The wind was now whistling through the trees and slamming against the boarded up windows. The thunder sounded closer.
Later Dyer called me on the intercom.
‘Finished those speeches yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Shall I bring them down?’
‘Tiny’s asking for them. Take them to him, will you?’
I found Vidal at his desk, a pint of milk and some sandwiches near him. He looked up from the paper he was reading.
‘Those speeches you wanted, Mr. Vidal,’ I said and put them on his desk, ‘Thanks.’ He leaned back in his chair and reached for a sandwich. ‘Got that air taxi fixed?’
‘Yes. Everet thinks you could take off on Saturday.’
‘I hope he’s right. Now go talk to Mrs. Vidal. I’ve just been up. She’s complaining she’s lonely.’ He eyed me, then went on, ‘and listen Burden, don’t give her any sympathy. She imagines she is having a nervous breakdown. That’s a lot of hooey. She’s just bored. When women get bored they dream up any damn thing to make themselves the centre of attention. So don’t play along with her. Understand?’
I hesitated. Then bracing myself, I looked directly at him.
‘Excuse me, Mr. Vidal, but I don’t agree.’
He was reaching for a pen as I spoke. His hand hovered over the pen and he looked up sharply.
‘What was that?’
‘I was with Mrs. Vidal when she fainted. She hit her head. Dr. Fontane visited her twice a day for three days and he called in a specialist. It doesn’t seem reasonable to me to suggest this is an attempt to attract attention.’
He sat back, his little eyes probing.
‘Interesting. Do you think she is having a nervous breakdown Burden?’
‘I don’t know, but you don’t fall and hit your head for the fun of it.’
He gave his short barking laugh.
‘That tells me how much you know about women. Of course they’ll fall and hurt their heads or scratch their wrists with a razor blade or take just enough sleeping pills if they feel neglected. Women are special animals, but I understand them. Don’t worry about Mrs. Vidal. If anyone is to worry it’ll be me and I’m not worrying yet. Go and see her, amuse her, do something to get her mind off herself.’ He reached for his pen and signed the paper he had been reading.
I remained where I was. He looked up and frowned at me.
‘Go along Burden. I’m busy.’
‘I think you should begin to worry, Mr. Vidal.’ I was determined now to have it out with him. ‘I think there is something radically wrong with Mrs. Vidal.’
That made him pause. He sat back in his chair.
‘Wrong? What do you mean?’
‘There are times when she appears to be hypnotised.’
His eyebrows crawled up.
‘Hypnotised? What the hell are you saying? Who would want to hypnotise her?’ He gave his short, barking laugh. ‘Utter nonsense!’
This made me angry and without caring, I said, ‘I believe you are responsible! I believe you have hypnotised her!’ He stared fixedly at me, his little eyes glittering. Then the telephone bell rang. He waved me to the door.
‘Believe that Burden, you’ll believe anything. Now get out!’
He picked up the telephone receiver.
As I closed the door, I heard him say, ‘This is Vidal. Goddamn it! You’re late. . .’
Well, I’ve told him, I thought as I climbed the stairs. He now knows I know. Would that make him more cautious? Would it make it now easier for Val? That was all I wanted: to make it easier for her.
Reaching the head of the stairs, I walked quickly down the corridor and tapped on Val’s door.
‘Who is it?’ Her voice sounded unsteady.
‘It’s Clay,’ I said, my mouth close to the door panel.
The key turned and the door opened. Val moved back as I entered the room.
We looked at each other as I shut the door. She had on a blue housecoat. Her hair lay on her shoulders. The sight of her, so pale, dark smudges under her eyes, her hands trembling sent a pang through me.
‘How do you feel darling?’ I longed to take her in my arms.
‘How do I feel?’ She moved listlessly to a chair and sank into it. ‘Desperate Clay, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have no more will. I want to kill myself.’ Her face crumbled and she closed her eyes. ‘I haven’t even the will to do that.’
A sudden crash of thunder made me start. The wind now was screaming around the house.
