by Trevanian
“More like a riot, I’d say.”
“Even if the figure were arrived at in public auction at Sotheby’s?”
“Particularly then. Marini is still alive; his work lacks the fiscal kudos of his death. And after all, the man is a Modern.”
“Yes, I am aware of your reactionary preferences in art. I’ve read a couple of your books by way of trying to understand your personality. But the abstract artistic value of the casting is not to the point here. What I am interested in is getting the price I want without undue public notice. More specifically, Dr. Hemlock, I want forty-eight hours from the time of the sale before there is any official reaction. Can you arrange that?”
“At a price.”
“That’s my kind of man!” Grace interjected.
“What price?” Strange asked.
“Well, naturally, I would like to get whatever the market will bear. But I’m afraid my native greed will have to give way to a very real interest in survival. I told you that I have to hire a man to put that CII official away before he fingers me again. I estimate that that will cost me about fifty thousand dollars.”
“So much?”
“He’s a deep man, hard to get at.”
“Very well, fifty thousand, then.”
“A little more, I’m afraid. To pull this off, I shall need baksheesh to spread around among the local critics and newspaper people—mostly indirect baksheesh, of course.”
“Give me a total,” Strange said curtly.
“Thirty thousand pounds.”
Strange and Grace exchanged glances. “Your services are dear,” Strange said.
“Oh, please. If you’re pulling in five million, then—”
“Yes. All right. Thirty thousand, then. But let me impress on you, as a gesture of friendship, how foolish it would be for you to try to double-cross me on this.”
“You would sic the dummy there on me, right?”
“Indeed I would. And I have a feeling that Leonard is none too fond of you as it is, after the dental damage you inflicted on his mate.”
“If you’re through flexing your muscles, there are some things I have to know if I’m to do this business for you.”
“Such as?”
“Is the Marini legally yours?”
“Oh yes. Bill of sale and all.”
“I assume you will deliver it to Sotheby’s for the auction?”
“The morning of that day, yes.”
“Where is it now?”
Strange turned to him slowly, like a casemate gun swinging onto a target. “That is none of your business. It is perfectly safe, and it can be produced quite quickly, at my volition. Anything more?”
“One thing. How much time do I have to prepare the way?”
“The auction is Wednesday morning.”
“Four days? I only have four days?”
“That will have to be enough. Grace and I cannot afford to linger about. And, anyway, my affection for the British is not without limits. I shall be glad to see the last of this narrow little island.”
Grace stood and stretched, her fingers stiff and reflexed in the air, her abbreviated peignoir rising above the taut buttocks, her splayed toes gripping the carpet. “I think I’ll go into the Aquarium for a nightcap. Maybe a look at the customers will turn me on.” She smiled and left the room, the purling of her tense body under its gossamer gown arresting conversation until she had disappeared.
“Nice little bonbon there,” Jonathan commented.
“Oh, yes. I enjoy bringing her pleasure. I arrange complicated little events for her. She’s so daring and inventive, it’s great fun to plan for her.”
“You’re a selfless man.”
Strange laughed. “My dear man! I never indulge in sexual activity myself.”
“Never?”
“Not since I was a boy. I passed my youth in establishments of this kind. As you may know, it is the practice of candy manufacturers to allow their workers to eat to their heart’s content when first they are employed. Within a few months, the workers become so cloyed that they make no further inroads on the merchandise.”
“And you never—”
“Never. Too draining. Too hard on the body. But I have my own vice. Unfortunately, it’s the most expensive vice in the world.”
Jonathan pictured Amazing Grace’s body. “Wasteful,” he couldn’t help commenting.
“I have other uses for Grace. A devoted ally, and a decoration without equal. I delight in the effect we create together. She, petite, proud, beautiful, sensuous. And I . . .” He paused and shrugged. “And I am graceful and classically handsome. There is not a jaw that does not tighten with envy when we make an entrance.”
