She was born in Washington, the daughter of a rough Montana miner and a Boston socialite intrigued by blood more red than blue. As a young girl, Jane was subjected to conflicting influences—the social correctness of her mother, and the earthy directness of her father—and managed to find a happy medium. She was a good student, attending Concord Academy and Vassar College, from which she graduated Phi Beta Kappa in French history.
A year after she left college, her parents were killed in a small-plane crash in Jamaica. To get her mind off the tragedy, she took up modeling, and rapidly became one of the most successful models in New York. Most Americans had seen her as the girl who claimed new Cold-Power Whiz made clothes “Brighter than white, whiter than bright.” Still others had seen her demonstrating the advantages of Creamy Delight, a pushbutton whipped cream with less than one calorie per serving (“Slims you down…down…down…”).
Then there was a little summer stock, playing the part of Julie in Windsong, at Westport. That was where she had met number four, and the experience had permanently soured her on theater; she had refused all offers for the next year.
She preferred commercials, and it amused her that they were all successful, making her a good deal of money. Just before leaving New York, she had shot one for Trend (“for the taste that’s clean as mountain air”) and for Easy-Stretch bras (“Lifts here, firms here”). It was fun. A bit mindless, perhaps, but fun.
Like the party, she thought, turning the invitation over in her hands. It had been waiting for her when she arrived in the hotel—a carefully engraved card, silver on linen, which said:
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND
AN OPENING
AT
WHEATSTONE GALLERIES
FOR
MR. JULIAN WEISS
PAINTER 8:30 TO MIDNIGHT
Improprieties encouraged
She flicked the card with her thumb. What the hell, she thought. It would be amusing; she would go. But she wondered who had sent it to her. Nobody knew she was going to be in London.
Except for one person.
Charles Raynaud.
She smiled: it would be amusing.
3. INFORMATION
RAYNAUD WAITED UNTIL HE had finished his second beer before he spoke to the girl next to him. He had wanted to watch the pub for a time. The Cock and Hen, a battered place in the worst part of Battersea. Filled mostly with laborers and young, pimply-faced kids in outrageous clothes. One or two tarts. A strange group.
There was a tart sitting next to him. A tough, long, lean creature with long black hair and a short black dress. She had very large, hostile eyes and a sneering mouth. He could guess her specialty.
She noticed him looking at her and cocked her eyebrow. “Want a bit, love?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s ever so nice.”
He nodded and bought her a drink.
“Just round the corner, love. Right conven’nt, it is. Interested?” She put her hand in his lap.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Cor, you’re not a name one, are you? Call me Jackie, love.”
“You know a girl named Shelia?”
The girl took her hand away. “Sheila? Here now. You ent got the scrub for her, ducks. Too flash, is Shelia.”
“That’s who I want.”
“Put you back a sweet lump.”
“Where can I find her?”
At that moment, another girl swept into the pub, wearing a glittering silver dress and silver mesh stockings. She was greeted with shouts and cheers from the men there, and she waved gaily.
“There ’tis, love,” the tart said to Raynaud.
He bought her another drink, then got up and moved down the bar. Shelia was sitting at the bar, elbows on the counter, lighting a cigarette.
“Hello,” he said.
She glanced over at him, then away. “Yah?”
“You free tonight?”
She smiled slightly, lit the cigarette, and shook out the match. “In real need, are you? Cor, these Yanks don’t wait until you’ve had a drink. Bloody inconvenient.”
He shrugged.
Still not looking at him, but staring straight ahead, she said, “This here’s Friday night. Special night.”
“And?”
“Cost you a one’er.”
“What?”
“A hundred quid, lovey,” she said irritably. “Take it or leave it.”
“All right,” he said.
She glanced over at him lazily. “Got a car?”
“Yes.”
“Got a place?”
“No.”
“Cost you another twenty.”
“All right.”
“Then that’s it, then. Wait until I get me drink, and we’re off.”
The drink came, she gulped it back, and they left. She took his arm. She walked gracefully, with a kind of strong, physical confidence.
Outside it was dark and chilly. They got into the car and he turned on the heater.
She sat back, took out a mirror from her purse, and fluffed her hair. “Go up the block and turn right,” she said, finishing with her hair and applying lipstick. “I’ll direct you from there.”
They drove for perhaps ten minutes, down dark, grim streets with depressing row houses. She did not attempt to make conversation. Finally, they pulled up in front of one house, no different from any of the others on either side, and she said, “This is it.”
She held out her hand.
“Now?” he said.
“Right, lovey. Now.”
He reached into his pocket, gave her the money, and waited while she counted it. She did it slowly, obviously relishing the feel of the crisp bills.
“Very nice,” she said, at last. “Out you go.”
He got out and climbed the steps to the front door, waited while she unlocked it, and went inside. He was looking around.
“Not to worry,” she said. “Quite safe here.”