‘Kill yourself?’ I turned cold with alarm. ‘What’s happened, Val? Has he molested you?’
‘Oh, there’s that.’ She put her hands to her face. ‘I’ve got beyond caring about that. No, it’s the end of everything now for me and for you. He has decided to leave. I am to go with him.’
‘Leave? Where is he going?’
‘He has decided to settle in Lima . . . where he can’t be extradited.’
I pulled up a chair close to her and sat down.
‘Extradited? Val, darling, don’t talk in riddles. Is he in trouble?’
She nodded.
‘You were right Clay. His empire is going to crash. He owes millions and the Federal people are investigating his tax position. He doesn’t seem to mind. He treats it as a joke. As soon as the hurricane is over, he, I and Gesetti are flying to San Salvador where he has hidden money. Then we go to Lima. He says he’ll begin again. It also means he can never return to the United States. I go with him. I can never return. I’ll lose you again, but this time for good.’
I couldn’t believe this. I caught hold of her hand.
‘I won’t let him take you, Val! I said I would help you and I’m going to help you! I’ll tell the tax people he is preparing to skip. They’ll arrest him!’
She shook her head.
‘It’s too late to do that. He is protected by his lawyers. Before the Federal people could get a warrant, he’ll be gone, taking me with him. No . . . that’s not the way.’ She stood up abruptly and began to move around the room. ‘There is no way. . .’
A violent gust of wind slammed against the house followed by a crash of thunder. I could hear the rain beating on the roof.
I thought of the gun in my desk drawer.
‘I have a gun, Val.’
She paused to stare at me, her eyes widening.
‘A gun?’
‘When he is dead you will be free.’
She put her hand to her throat.
‘I can never be free even when he is dead.’ A crazed expression came into her eyes. ‘Shoot me!’ Her voice turned shrill. ‘That is the solution! If only you knew how tired I am of living the life he has forced me to live. If I had the will I would beg you to give me the gun and I would do it myself.’
She came up to me, laying her hand on my arm. ‘You can do it Clay! Shoot me in the head! They will think it is suicide. No one would blame you, darling! Don’t you see? You would be freeing me! Please say you will do it!’
I looked at her in horror.
God! I thought. He has driven her out of her mind!
Her fingers were digging into my arm as she went on, ‘No one will hear the shot in this storm! The doctors know I am on the verge of a breakdown! You will be safe, darling. No one would suspect you. Get the gun now! Then do it please! No one will suspect you!’
‘Val! For God’s sake, pull yourself together!’ I had to raise my voice against the noise of the storm which was beginning to become deafening. ‘I’m not doing it! Now, stop it! Pull yourself together! There must be some way out for us!’
She let go of my arm and stepped back. The misery in her eyes sickened me.
‘I thought you loved me! How can you love me and let me suffer like this . . . oh, go away!’ She ran to the bed and threw herself face down on it. As she began to sob there came a tremendous crashing sound as if a tree had been uprooted and had fallen against the house.
I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders.
‘Darling
Val! Please don’t. I said I would help you and I will help you. Please be patient.’
She rounded on me, her face convulsed with anger and fear.
‘Go away! I hate you! Leave me! Go away!’ Her voice rose to a scream. Fearing that even above the noise of the elements raging outside someone might hear her, I backed to the door, hesitated, then moved into the corridor.
I stood for some moments listening to her wild sobbing, then unable to bear the sound, I closed the door and made my way unsteadily back to my office.
The noise of the hurricane beat against my skull. I went to my desk chair and sat down, holding my hands against my ears, feeling as if I were going demented.
I had to do something! I had no alternative now if I wasn’t going to lose her! I had to kill Vidal!
A grinding sound, followed by the sound of splintering wood coming from downstairs brought me to my feet. Then my door slammed open by a violent gust of wind that swept my desk clear of papers, overturned my desk lamp and threw two of my telephones to the floor.
‘Burden!’
Vidal’s voice bawled from below.
I reached the corridor, bracing myself against the wind that roared up the stairs. I started down them, hanging on to the banister rail. I was stunned by the force of the wind which was howling through the open front door.