He had admitted being handsome so matter-of-factly as to make it almost acceptable. And indeed, he was classically handsome, the most handsome man Jonathan had ever seen outside Greek sculpture.
But he was not attractive. His features were so regular, so smooth, so anticipated that the eye slipped over them, finding nothing to engage it. The face lacked the arresting traction of biographic imprint: there were no creases of concern, no grooves of concentration, no crinkles of laughter. Even the pallid, round eyes kept clear and sparkling with tinted eyedrops were devoid of narrative. The fall of light and shadow over his smoothly tanned features had the uninspired, geometric quality of the novice artist’s solution to a problem of chiaroscuro—very accurate, very dull.
“Shall we join Grace for a nightcap?” Jonathan asked, eager to end this evening while he was still ahead.
“By all means. Oh, there is one more thing, come to think of it. How did you get onto Grace and the Cellar d’Or establishment?”
For the first time, Jonathan was taken off balance by Strange’s technique of the sudden question dropped non sequitur.
Strange laughed. “Miss Dyke must be very fond of you indeed to impart such delicate information.”
“I put a little pressure on her,” Jonathan said simply. Since they already knew, he confessed offhandedly to glean what advantage seeming honesty had. He was glad she was off with her writer friend with the cats and red wine.
Strange nodded. “It’s comforting to know where your loyalties lie.”
“With myself, as always.”
“The trademark of the successful man.” Strange rose. “Do let’s join Grace.”
When they arrived in the Aquarium, Grace was curled up in the deep leather chair, sipping at a tumbler of Everclear. “May I offer you some?”
“No,” Jonathan said quickly. He crossed over and looked out onto the salon, as Strange took up a perch on the arm of Grace’s chair and, with an absentminded proprietorial gesture, began to roll the nipple of one breast betwen thumb and forefinger.
“Is everything settled?” she asked.
“I think so. Dr. Hemlock and I share qualities of selfishness and greed that augur well for a profitable cooperation.”
In the salon outside, a handful of rather spent clients sat about. Two portly old gentlemen in caps and bells descended the wide Art Deco stairs, looking drained and fragile. They collected their waiting mates and left. Only two hostesses were still on duty, and one of these was leaning against the aluminum wall, her face lax and puffy. “You say the hostesses aren’t hookers?” Jonathan asked.
“Do I detect a tone of carnal interest?” Strange said.
“Yes, you do. Tired though I am, I feel a bit like celebrating our agreement.”
“Which one turns you on?” Grace asked.
“Looks like there’s only two to pick from. I really don’t care. You’re the licensed meat inspector here. Which one would you suggest? The blonde?”
Grace sat up and looked over the choices. “I wouldn’t say so. That other one—she’s got the right muscle arrangement for it. She’s an Irish girl. Our model agency sent her over this morning and I interviewed her. She’s not really cute, with that ragamuffin face of hers, but there’s something about those big green eyes and that hair that I felt was p
erfect for the flapper look.” Grace’s professional eye scanned the girl’s legs and buttocks. “Yeah,” she said, sitting back, “she’ll give you the better ride.”
“If she is willing,” Jonathan said.
“Don’t worry about that,” Strange said. “I’ll arrange it for you—a gift to seal our bargain in the Arabic way. A little shot of dream juice, and she will be yours—moist and panting. But you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer something a bit more—occult?”
“No. She’ll do fine. But no cantharis.”
“Why not?”
“I’m tired. If I can’t make it, I don’t want her groaning about and groping at me all night.”
Strange laughed. “As you wish. We have a little something that will render her perfectly pliable. She will know what is going on, but she will be without will. But I’m afraid she may babble a bit.”
“Better a babbler than a groper.”
“Pity the options are so limited.” Strange rose. “I’ll bid you good night, if I may. It’s already seventeen minutes after my bedtime, and, as you may have noted, I am a man of routine. I’ll attend to the Irish bit on my way. We’ll take breakfast together and discuss details. Is noon too early for you?”