They came into a depressingly tawdry living room. The furniture was caving, tattered, the material worn threadbare in many spots.
“Action up there,” she said, pointing to the stairs.
They climbed. He listened intently for other sounds in the house, but heard nothing.
They came to a bedroom, bare except for a single bed in the center of the room. On the walls were mirrors. The room was lighted by a single small lamp with a red shade.
“How do you like it, then?” she asked. She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it; she was wearing nothing underneath. She went to a closet and opened it. Inside, there were boots and leather clothing and whips.
“Eh? How do you like it?”
Raynaud leaned against the wall, watched her, and lit a cigarette. He said nothing. “Something wrong, lovey?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m looking for Norman,”
“Who?”
“Norman.”
“I don’t know no Norman, lovey.”
“Think hard,” Raynaud said.
She shook her head. “Don’t know Norman, lovey.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “Just think about it.” And he took out his gun.
“Here, now—”
“Where is he?”
“I swear I don’t—”
“Shelia,” he said. “I haven’t got all night.”
“Cor,” she said. “What a mess we’re in now. Here I bring you up for a little bit—”
She was moving into the closet, reaching up…
“Hold it.”
She froze.
“That’s not smart, Shelia.”
He moved to her quickly, then, and slapped her hard across the face. “Not smart at all.”
She took it well. She had had beatings before; she knew how to handle it. She let her head swing loosely on her neck, absorbing the blow. “Go on,” she said bitterly. “It doesn’t matter. Go on.”
“I’m not going to hurt him or you,” Raynaud said. “I just want
a little information. But I want it now.”
“Go on,” she said. “I’ve heard that one before.”
He had been expecting this, or something like it. He took out his wallet, removed five hundred-pound notes, and dropped them on the bed.
“That change things?”
“No,” she said, staring at the money.
“Sure?”
“Get out of here,” she said.
He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He bent over, scooped up the money, and turned to leave.
“Wait a bit.”
He paused.
“Why do you want to see him, eh?”
“Just a few questions.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Give us the money, then.”
“When you take me to him.”
She pulled on the silver dress. “He’s just downstairs,” she said. “Now give us the money.”
“Where?”
“Out back. In the garage.”
He put the gun in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
She led him down the stairs, to the rear of the house, and through a door to the garage. A light was on, above a blue sedan, license XJ 1189. A man was working, his head down under the car.
“Norman,” she said. “We got company.”
He came out slowly from beneath the car. The shock of recognition was immediate: the little man who had followed Raynaud and Pierce that night. The frightened, chubby little man.
“Hello, Norman,” Raynaud said.
“What do you want?” Norman said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Eh?”
He glanced up angrily at Shelia. “You brought him here?”
She looked helpless and frightened.
“Norman,” Raynaud said. “Is this your car?”
“Yes,” he said.
He was beginning to tremble.
“I won’t hurt you,” Raynaud said, “if you tell me a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as who’s paying you.”
“Eh?” He cocked his head, trying to look confused.
“Yes. Who’s paying you?”
“I don’t follow yer, gov.”
Raynaud swung swiftly and viciously, catching him just beneath the ribs. He felt his fist sink into soft flesh. Norman gave a little cough and doubled over, falling to his knees.
Shelia gasped.
“All right, Norman. The party’s over. Who is paying you?”
Even as he asked, Raynaud was almost certain he knew the answer. There was only one person who stood to gain from any of this, and that was Lucienne. But how did she come to know a man like Norman?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Raynaud had a moment of pure, hot anger. He didn’t want to hurt the little man. It wasn’t necessary, none of this was necessary. But if necessary…
He kicked hard, catching Norman just under the arm, knocking him back.
“Quickly, Norman. Tell me.”
The little man glared stubbornly at him.
“You have nothing to gain by silence.”
Norman said nothing.
Raynaud took out his gun. Norman saw it, recognized it.
“You…you wouldn’t…”
“Why not?” Raynaud said. “What do I have to lose?”
Norman got off the floor. “Here,” he said. “Perhaps we can work out—”
Raynaud swung with the barrel, catching Norman across the side of the face, knocking him down again.
“Just answer the question. Who’s paying you?”
Norman was vomiting on the floor. Raynaud waited a moment. When Norman looked up at him, his face was pale.
“Mr. Pierce, it was,” he said. “He was paying me.”
“Mr. Pierce?”
“Richard Pierce. That’s who it was.”
Raynaud was stunned.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“No, I’m not, I swear it.”
“You are.”
“No, I swear it. He’s had me working for him, years now. Years. Ever since the job I tried.”
“What job?”
“Last year,” Norman said, his eyes wide with fear. “Last year it was. I tried a job on his flat. Seemed a good idea; he was off with Shelia, here. Only he found me out.”
“Oh?”
“Yah. He was going to have me nicked, but he didn’t.”