I could see Vidal and Dyer struggling to get the door closed.
The hall with its big oil paintings and its suits of armour was a shambles. Four of the big pictures had been blown off their hooks, two of the suits of armour were in pieces.
Lying in the middle of the floor was Gesetti, blood on his face, an oil painting in a heavy frame on top of him.
Stepping around him, I struggled across the hall and joined the two men wrestling with the door. With my added weight, we got it shut.
‘Wedge it!’ Vidal snapped. Use one of those pikes.’
Dyer released his hold on the door and dashed to pick up a pike that had fallen from the wall. As soon as his weight was removed, the door slammed open again, sending Vidal and myself sprawling. Another struggle began to shut the door. Not only the wind but the rain hammered us and by the time we got the door shut and jammed into place by the pike we were all soaked.
Gesetti groaned and tried to sit up. Dyer went to him and supported him. I couldn’t touch him. He gave me the horrors.
Vidal joined Dyer and they got Gesetti to his feet. He shook his head, spraying blood, blinked and straightened up.
‘I’m okay, boss,’ he muttered but he leaned heavily on Dyer.
‘I’ll take care of him,’ Vidal said. ‘You two clean up this mess.’
Catching hold of Gesetti he led him down the corridor towards the back of the house.
‘Phew!’ Dyer wiped his dripping face with the back of his hand. ‘Did you bring a change?’
‘Yes.
‘We’ll get out of these wet things and then get this mess fixed. This is the worst goddamn hurricane I’ve run into, and it’ll last for at least another four days.’
We went up the stairs and separated at our rooms. It took me only a few minutes to strip off, dry myself and put on a sweatshirt and slacks. I was down in the hall stacking the oil paintings against the wall when Dyer joined me in an open neck shirt and hipsters.
‘The telephone’s gone,’ he said as we began to carry the bits of armour into a small reception room. ‘The electricity will go any moment now.’
I saw he had a powerful torch stuck in his belt.
Vidal appeared, still dripping.
‘How is he, sir?’ Dyer asked as Vidal started up the stairs.
‘Not so good . . . concussion I guess.’ Vidal paused. ‘How are you enjoying yourself Burden?’ He gave his barking laugh. ‘A bit of a change from Boston, huh?’
I stood silent, hating him.
He turned to Dyer.
‘I’ve told him to stay in bed. Let him be. I’ve given him a couple of pills. With luck he’ll be all right tomorrow. You’d better take care of the supper. You help him Burden.’ He started up the stairs two at a time and disappeared along the corridor.
I looked at my watch. The time was 17.50. The afternoon seemed to be going on forever.
‘Let’s finish this, then we’ll inspect the kitchen,’ Dyer said. ‘I could do with a drink, couldn’t you?’
It took us only a few minutes to complete what we had begun, then we went along to the kitchen.
Dyer inspected the big refrigerator. ‘Plenty of cold cuts.’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Cans galore at least we won’t starve.’
Going to another cupboard, he found the liquor store.
‘Whisky?’
‘I guess.’
He built two big whiskies, added ice and saluted me.
While all this was going on the rain and the wind lashed the house and thunder crashed. The noise was infernal.
I felt steadier after the drink. My mind kept going to Val.
‘While we have the light,’ Dyer said when he had finished his drink, ‘suppose we check the doors and windows. We don’t want another blow in like that one.’
We found one of the doors leading to the garden unsafe.
Dyer found wood, hammer and nails and we shored up the door. By the time we had checked the windows and repaired three of them it was getting on for 19.00.
‘I’m hungry,’ Dyer said. ‘Feel like eating?’
‘No . . . I’ll have another drink though.’
While I was fixing the drinks. Dyer made himself a beef sandwich.
‘How about Mrs. Vidal?’ he asked with his mouth full. ‘Maybe she wants something.’
‘You finish that. I’ll go up and ask her.’
