The kettle in the kitchen whistled and was turned off. The water was poured into the teapot and the top replaced with a clink.
Harry picked up the bridal couple to take a closer look. When he heard footsteps crossing the hall he put it down.
The little woman sailed into the room like the QE2 entering harbor. She carried an enormous oaken tray laden with Spode Butterfly Garden china, linen napkins, a plate of cookies, a sponge cake, a milk jug, a sugar bowl with tongs, a tea strainer and a floral cozy covering the teapot.
She nodded her head for him to move the magazines off the sofa table. He gathered them up, put them on the piano and took another quick look at the wedding picture. Her height gave her away. QE2 and bride were one and the same.
Mrs. Villiers perched herself in the center of the sofa. “It’s Charles’s own mixture. Typhoo and Earl Grey,” she said with pride.
Harry said, “Fantastic!” and sank into one of the deep armchairs.
“From when his dear father was stationed in India. So long ago now.” She sighed and poured a little milk into the cups, followed by the dark brown tea through the strainer. “Charles told me he was expecting you on Thursday.”
Harry thought this an appropriate cue for him to explain his reasons for coming to London. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’m here,” he said, and leaned forward.
“Oh no. Enzo explained it all,” she replied pleasantly.
Harry paused. Enzo? Who did she think he was? Could it be a mistake to tell her his true identity? Why he was there? Perhaps a more cautious approach was called for. He settled back in the cushions and asked nonchalantly, “How is Charles?”
“Doing wonderfully well, thank you,” she replied. “How many sugars?”
“Three please.”
“A sweet tooth! Then you simply must try one of these. Our neighbor Mrs. Perkins makes them. She’s Irish too.” She handed him his tea and held out the cookies. “Take two. They’re really only a mouthful.”
They looked very much more than a mouthful to Harry. “Do I sound so Irish to you?” he asked.
“No, of course you don’t,” she replied. “But no one from America ever sounds the way they should, do they? Incidentally, why did you come here today and not tomorrow?”
“I was checking where you lived,” he lied. “This is my first time here. I wanted to be sure I knew where to come. I make it a habit to be prepared.”
“When is your birthday?” she inquired.
“September 20,” he answered.
“Ah, you see!” she said. “You’re a Virgo. I thought as much. Always so careful and organized with everything in its place.”
Harry sipped his tea and ate his cookies. The curtain was up and the show was going great. As the conversation proceeded it became clear that the engaging Mrs. Villiers was not a main character, only a supporting player. Clearly he would accomplish nothing by revealing his mission to her.
For another half hour he stayed and chatted about the deplorable parenting skills of the royal family, the vicissitudes of the British weather and the finer points of astrology.
He followed the cookies with two slices of sponge cake.
21
Back at the hotel, a large pile of towels had been placed on Harry’s bed with a note: Hope these are what you wanting. He moved them into a corner, lay down and switched on the television. The BBC was showing a replay of a cricket match. Five minutes of Middlesex versus Glamorgan and Harry was dead to the world.
Raucous laughter awakened him. Above him, a fat comedian dressed as an aging nun leered at him from the screen. Harry didn’t find this style of British humor at all amusing. As if to prove him wrong, the studio audience screamed with merriment. He pressed the mute button. The ensuing silence was total.
Lying there, he wondered whether he should just pick up the phone, call Mrs. Villiers, tell the nice lady all he knew and take the first plane to Copenhagen. But if something really bad happened to the Colonel, the call could be traced back to Harry’s hotel. Possibly to this room. Fear of consequence called for a little patience. And a degree of caution. He would go back to the Mews as planned in the morning and find a spot where he could watch without being seen. As soon as he saw the Colonel coming back he would intercept him and tell him what he had heard. Then he would beat a hasty retreat.
Water was running somewhere in the depths of the building. Far up in the sky, a jet made the approach to Heathrow. Harry stared at the odd patterns on the wallpaper, his conscious mind slowly drifting into the unconscious. When he awoke with a violent start he had no idea where he was.
The tiny room was lit by flickering blue light from the television. Then everything came back in a flash. He glanced at his watch. Time for dinner.
A stroll along Oxford Street took him to Regent Street, where he spent a leisurely time looking in the windows, marveling at the prices. In the alleys of Soho he was sad to find that the lively old red-light district was now somber and dark.
A little Italian bistro seemed adequate, so he went in and ordered a bottle of red wine and a Milanese with a side order of spaghetti. After some inedible spumoni he drank an espresso. At the tables around him, several couples happily shared their evening, making him feel conspicuous in his solitude. It would be wonderful, he thought, to have someone with him.
The nearest Harry had come to tying the proverbial knot was with Colleen O’Herlihy. Colleen and Harry had grown up together in adjoining houses in South Brooklyn after their grandfathers had traveled over from Ireland on the same boat. The O’Herlihys sprang from Cork. The Murphy family tree had its roots in the town of Blackwater in the County of Wexford.
