appear worried. It was impossible to fake: Pierce was not worried.
Feeling strange, Raynaud said, “Richard, do you have any enemies?”
“That’s all I have.” Pierce laughed. “I seem to make enemies the way some people make friends.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Pierce frowned. “Then that man was armed, after all?”
“No. But he was definitely following us. I spotted him a while before you did.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
Raynaud smiled. “I wanted to see whether you’d spot him yourself.”
“Goddamn it, I’m paying you—”
“Because,” Raynaud said, “you were acting strangely all night. Almost as if you expected something like this.”
“Expected it? What kind of nonsense are you talking?”
Raynaud shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Well, look, he didn’t look much like a paid assassin, did he?”
“No. But the next one might.”
“For Christ’s sake, Charles. Do you suspect me of something, or what?”
“I suspect everyone. Of everything.”
“Listen,” Pierce said. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it was nothing at all. I think it was my stepmother.”
“Your stepmother?”
“Yes. She’s done it before: had me followed. I know that, for sure.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She’s afraid I’ll disgrace the family name, or something.”
“She’s actually had you followed?”
“Several times. Once, all the way to Cannes.”
“What did you do about that?”
“Nothing. He was an innocuous little fellow. I left him alone.”
“Then why—”
“Worry about this one? Because now I have you, and you’re hired to look after such things.”
He tossed money onto the bar top and stood up.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to be off, or we’ll be late for the party.”
Raynaud walked with him to the door and out onto the street. He said nothing more, but he was thinking furiously. It was all wrong, now. Nothing added up, nothing made sense. And he felt a strange, cold shivering chill for the first time in many years.
10. THE PARTY
RAYNAUD PRETENDED TO LISTEN as the young man with curly hair and pimples said, “I have absolute proof. Absolute. Woodbines give you hemorrhoids. My grandaunt and first cousin—both smoked Woodbines, and now look at them. Cheaper to buy, oh, yes, much cheaper, but they give you hemorrhoids because of poor draw. Few people judge their cigarettes by ease of draw, though they should. Take Player’s Navy. Your more Establishment cigarette, yet it draws poorly. I much prefer Senior Service, do you smoke it?”
“No,” Raynaud said. “I don’t.”
“More’s the pity,” said the young man, and he drifted off. “Just remember,” he said, over his shoulder, “Woodbines are a nasty cigarette.”
Raynaud sighed and looked over the party. Through the elegant rooms of the house, fifty or sixty people wandered. They were all brightly dressed, the girls in minidresses, the men in carefully cut suits and spectacular ties, but the talk was vacant and dull.
He had run into Pet, who was wearing a pink polka-dot bell bottoms and a shimmering silver overblouse which was cut low to display her massive breasts. Pet talked endlessly of Sandra, and what a nice girl she was; she also talked about Chubby, the dear man.
Raynaud talked with her for a while, then he talked with another girl who was in rep at Chichester and had a crush on Larry; an architect who thought Sutherland had botched Coventry; an advertising man who worked for JWT and handled part of the CVP account; a forlorn medical student who wanted to become a consultant at St. Bot’s; a girl who was mad on Edwardian loving cups; a middle-aged man who manufactured foundation garments; a girl, rangy and tough, who told him of the joys of shooting pheasant in northern Ireland; a sleepy-eyed literary agent who handled Ron Shaw, an absolute bastard of a man, but so talented, did you see his Claudius against Leighton’s Hamlet on BBC?
Then there was an action painter who kept scratching his crotch as he talked about New York, which he wanted to visit; a girl who did figure studies for Ed, such a dear chap, really a sweetie; a flat-chested matron who announced in a funereal tone that Mirabelle was finished since they lost Jacques; a heavyset German in a dinner jacket who claimed that Dutch girls were the best in bed; a bespectacled Scotsman who wore a kilt and was doing classical research at the Ashmolean, numismatics mostly.
Among everyone present, there was a bored, desultory way of speaking, as if they were all waiting for something, marking time. Even Pierce seemed bored.
“Say,” Raynaud said. “Where’s Sandra?”
“Coming, coming. She likes a grand entrance.”
Half an hour later, Sandra appeared. He coughed on his scotch when he saw her.
She was not tall, but slender, and her face was delicately beautiful. Her hair was brown, with highlights of blond, and curved softly around her face and shoulders. Her eyes were large, a piercing clear green. Her nose was beautiful; her lips were soft; her chin was firm. Her body had a gentle, sensual quality, and her manner was cool, calm, understated.
There was a peacefully sexual look about her that was immediately arresting. Raynaud stared, until a girl impatiently tapped his arm.