Feeling light headed after the two big whiskies, I mounted the stairs and started down the corridor. Then I paused. Vidal was coming out of Val’s room. He had changed into a scarlet open neck shirt and white slacks. Humming under his breath, he closed and locked the door. Leaving the key in the lock he started towards me, his little eyes narrowing.
‘Yes, Burden?’
‘I - I was wondering if Mrs. Vidal would like some supper,’ I said.
‘Very thoughtful. No . . . we’ll let her be for a while, she is being a little dramatic.’ He laughed. ‘I find it is better to leave women alone when they become tiresome. Women dislike being ignored.’ He took hold of my arm. His fingers felt like steel hooks. ‘Suppose you get me something Burden, if it is not too much trouble . . . a few sandwiches and lots of coffee.’ He steered me to the head of the stairs. ‘Put it in my office, will you?’
I jerked away from his grip. His touch was to me the touch of a leper
He smiled.
‘Don’t worry about Mrs. Vidal, Burden. I have a little spare time now, so I will do the worrying should it be necessary.’
He stared at me, his eyes hostile, then moving into his bedroom, he closed the door gently in my face.
* * *
‘Hi Burden!’
I looked down the well of the staircase. Dyer was beckoning to me.
‘What is it?’ I was in no mood for his company.
‘Come on down.’
No excuse came to my mind, so reluctantly I descended the stairs. He moved back into the kitchen.
‘Does she want anything?’ he asked as I followed him into the kitchen.
‘Vidal says no.’ I couldn’t disguise the bitterness in my voice. ‘He’s locked her in.’
‘He treats her like a puppet.’ Dyer shrugged. ‘Never mind about her Burden. You and I have problems. Shut the door and keep your voice down.’
I looked sharply at him. There was a worried, uneasy expression on his face. As I closed the door, he began to build two whiskies.
‘Vidal wants food,’ I said.
‘It’s all fixed. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’
‘Nothing. What problems?’
He lifted his hand while he listened.
‘He’s coming down now. I’ll take him his supper.
Then we can talk.’
Picking up a tray of sandwiches and a jug of coffee, he left the kitchen. I moved around restlessly, nursing the whisky until he returned. He shut the door.
‘We’re off duty,’ he said. ‘Orders not to be disturbed.’ He came close to me and keeping his voice low, he asked, ‘How are you fixed Burden, if you lost your job?’
I stared at him blankly.
‘All right. I can go back to the A.T.S. Do you think I’m going to lose it?’
‘It’s more than likely. I’ll lose mine too and I haven’t a job waiting for me.’
‘What makes you think we’re going to lose our jobs?’
‘Strictly between you and me, old boy, Tiny’s in real trouble. While he was upstairs with Mrs. V. I went into his office with some papers he wanted. On his desk was a letter from Jason Shackman, his attorney: a tip off that the Feds are on to him for tax evasion and they’re applying for a warrant. Shackman says he hasn’t a hope and he had better get out and fast. He has a bolthole in Lima. They couldn’t get at him there, but who the hell wants to live in Lima?’
‘He’s booked an air taxi to San Salvador.’
Dyer pulled a face.
‘There goes my job. He hasn’t a lot of money. He. . .’
‘But he’s worth millions!’ I broke in.
Dyer shook his head.
‘He had millions but not now. He was crazy enough to have financed a deal with the Libyans and they took him to the cleaners.’ He glanced uneasily at the kitchen door. ‘This is strictly confidential, old boy. I shouldn’t be telling you this. He owes the tax people a hell of a sum. He’s in real trouble. Know what I think? After living the way he has - the best of everything - Lima could be his end.’
‘What do you mean?’ I was now listening intently.
‘It would never surprise me if he put a bullet through his head. Tiny’s a bit unbalanced. He’s fine when he’s living it up, but yellow when the crunch comes. I could be wrong, but that’s my bet.’
I thought about this, then shook my head.
‘I can’t imagine him killing himself,’ I said. ‘No . . . not Vidal.’
Dyer shrugged.
‘You don’t know him as I do. You could be right, but it wouldn’t surprise me if his nerve broke and he opted for out.’
1975 - Believe This You'll Believe Anything Page 15