“In exchange for services.”
“Yah. I don’t hear from him for a year, and then he sends me to Paris. With instructions, money, everything.”
“You were driving the car? The blue Mercedes? In Paris?”
“Yah.”
“And your orders were to make it look good.”
He nodded.
“And when you followed us?”
“Mr. Pierce, he said to me to follow you and see that you got the gun from me. That gun.”
“I see. And the shooting in the apartment?”
“The same. He comes to me and says he has a little job for me. When I heard it, I didn’t want no part of it, but he says it’s the last thing. He says that if I do it, she’ll be screwed for sure. So I—”
“Wait a minute. She?”
“Yah. That’s what he says. She.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. It was just what he said. Not for me to pry. So I did the job, just as he says.”
“Making sure to miss.”
“Yah.”
“And he said this was the last thing?”
“Yah. The last job. And he said he’d never call me again. I don’t believe that, of course. I’m moving out, so he can’t find me. I don’t want no part of this. No part.”
Raynaud took a deep breath.
“All right, Norman. I’ll leave you alone now.” He went back to the rear door, where Shelia was standing, her face cold and set. He opened the rear door, and turned back.
“Just one other thing, Norman. Don’t say a word about this to anyone.”
“No, I swear—”
“Especially not Mr. Pierce.”
“Cor, I wouldn’t call him, that’s for—”
“Because, Norman,” Raynaud said, “if you do, you’re a dead man.”
He went through the door and back down the hallway toward the front of the house. Shelia seemed to revive, then. She ran after him.
“Just a minute, lovey.” She came up and caught his arm. “There’s still the money.”
“Money?”
“The five hundred quid, lovey. I took you to him, remember?”
“Yes,” Raynaud said. “But on the other hand, you have a hundred and twenty pounds which, if I remember, you didn’t earn.”
She stared at him for one furious instant, and then spat in his face.
“Goodbye, Shelia,” he said, and walked out to his car, wiping his face clean.
As he drove to the party, he considered Richard’s game and decided it was exactly like Lucienne’s game, but in reverse. A mirror image, revolving around the fixed point of Charles Raynaud.
Richard had engineered a series of phony murders. He had arranged for Raynaud to get a gun which was filled with semi-blanks. Richard was prepared to have Raynaud attempt to kill him with that gun and those blanks. At that point, Richard could accuse Raynaud and Lucienne.
Bingo.
Raynaud vowed that he would not kill Richard, but that he would take the next opportunity to beat him to a small and featureless pulp. He could take care of Lucienne later.
If he could only understand her game.
Somewhere, a scandal was coming. A complex thing, intricate, delicate, dangerous.
But what?
As he moved through the damp London streets, weaving among the cars, he tried to guess. He would have been surprised to know that he would have his answer within ten minutes.
4. FELLOW TRAVELER
ALL IN ALL, SHE found it a rather dull party. The men were plumpish and balding and mostly g
ay. Swish—the whole lot of them. She had forgotten about London men. She stood in a corner and wished she could meet someone terribly attractive and virile and interesting who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away from all this crap.
And then she saw Raynaud.
He was standing with a short man with dark hair and very large eyes; the short man was wearing a wine-colored blazer, pink shirt, yellow ascot, and gray glen-plaid slacks. He looked a little like a decorator’s nightmare. Charles wore a blue suit and looked tired. He had a bruise on his forehead.
She was about to go over and introduce herself when he caught her eye and stared at her in the most astonished way. She could not tell what it meant: she had expected him to be glad to see her, but he didn’t seem glad. He seemed astonished and a little horrified.
She started over, and then Charles did something odd.
He raised his finger to his lips, and shook his head.
Meantime the short man had caught sight of her and had hurried up. “You’re new,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“And you are alone,” the man said, in a mock-disapproving tone.
“I’m afraid so.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of. We have come to the rescue. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Richard Pierce, and this is my fellow traveler, Charles Raynaud.”
“How do you do. Jane Mitchell.”
Charles took her hand gravely. “Miss Mitchell.”
“Enchanté,” said Richard Pierce, lifting her hand with an exaggerated gesture and kissing it with a loud smack. She had to laugh. He dropped her hand immediately.
“Some zing iss funny? You zink it is funny?”
“No, no,” she said.
“Then we must celebrate, eh, Gaston?” With a wink, Richard Pierce jabbed Charles in the ribs. Charles smiled patiently. She wondered what he was doing here, with this creepy little man.
“Come, come, my dear,” Richard said. “As a visitor to the decadent old world, you will be gobbled alive without a proper guide. This is a jungle, a veritable jungle, and young girls should not brave it alone.”
He held out his arm with a funny grin. She took it.
“Allow me to show you the sights and sins. Name your blackest wish, and it shall be granted.”
She laughed. “I don’t have any black wishes.”
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