“I’m still here,” she said. She sounded both annoyed and amused.
“She’s quite something,” Raynaud said.
“Yes,” the girl said. She was a well-built girl who danced in a West End discothèque, the Ancient Land. “But cold as ice. Can you see that?”
“No,” Raynaud admitted.
“Well, she is. It’s surprising, when you think she’s Italian. After all, the Italians are supposed to be mother earth, aren’t they?”
Beaming, showing her off like his latest and most expensive gadget, Pierce led Sandra around the room. When they came to Raynaud, Pierce made the introductions with a grin.
“Richard tells me you live in Mexico,” Sandra said. “I should like to talk to you about it sometime. When I was at Naples University, you know, I studied archaeology.”
Raynaud was surprised. “You did?”
> “Yes,” she said. “I intended to get a doctoral degree. Then I won a beauty contest.”
She gave a peculiar smile, as if the memory did not entirely please her.
“I can understand why,” Raynaud said.
Pierce tugged slightly at her arm, and they began to move off.
“I hope we shall meet again,” Sandra said.
As they left, Pierce looked over his shoulder and winked.
Later, while Sandra was talking excitedly to a group of girls, Pierce came over to Raynaud.
“What did you think?”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“You sound unhappy.”
“No. It’s just that somebody should tell her.”
Pierce laughed. “I will,” he said. “I will lay bare all my faults. Later.” He lit a cigarette. “We’re going to Wales. Tonight. Be gone for the weekend.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“Will you be here when I get back?”
“Probably.”
“Well then,” Pierce said. He extended his hand. “Have a good time,” he said, “at the snake convention.” They shook hands.
Soon afterward, Raynaud left the party.
As he unlocked the door to Richard’s flat, Raynaud suddenly regretted not having picked up a girl. Pet had been after him, licking her lips as she talked; it would have been easy. Now, the prospect of being alone in the apartment, alone with his thoughts, depressed him.
He passed through the living room, into the kitchen, where he mixed himself a drink. He made it very stiff; it would be his last before retiring. Something to help him sleep.
As he drank it, he sniffed the air. Perfume. Still sniffing, he went into the bedroom, which was empty. Then back to the living room.
“Bon soir,” said the husky voice.
She was seated in the corner, in darkness, smoking a cigarette. Her legs were tucked up under her in a rather girlish fashion. In the flare of her cigarette he saw the haughty face—high cheekbones, dark eyes, firm mouth. Her hair was glossy, dark blond, falling over her face. Impatiently she swept it back.
“Hello, Lucienne,” he said.
She smiled. “How are you getting on?”
“Fine.”
“Does he suspect?”
“No. He suspects nothing.”
“Excellent,” she said, puffing on the cigarette. “Now come and kiss me hello.”
Part 2: The Snake Convention
1. NO PERVERSIONS
HE MADE HER A drink and she followed him into the kitchen, kicking off her shoes and moving barefoot across the carpet. He had forgotten her bare feet. Funny, he thought, what you remembered,
“Enjoy the party?” she asked. She had a soft, low, sexy voice, a singer’s voice, even now.
“Not much. Scotch?”
“Vodka. On the rocks.” She smiled. “You don’t remember.”
He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Hold it against me?”
“No. Don’t be silly. You look well, Charles.”
“So do you, Lucienne. But then it hasn’t been long, has it?”
“It’s been long for me,” she said. “My nerves are shot.”
He gave her the drink.
“Let’s go back into the other room. The bright light hurts my eyes.”
They returned to the living room. Raynaud noticed the way she moved. Restless, but with a smooth grace, an angular, tough-looking, controlled body. She sat down in a liquid, coiling motion.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Richard? All right.”
“The chance meeting in Paris went smoothly?”
“Very smoothly.”
“Then he truly does not know?”
“That you’ve hired me? No. He doesn’t.”
“Good,” she said.
He waited for her to explain, but she did not. She had always been that way, always a little mysterious.
“By the way,” she said. “What did you think of her?”
“Who?”
“Sandra.”
“Very attractive.”
“Yes. Much too good for Richard. Still, she’s old enough to know her way around. I expect she’s after the money. Everyone is.”
She puffed on her cigarette irritably. “Miss me?” she asked.
“Yes.” It was true, in a way. He had missed her. When he had first met her in Mexico she had been just another rich client who could command the most exclusive tour, with the most private guide. Charles was no longer giving tours, having quit to study snakes and assume the role of gentleman scientist, but somehow she heard about him and insisted that he be retained as tour guide, no matter what the price. He had finally agreed to guide her.