He left without awaiting an answer to this rhetorical question.
Amazing Grace poured herself another drink and sat again in the deep chair, her knees drawn up and her feet on the seat, her furry écu revealed between her heels. “Well, what do you think of Max? Isn’t he a beautiful person?”
“I suppose,” he said, pressing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in an effort to relax the tension in his temples. “But there’s something hokey and childish in the way he plays it for Mephistopheles. A kind of campish eviler-than-thou.”
Out in the salon, Jonathan saw Two-mouths approach Maggie and speak to her. She frowned and followed him toward a back door. Jonathan hoped she wouldn’t put up too much of a fight when they put the needle in her.
“You’re not trying to tell me that Max didn’t impress you, are you, honey bun?”
“Oh, no. He impressed me, all right. In fact, he scares the shit out of me.”
She laughed. “I really like you, Hemlock. You must have been some kind of bad actor in your day. Only really tough men admit to being scared. Cheers.” She emptied her glass, and he could not help swallowing twice sympathetically in a vicarious effort to help her get it down. “But,” she continued, “he’s a rare and beautiful animal. He’s really evil, you know. Black mass sort of thing. Not just nasty or naughty or crotch-happy, like most men who think they’re bad. But really evil. And there’s nothing sexier than that. You have to get past sin, past sacrilege before things get really delicious.”
“What does P’tit Noel think about all this?”
“He doesn’t even know about The Cloisters. And if he did, it wouldn’t matter. He’d do anything in the world for me. Like a puppy dog—like a real big, real fierce puppy dog, that is.”
“Hey, would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me nervous.”
She laughed and pulled down her peignoir.
“And you don’t feel sorry for P’tit Noel?”
“Hell no. I know his type. He likes getting hurt. Big gesture; romantic crash. Like winos who drink because it’s so goddamn tragic and attractive to be a wino. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, madam, I do.” He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the back of it to suppress his fatigue. “May I ask you something, Grace?”
“Shoot.”
“I can’t understand how Van Dyke got mixed up with you people. I’ve known her for years, and I can’t imagine what Strange could have paid her that would bring her into this.”
“He didn’t pay her,” she said, tickling her lips with the rim of her empty glass and smiling at him. “I did.”
Jonathan looked down. “I see.”
Two-mouths conducted him through the exercise room into the now empty salon, its Art Deco sconces still ablaze. Jonathan looked toward the wall of mirrors behind which he assumed Amazing Grace was sitting, finishing a last Everclear. He waved good night to her, feeling a little foolish as he saw only his reflection wave back.
Up the wide staircase with its aluminum walls buffed in patterns of swirls, and down the long corridor, Two-mouths kept up a patter of talk to which Jonathan attended only vaguely.
“You could of knocked me over with a feather, you could, sir, when Mr. Strange told me to fix up that hostess for you. I thought you’d be done for sure, what with how you give such a beating to Lolly—he’s the one what’s teeth you cracked off, Lolly is. She didn’t half put up a fight, that little Mick. Took two of us to get the needle in. Good thing for her Leonard wasn’t there. He’d have done it right enough, and no fuss either. She wouldn’t of been able to walk for a week, if Leonard had done it. He doesn’t half rip ’em when he gets a chance. Well, here we are, sir. Pleasant dreams.”
Jonathan entered the dark bedroom, and the door clicked locked behind him. The city glow beyond the window gave dim illumination, and he could see a bundled figure on the bed. She turned in her delirium and moaned softly, then she laughed to herself.
It was in rooms like this that the compromising films of government officials had been taken, and possibly some of them had been taken in the dark. Jonathan removed his jacket and checked his shirtsleeve. The starch gave off none of the phosphorescent glow that would indicate infrared light, so at least this room was not equipped with cameras and sniper scope lenses. But it was doubtless bugged and, under the drugs, she might say something that would give him away. He had to keep that in mind.
