She hated to play the flute; he knew that.
“Earn it.”
She shook her head and walked across the room, sitting down in a leather chair. “No.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no, you drunken fool.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“A drunken fool,” Dominique said.
“Listen, Snapper, if I become tired of you, I won’t pay—”
“Oh? You are so generous?” She laughed. “You have no money. You spent it all on the Italian.”
“I have plenty of money.”
“Whenever you want money, you must run to the skirts of your mother.”
“Stepmother.” He said it slowly.
“Mother,” Dominique said.
“Be careful, little girl.”
“Such a big man,” Dominique said, “around women. You’re very brave and tough around women, aren’t you? But what about men? What about Charles? How tough were you then?”
He got up, unsteadily, and walked toward her. He bent over and drew his hand back to slap her.
She kicked out her bare foot, catching him in the stomach, and he toppled backward to the floor, feeling ludicrous.
“Drunken fool.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because you are a fool.”
He got to his feet. “I’ll beat you for this.”
“You will beat no one.”
She stood and walked toward him. He swung at her, but she ducked away easily: he was too drunk. He almost lost his balance. She slapped him twice, hard, stinging across his face.
“In the beauty parlor,” she said, “I listened to them and I thought they were wrong. Now, I know they were right.”
She swung again. A sharp, burning slap.
“They were completely right. You are a fool.”
Slap.
“And a drunkard.”
Slap. He was moving backward, holding his hands up, protecting his face.
“And a coward.”
Slap.
“And it is good that Charles slept with Sandra, and it is good that he is sleeping with Jane—”
“They know that?”
Slap.
“Everyone knows that. And it is good, too, that she will ruin you.”
Dimly, through his intoxication, he understood what she was saying.
“You mean…”
She pushed him disdainfully down on the couch, and stood over him, hands on her hips. “It is all over the city. Mitchell is selling stocks, and your fortune will be destroyed. Everyone is laughing at you, calling you a coward and a fool.”
Abruptly, she leaned over and spat in his face.
“And I call you a coward and a fool.”
He wiped the spittle off his cheek. The little bitch, the stupid, ignorant, ungrateful little cheap cunt. Before he was through with her, she’d be nothing, just nothing, a body in the gutter. She would pay for her arrogance, her stupid childish…
“Where are you going?”
“I am sleeping in the guest room tonight. And tomorrow I return to Paris. Good night.”
She stomped into the guest room. He heard the lock turning in the door.
Fix her, the little bitch. Show her who had the last word.
His first thought was the gas. He could turn it on and leave the apartment, going to Yvonne’s—going anywhere, anywhere at all—and coming back in the morning to find her dead. But no: a moment later, he heard her opening the window to the bedroom.
He got up and poured himself another scotch.
His umpteenth. It tasted sweet. Jesus, Jesus, sweet scotch, that were things coming to? When scotch tasted sweet, the end was near. That was what they all said. Perhaps an ice cube.
He went into the kitchen, wincing in the harsh light, and got a cube. He sipped the drink: didn’t mean a damn.
He shook his head. Damn them all. Damn Dominique, and Charles, and the cause of it all, Jane. Damn the beauty parlors of this world, with the catty women and their damned dryers telling tales out of school.
Two days! That was all it had been since the fight. Two days, and it was all over London. They were laughing at him, snickering behind their hands.
They hadn’t used to do that. Once he was a leader, an admired playboy, he had his pick of the women—hell, he still did…
“Everyone is laughing at you…”
Let them. Hollow laughs. Soon he would be rich, and they could all go to hell. He would live in Morocco or Beirut and forget London, forget everyone who lived here.
“Everyone is calling you a coward and a fool…”
Talk was cheap. Only money counted. Certainly they were pleased to see him fall, they were waiting for it, hoping for it. They thrived on misfortune.
“And she will ruin you…”
Jane. The cause of it all. Before Jane, everything was good. He had good times with Raynaud in Paris, and with Dominique, and with the others, and everything was happy. He was respected, even admired, by Raynaud. And the others. And he was going to be rich.
Until Jane.
Stupid, sly, stinking bitch of a girl.
Jane.
Jesus Christ, the scotch was like molasses, it was so sweet. And it had a funny color. He gulped it down, shuddering, and poured vodka. He wanted to forget it all, but he was unpleasantly awake. Feeling less drunk by the second. He swallowed two shots of vodka neat.
Still awake.
Grass: a stick in the bedroom. He smoked it quickly. But it did not help, his mind kept coming back in slow circles to Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane. He hated her, he loathed her, she was even blond, like Lucienne. He hated her, wished he had never met her, never set eyes on her.
If only Jane wasn’t there. How pleasant it would be. Raynaud would be his friend again. Dominique would be his friend again. Beauty parlors would stop talking. The world would be a happy place again, without Jane.
On the counter in the kitchen was a long knife, a butcher’s knife with a heavy wooden handle and a finely honed, short blade. It glinted in the light. He picked up the knife, closing his fingers around the handle, staring closely at the blade. And thinking. And thinking.
He was suddenly so furious he could hardly speak.