The Murphy transplant to America had nothing to do with potatoes or poverty, or even political unrest. For many years, the eldest Murphy, one Sean Patrick, had insisted that his wife make his tea using Holy Water from the natural spring at the entrance to the church. Not only did it make an excellent brew, but, as the old man pointed out to everyone who shared his pot, God exulted in making such a practical contribution to human comfort. God also decided one rainy night to cause the church horse to stumble and fall on top of the unfortunate elderly parish priest and squeeze the breath out of him. His pale replacement was a zealous youth, fresh from the seminary.
Invited to tea, the young man almost asphyxiated when he was told the source of the water in the pot. A passionate discussion followed in the confines of the Murphy parlor with both men quoting liberally from the scriptures to support their arguments about the use of Holy Water. Three days later the irate priest took the dispute public and denounced the terrible desecration from the pulpit. It was, he thundered, an unforgivable heresy. The eighty-four-year-old Murphy rose from his pew and led his considerable family down the central aisle. Five days later he took them aboard a boat to Boston. From there they traveled by coach to the city of New York where the male offspring joined the police force. The eldest was killed during Prohibition and another died of a mysterious illness on a trip to California. Harry’s grandfather managed to survive both violence and disease.
Harry remembered vividly the day Colleen was born. For a fifth birthday treat he’d been promised a trip to see the precinct house where his father worked. The outing was called off at the last minute when Colleen came into the world a month early. From that day on, Harry harbored a deep-rooted resentment towards the little brat next door and over the years they were never really friends, only neighbors separated by a garden fence.
That all changed when Harry came back from college at the end of his junior year. The premature little O’Herlihy girl had blossomed into a stunning beauty. That same night, he invited her to go with him to the movies.
What Harry didn’t know was that Colleen had set her sights on him the first day she had gazed up into his big brown eyes from the safety of her baby carriage. Now she was a ripe and dedicated virgin who was genetically skilled in the art of enticement. Each time they went out on a date she drew him closer and closer. Wit
h a knowing smile she would allow him tantalizing glimpses of her pretty white lacy panties. At the same time she made it abundantly clear that the only way he could enjoy what lay beyond was with a proposal of marriage. In no time at all she had him climbing the walls. The poor lad’s sexual strings were stretched far beyond the limits of safety. All four parents prayed regularly to God and asked Him to encourage the union. It came as no surprise when Harry posed the question, a date was set for the wedding and the banns were posted. Harry returned to college a happy man.
Throughout his senior year at Albany State he tried to study for a degree in business, but it became increasingly clear to him that the world of finance had no appeal. At graduation, Harry told his father he wanted to look around before settling on a career. Both parents told him he was making a big mistake. Harry was adamant. He wanted to see the world.
The world turned out to be a fifth-floor walkup in Greenwich Village that he shared with two friends from college seeking work as actors. One month later, Harry announced to his family that he too was going to try the theater. Colleen’s father heard the news and withdrew his consent to their marriage. Somewhat to Harry’s surprise, the love of his life sided with her father and handed him back the engagement ring. When pressed for a reason, she took refuge in the excuse that she was not the kind of girl to defy her father. Harry understood. He too was the offspring of an Irish immigrant.
With his good looks, a strong voice and a natural sense of the dramatic, Harry soon worked regularly on and off Broadway. He acquired an agent and made the move into television and film. While he was acting in a regional production of Amadeus the O’Herlihy family moved out and contact with Colleen was lost forever. Two years later Harry’s father retired from the police force. Mike and Bridget Murphy relocated to the sunshine of South Florida. Brooklyn was home to Harry no more. But he never forgot the image of those lacy white panties.
Sipping a Sambuca, he imagined how he and Colleen would have shared the evening. To get himself another glass of the sweet liquor he moved over to the bar where he spent a considerable time talking with a vivacious young girl from Birmingham. He flirted with the idea of inviting her to his hotel but she gave him the distinct impression she wasn’t the type. More relevant was the fact that he had a life-saving job to do the next day.
Leaving the bar, he went over to Covent Garden, picked up the papers from an all-night newsstand and then walked briskly back through the deserted streets to his hotel.
22
Carter Allinson experienced a vivid dream that made him sit up in a sweat. The images were fleeting but powerful. His body was being carried along naked in the swirling water of a tsunami and he struggled to get to the surface for a breath. In the milliseconds before he consciously awoke, the water swiftly receded and he found himself lying spread-eagled on the wet sand.
He sighed audibly. His subconscious mind apparently knew more about what was happening than he did. Perhaps it was trying to warn him. Like animals that run or fly away when an earthquake or other natural disaster is close, a sixth sense of impending doom. But he shrugged off these thoughts as crazy and told himself to stop being paranoid.
Nevertheless, after a quick breakfast of coffee and toast he went to work and spent the entire day cloistered in his office making absolutely sure that the early Bruschetti records and accounts were sufficiently abstract and complex. When he was satisfied, he packed everything back into boxes and locked them away. He disliked keeping such damning evidence around but there was no other choice. The Feds would have a hard time following the trail, but if they succeeded Carter had to know exactly what to say if he was ever called to testify.
After being cooped up all day he needed some fresh air so he walked home. In his absence, the apartment had been transformed for the hospital benefit.