He undressed quickly and approached the bed. Maggie had been tossed onto it, still dressed in her flapper frock. One shoe was off and the other dangled from a toe, and a rope of beads had fallen across her face. In the dim light she opened her eyes and stared up at him, frowning. She was confused, trying hard to understand what was happening to her. As the needle had entered her, she had reminded herself that she must do nothing to endanger Jonathan’s cover, and that thought had gone swirling down with her into the churn and chaos of distorted reality. She had clung to it for a time, then she had forgotten what it was she was clinging to. But it was important. She remembered that much.
“What? . . . What . . .” She looked at him, her eyes pleading for help. Then she laughed again.
“My name is Jonathan Hemlock,” he told her immediately, really speaking for the microphones. It would not do for her to name him out of the blue.
“Jonathan? Jonathan?”
“That’s right. But you can call me ‘honey.’ Come on, let’s get your clothes off.”
“Are my clothes still on?” She spoke with the clumsy diction of someone whose lip is rubbery from dentist’s Novocain. “Isn’t that funny?”
“A knee-slapper. Come on. Turn over.”
He undressed her as quickly as possible, but with her limp and uncooperative body, it was not easy. Indeed, some bits would have been comic under less dangerous circumstances. She, at least, found it funny.
“Say,” she said with the sudden seriousness of a drunk. “Do you really think we should be doing this?”
“Why not? We live in a permissive society.”
“But . . . here? Isn’t it . . . isn’t it dangerous?”
“I’ll be careful.”
“What? What? I don’t understand, Jonathan.”
“You see? You remember my name.”
“Yes, of course. Of course I know your name. You’re—”
He kissed her. She hummed and drew him down to her.
He was painfully tired, but sleep was evasive. The open microphone was like a living thing in the dark, straining to catch their words, and the presence of it was palpable and uncomfortable. Maggie slept. The drugs had been good for her in one way. They had liberated her even beyond her usual abandoned and inventive lovemaking, and climax had been a total and body-shuddering thing for her, as though the sensation had begun
in the small of her back and gushed outward. She had worked hard at it, and then she had slept, curled up on her side, sitting in his lap, his arms around her, completely and safely wrapped up by him.
He did not know she had awakened when she spoke softly. “Jonathan?”
He instantly thought of the bug—probably in the headboard to catch guests’ quietest words. “Go to sleep, honey,” he said rather harshly.
“I love you, Jonathan.” It was a declarative sentence. A matter of fact. She might have said it was Tuesday, or raining.
“Well, that’s just great, honey. You’re a warm, wonderful, loving person. Now please let me get some sleep, will you?” But the microphone could not transmit the message in the way he hugged her in and buried his cheek in her hair.
He wondered if he would ever get to sleep, get the rest his body demanded. He was still wondering this when he awoke to find it was full day and there was a brilliant bar of sunlight across the bed. He opened his eyes and looked up. Maggie was there, sitting on the edge of the bed. She had been awake for some time, looking at his sleeping face, occasionally touching his hair gently, fearful of disturbing him, but desiring the possessive contact.
“Good morning,” he said feebly, and he took her hand, only to find that his grip was too weak to squeeze it. The efforts of the past two days had caught up with him, and he had slept at coma depth.
“Good morning,” she said, the brogue dealing carelessly with the vowels. She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the headboard, where a small core of metal shone dully in the center of a carved decoration.
He nodded and brought her with him as he turned around in the bed, lying with their heads at the footboard. They kissed good morning, and he brought his lips into contact with her ear and whispered to her soundlessly. “Play it out. Good girl wakes up in bed with strange man.”
“Don’t!” she said aloud. “Please don’t.”
He made a wry face at her histrionics. She shrugged; she had never pretended to be an actress.
“Do you remember last night?” he asked aloud. Then, whispering, he added, “You were fantastic.” The danger of this double-talk was mischievously exciting, and they were in a docilely playful mood.