17. THE NEEDLE
JONATHAN BLACK SAT IN his car with his hand placed over his heart. The pains worried him; they were getting worse, and more frequent. It was all a very bad thing.
As he sat there, brooding, Richard came hurrying out of the apartment, swaying drunkenly. He bent over his car and put the key in the lock but apparently did not get it to open immediately, because he stopped to kick the car in blind fury. A moment later he had opened the door, started the engine, and roared off. Black had not been able to see if he had a gun with him, but he was certain he did. A gun, or a knife, or something.
Ten minutes later, wearing a raincoat and probably nothing else, Dominique came out and walked directly to his car. He opened the door for her and she got in. “How did it go?”
She shivered. “All right.”
“Was he mad?”
“He was furious. Insane.”
“You put the powder in a drink?”
“Yes. Scotch. He drank a lot.”
“And you talked about the girl?”
“I did just what you said. Now, please.” She pulled up the sleeve to her raincoat, holding out her bare arm.
“Yes,” Black said. He withdrew the bottle and syringe from the glove compartment, filled it, and squeezed out a few drops.
“Not too much,” Dominique said.
“Never fear.” He tied the rubber loop around her forearm until the veins stood out. Then he slipped the needle into the crook of her elbow, and squeezed in the morphine.
“There you go.” He withdrew the needle, put a cotton pad over the puncture, and pushed her wrist up to her shoulder. “That should do it.”
She sat in the car. “Wait a minute. We agreed—
”
“On ten doses, yes. But I don’t have it now. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“Oh, no—”
“Dominique,” Black said patiently. “Trust me. Trust me.”
He looked at her eyes. Already the pupils were constricting, and her stare was turning glassy. In a few moments, she would not care. She would trust him.
“Promise?” she said.
“I promise.”
“And a needle, too. I don’t have a needle.”
“Yes. A needle, too. Now go back into the apartment.”
She returned. He waited until she had gone up the steps and closed the door behind her. Then he started his car and drove straight home.
It was finished.
Everything, every small detail, even Dominique, was finished.
18. SHOTS IN THE DARK
FORTUNATELY, JANE MITCHELL WAS a light sleeper, awaking instantly with no trace of grogginess or fatigue. When she heard the pounding at her door, the hurried urgency in the knock, she assumed that it was Charles, and that something had happened. She got out of bed, wearing a pale yellow Dior nightgown, and went to the door after pausing long enough to see by her watch that it was 12:35.
She threw the latch on the door and opened it. She could not see the person standing before her; his face was in shadow from the hall light behind, and her eyes were not used to the light. She stood for a moment, slightly confused, blinking.
“Yes? What is it?”
Then she saw the arm come up, and the sharp, straight blade of the knife. She stepped quickly backward as the knife swung down; it missed her but caught the nightgown, tearing it. She backed off quickly and the man came in, panting, obviously excited. She moved to the right of the bed and he followed her. She climbed quickly over the bed, and he swung again, burying the blade deep into the mattress, ripping the sheets with a jagged sound as he pulled it free.
At no time did she scream; she was not given to screams, but made for her purse as the man clambered over the bed toward her. He was unsteady, breathing heavily, his breath rasping in his throat.
Just as he came off the bed and prepared to slash again, she opened the purse, gripped the gun purposefully, and fired four times in rapid succession. The first shot snapped the man’s head back. The second doubled him over with a sound like a cough. The third sent him stumbling and sagging toward the floor. The fourth hit him moments before he collapsed like a sack of grain.
Suddenly, there were shouts all around her. Another man appeared silhouetted in the doorway. She fired and missed, the bullet splintering the wood of the door. The man ducked back and shouted, “Madam! Madam! It’s the manager!”
Jane said, evenly, “Come in with your hands up.”
A moment later, he came in, slowly, trembling.
“Turn on the light,” she said.
He did, flicking the wall switch. The room filled with light and she saw a pale man in a tuxedo, his eyes wide and staring. She put the gun down.
“Who let in this creep with the knife?” she said, and then looked at the body near the bed.
Richard.
“My God,” she said.
The manager approached her like a man cornered by a tiger. “If you’ll put away your pistol, madam…”
She handed it to him silently.
“I…I’ll just call the police.”
She sat on the bed, not looking at the body or the blood and brains on the floor, and waited while he dialed. People were pouring into the room—maids, room-service men, guests from nearby suites, drawn by the gunshots. They all stood in awed silence until someone with a brisk manner, who seemed to be the house detective, pushed them all out.
After the manager had dialed the police, she said, “I’d like to make a call.”
“You’d best wait,” the manager said, “for the police.”
The first to arrive was a bobby who burst into the room, had one look, and became deathly sick. While he was retching in the bathroom, with Jane looking tired and the manager looking embarrassed, another man in a raincoat arrived and began to ask clipped, precisely obnoxious questions while he took notes on a small pad. He was asking her things like whether she had ever shot anybody before, and whether she had ever used a gun before. Foolish questions. She stood it for fifteen minutes, then began to get hold of herself, to think straight.
“I want to make two calls,” she said.
“You have the right to legal advice,” the detective said. “Whom are you calling?”