A maid was laying out plates of food on the dining room table and a tall man was setting up the usual bar in the far corner of the living room.
“Good evening, Mr. Allinson,” he said.
“Good evening, Peter,” replied Carter. “Everything okay?”
“I think we have everything under control. Can I get you something?”
“Yes, please. A scotch. Just a little ice.”
In the corridor to the bedrooms Carter was assailed by Amanda.
“We need to talk,” his daughter said imperiously, sounding exactly like her mother. Carter often couldn’t tell their voices apart.
“You do surprise me,” he said.
“I need to get away tonight by eight.”
“What for?”
“Marcie’s got tickets for the new group playing at the Bowery Ballroom. I said I’d go with her. A bunch of us made plans to meet at her place.”
“What time does it start?”
“Nine.”
“Nothing ever starts on time at those places. The party will be over by nine. You can leave then.”
As Amanda dashed out of the room he called after her. “And not a minute sooner, you hear?”
“Be sure to tell Mom?” she shouted back. Her bedroom door slammed.
Carter smiled. Their daughter had a new boyfriend. Unknown to Amanda, her mother had already checked out the young man and reported that he came from a very acceptable family.
He was picking a tie from the rack when Fiona came flying in.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “Thank goodness! I’m going to need a few more minutes. Dear Mitsuko took forever to dry my hair. And then it was impossible to find a free cab. I finally took one of those extortionate limo people. Be a pet and welcome everyone for me.”
“Take your time, darling,” he replied. “Leave it to me.”
A quick check in each of the rooms assured him that all was as it should be. Using a mini iPad in the living room he programmed Sonos for light classical music. Haydn’s Symphony no. 94 began to play softly from invisible speakers. Carter enjoyed being the host on these occasions. It made him feel accepted and part of the New York social scene. Among the guests would be several faces and names whom most people only read about in the newspapers and magazines.
The first guests arrived a few minutes after seven fifteen. By eight o’clock the apartment was full. The hors d’oeuvres were passed and as the alcohol flowed the decibel level rose.
At the epicenter of this gathering was Charles Walker. Fiona had deliberately weighted the guest list with his cronies and business friends and every one of them made it a point to go up and reminisce with him.
At a quarter past eight, his wife made her way to the fireplace. Carter tapped on a glass to get everyone to stop talking.
“It gives me very great pleasure to welcome you here this evening,” Fiona said, speaking clearly so that everyone heard every word, “and to be able to tell you that as a result of all your generous efforts, the wonderful new wing of our hospital will be completed as planned and, what is truly amazing, on time!”
There was a smattering of applause, but Fiona raised a hand and continued. “I have asked Doctor Richards to give you an idea of what this will mean for our little patients.”
Doctor Richards stepped forward. Young, handsome, immaculately dressed and with a Marine Corps pin in the lapel of his jacket.
“Well,” he began, “I wish to thank the Walkers for their generous hospitality this evening. My particular thanks go to Mrs. Allinson for her extraordinary tenacity and charm, which has culminated in our celebration tonight. The other day I witnessed one of our staff perform delicate MIS surgery on a baby boy’s heart. I am happy to tell you the repair was successful. That operation is truly miraculous. And what you have done here is also a miracle. On behalf of the hospital staff, my sincerest thanks to you all.”
The room broke into loud applause. A tall woman in sensible shoes, gray suit and pearl choker stepped forward.
“I have one small but happy announcement to make,” she said. “In recognition of the many years the Walker family has dedicated to our hospital, the new facility will be
formally recognized as the Walker Pediatric Suite.”
At the other end of the room, Carter felt proud of his beautiful and talented wife as she gave her father and mother warm hugs. The three then stood together as the guests thronged around to congratulate them. At the same time a little voice inside Carter reminded him that pride goes before a fall and the next few days and weeks could prove critical.
If he wanted to avoid disaster, it was vital he keep a close watch on the Bruschettis.
23
A little after dawn the next morning Harry was back at the entrance to Kensington Mews where he waited on the steps of a block of flats on the far side of the road. An awning over his head sheltered him from the rain and made him less conspicuous. The Mews was empty apart from the Telecom truck that was still parked at the far end.
At 8:25, a dark green Jaguar approached from the left. Harry only had a brief glimpse of the driver, but from his appearance there was little doubt that it was Colonel Villiers. Harry ran across the street to number 4, leaned down and rapped hard on the passenger side window. The glass slid down.
The photographs on the piano didn’t do the Colonel justice. The man was dashing as well as handsome and his military bearing was clearly evident. He wore a smart double-breasted sports jacket, regimental tie, cloth cap and neatly pressed gabardine trousers.
“Colonel Villiers,” Harry said, panting. “I have something to tell you.”
“Oh, do you now?” came the barked reply. “And who the hell are you?”
“Murphy. Harry Murphy from New York.”
Villiers’s whole demeanor changed. “Ah yes, Murphy, from New York. Rhonda told me you were here. Where the hell is Rocco? Gone AWOL has he?”
Once a Crooked Man Page 8