He soon realized that she had come to Yucatán the way some women went on African safaris, and she expected Raynaud to play white hunter. He hadn’t liked the idea at first; later, he had. And something must have happened to him, because when he went back to Mexico City, Allison took one look at his face and said, “Who was she?”
He smiled at the recollection.
“Do I amuse you?”
“Just remembering,” he said.
She looked at him across the room and patted the couch next to her. “Come sit next to me.”
He did; she took out another cigarette and he lit it for her. There was the flare of the match, and then darkness again.
“I’ve always liked your face,” Lucienne said. “It shows character. Not like Richard. He has a doughy face; it shows nothing but alcohol and venereal disease. How are you getting on with him?”
“It’s difficult.”
“You mean he’s difficult. Can you bear up?”
“Probably. If you tell me what it’s all about.”
“Later,” she said.
“Don’t keep me in suspense too long.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
He kissed her then and felt her cool fingers on his neck and her body relaxed against him. Then she stopped.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Not in this apartment.”
“Then where?”
“Come,” she said, standing up and taking his hand. “Come.”
The room was dark, and warm, and close. She rubbed her nose against his shoulder and said, “I’m glad to see you are still the same.”
He smiled in the darkness; she pulled away from him.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” she said, getting out of bed. “But I have my rules, remember?”
He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. Brandy and soda afterward.”
“Yes,” she said. She turned on a small bedside lamp, which glowed a soft pink. Everything in the room was pink. The sheets were pink satin, as was the bedspread and the canopy above. The rug was thick pink pile. A door led to a pink-tiled bathroom.
In the dim, soft light he watched her mix the drinks, thinking to himself that she was one of those rare women who seemed somehow more graceful and elegant when undressed.
She glanced over her shoulder. “What are you staring at?”
“Your legs.”
“Do they please you?”
“Absolutely,” he said. He lit a cigarette and lay on his back in the bed, feeling relaxed and pleasantly tired. He found himself staring at a mirror image of himself—he sat up, startled, and realized that a large mirror hung suspended over the bed, concealed in the draped folds of the canopy.
“Christ,” he said, “how long has that been there?”
She gave a low laugh. “Since nineteen hundred and eight.” She gave him the drink, took the cigarette from between his lips, puffed it, and gave it back. “This house was standing at the time of the funeral of Edward the Seventh. In fact, the Archduke Ferdinand stayed here. The historical people are very fussy about letting me make changes, so I left it. Besides,” she said, “there are no perversions like old perversions.”
“Do you, ah…watch?”
“Sometimes. When I
get bored.”
She laughed, and kissed him, and said, “It’s nice to have you back.”
“It’s nice to have you, too.”
She gave a mock frown. “Were you always so vulgar?”
“Yes,” he said, and stubbed out his cigarette. “And I am going to be more vulgar and talk about money. Now tell me why you wrote me that letter.”
She pouted. “Oh, Charles, must we now?”
“Yes.”
She touched his cheek with a cool finger. “Your face has gotten hard and stern.”
“The suspense is killing me.”
She laughed. “Is it such a mystery?”
“It is to me,” he said.
“Actually,” she said, “it is quite simple. Richard needs looking after. That’s all.”
“Why? He seems to have gotten this far on his own.”
“Yes, but we are approaching a rather crucial period in his life. He is about to inherit the estate. Next month, to be exact.”
“So?”
She shrugged. “I am worried about him.”
“Why?”
“You are full of questions,” she said, “and it can all wait until morning.”
“I’d rather—”
She put her hand over his mouth, very gently but firmly. “I insist,” she said.
“All right,” he said.
2. NEW DEBTS
RICHARD PULLED THE MASERATI into the drive and parked next to the front steps. He looked up at the second floor; a light was on in the bedroom window. She was still awake.
Alongside him, Sandra said, “Where are we?”
“Lucienne’s house.”
“Why?” She looked at her watch. It was a heavy, masculine model, the latest thing for London girls to wear. “It is late, and we must catch the plane—”
“I’ll only be a minute. Just saying goodbye.”
He kissed her and she responded warmly, a kiss full of promises and anticipation.
He turned on the radio for her and patted her knee. “Sit tight. Be right back.”
He climbed the steps to the door and rang the bell. Immediately, he began to feel nervous; his palms were sweating, and his tongue felt dry. It was always like this. Had been for years.
He remembered once overhearing an argument between Lucienne and Herbert over him. Lucienne had called him a runty little snot who did nothing but play with himself. Hearing that, he realized for the first time that she had been spying on him. He never forgot it. He knew that, even now, Lucienne managed to keep track of him.
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