“My fiancée, Charles Raynaud,” she said smoothly, “and Lord Overton.”
The name of Lord Overton caused a visible reaction in the detective. Lord Overton had been head of the committee of the House of Lords which had written the scathing report on Special Branch and M.I.6 the year before.
“Lord Overton is an acquaintance?”
“Lord Overton is a close friend of the family.”
“Yes,” said the detective, closing his pad. “Well, then.”
She made her calls.
As it turned out, neither Charles nor Lord Overton was much needed. At the station, there was ample testimony from the hotel staff to indicate the following points: 1. That Miss Mitchell had retired to bed at 11:10 that evening, alone. 2. That the deceased, Mr. Pierce, had entered the hotel obviously intoxicated and nervously excited at 12:34. 3. That the night manager had been in his office necking with a certain Miss Conover, from the kitchen staff, and so had seen nothing. 4. That the bell captain, in charge of the desk, had left his post momentarily to relieve himself, and so had not seen Pierce enter the lobby and go up the stairs. 5. That a Mrs. Lewiston, from Ely, had been sitting in the lobby nursing a brandy and soda and had observed the deceased, Mr. Pierce, who walked as if concealing something in one hand, and that Mrs. Lewiston had been alarmed by his manner and appearance, went to the desk only to discover that the bell captain was not there. 6. That the night maid, Mrs. O’Herlihy, a sixty-year-old woman of good character and, surprising in an Irishwoman, a teetotaler, had observed Mr. Pierce banging on the door to Miss Mitchell’s suite with the wooden handle of the knife. 7. That Mrs. O’Herlihy had telephoned the police at 12:35 to report the incident, but that the call was still being acted upon at the time the manager called, at 12:39, to report the death of Mr. Pierce.
By 1:40, the police reluctantly agreed to release Miss Mitchell without bail into the custody of Lord Overton, with the understanding that she would not attempt to leave London without permission, and that she would not, under any circumstances, attempt to leave the country.
Outside the police station, Raynaud said to her, “What do you want to do?”
She said, “I want to walk.”
They walked aimlessly, down dark, damp streets in a fine drizzle. She paused once to light a cigarette, and her face in the matchlight was drawn and tired. Raynaud remembered his brief conversation with one of the detectives who had examined the body. Four shots: one through the abdomen, just below the diaphragm; one in the head; one in the neck below the jaw; and one in the left temple. The detective stated that, from the position of the body, the last three shots had struck Richard while he was already falling from the impact of the first.
“I feel queer,” Jane said at last. “I wish I knew why he did it.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Yes. You could smell it, very strong. But still…”
“What?”
“He didn’t act drunk. He acted crazy. Insane.”
Raynaud frowned. He had been bothered by a persistent thought for nearly an hour now.
“Do you think he could have been drugged?”
“How? On what?”
“Dezisen,” Raynaud said. “A new drug, extracted from snake venom. It’s being marketed as an experimental compound for research purposes.”
“But who…”
She stopped. Raynaud nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Richard’s uncle, sweet old Jonathan Black.”
“But why would he want Richard dead? You to
ld me before—”
“The point,” Raynaud said, “is that Richard wasn’t going to die. You were. He was going to kill you. And that would get him thrown into prison after a long, messy scandal involving you, him, and me.”
“That was why you beat him up, and took me to Cambridge?”
“Yes. I set up the scandal.”
“But it backfired,” Jane said. “I killed Richard.”
“Yes, and that changes everything.”
A cab cruised by; Raynaud stuck out his hand and hailed it.
“Where are we going?”
“To find the next body,” Raynaud said.
As the cab moved through dark streets, Raynaud said, “You see, it’s all a set-up. Planned months in advance. Very carefully engineered, with all the little checks and balances neatly arranged. Now they’re fouled up, and we’ve got to move quickly.”
“And do what?”
“Find the body of Dominique.”
“How do you know she’s dead?”
“I would be very surprised,” Raynaud said, “if she isn’t.”
The door was locked; he leaned heavily against it and broke it open. The wood was old and it splintered easily. They walked into the apartment.
“You never met Dominique,” Raynaud said, “but she was Richard’s girl. A tart from Paris…”
They searched through the rooms, moving quickly. Nothing in the living room, the kitchen, the master bedroom.
“Richard couldn’t figure out how she got a visa into England. Or how she got her fixes—she was an addict, you see. But I think I know—”
He stopped. They had come to the guest room. Dominique lay there on the bed, in her underwear, not moving. Her lips were purple; otherwise she seemed asleep.
Jane stepped forward. “Is she all right?”
“Don’t touch,” Raynaud said. “Don’t touch anything.”
He moved closer, and looked at the face. There was no movement, no breathing. He carefully felt for a pulse at the neck. Nothing. The skin was cold.
“Dead,” he said, stepping back.
“How?”
“Overdose.”
He hurried back to the kitchen. If Dominique had given the poison to Richard, how would she do it? Food? Not likely.
He looked around the kitchen. A bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka stood open on a counter. He bent over them, not touching, and sniffed. The vodka seemed to be all right. But the scotch had a sweetish odor and looked cloudy.
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