Paid and Loving Eyes l-16

by Jonathan Gash

  The mansion house below seemed reduced, now the real deed had been done elsewhere. The garden I noticed was smaller than the Repository’s, but the two prominences topping the hillside to our right were about the correct elevation relative to the building, and were wooded to about the same degree. Nicely chosen. I’d explained to Lilian Sweet and Pascal before I’d got stuck in this hole that the scammers’ meeting was to be within the week. It only took me an hour to start wishing I’d kept my mouth shut and simply eeled away.

  There from ten o’clock onwards, night. Midnight came and went. Twice I’d whispered had Pascal anything to read, got looked at. Faint starlight was all we had to see by. I tried looking down at the mansion house, the gardens, the little stream, through binoculars, but couldn’t see a damned thing. Never could. I always used to pretend anyway, when it mattered.

  If we wanted to say anything desperate, we were to write it down on a small notepad, pencil provided. No talking.

  Within three hours I was starting to wonder what if they didn’t come at all. I’d be found in this log hut in God-forsaken countryside starved to death years later, waiting for the syndicate to come. I imagined the scene, with great bitterness thinking of the grub there’d be, the lovely luscious women delirious with joy, flushed with excitement at the vast fortunes they thought they’d made from the scam, Monique queening it over everybody, having justified her barmy political beliefs.

  And let’s hear it for Colonel Marimee, ladies and gentlemen! With fanfares and party time and delectable birds so edible you’d almost forget to reach out for the grub and sink your teeth

  “Sssss!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” in the lowest whisper. I must have groaned. I’d not had a pasty for as long as I could remember. I was famished as soon as we got inside this place.

  They’d be readying for the ultimate celebration down there. Servants, I supposed in my entranced mind, by the score. Maybe Katta, with her luscious delectable mouth surmounting that gross pendulous shape. Lovely. And Almira, with hubby Jervis. And those Madagascar folk, so wealthy with their digits sheathed in gold. And the smoothies, Philippe Troude, Monique Delebarre and all. There’d be frolicking and wassailing in nooks and crannies everywhere, even before the announcement.

  That would be the peak. They’d get called in to a separate room, maybe some baronial panelled hall with a log fire. Brandy, being in France, would be served, with canapés or whatever those little noshes were, on silver trays. Then they’d announce the sum they were going to claim from Lloyd’s insurance. But only after they’d made the celebratory call to the Repository… I smiled, got admonished by a nudge. No chuckling.

  The night passed. No cars arrived, except one that seemed to be Monique’s. No passengers, no visitors.

  Odd to think that Paul Anstruther had been Katta’s sex focus (sorry, no pun intended) all these years. How on earth had Cissie put up with her? Except I’d learned that Cissie adored Philippe Troude. I began to think about seeing Katta’s huge form writhing on the ecstatic Paul. God, but that would be bliss, some bird so vast you could hardly see over her. Would you want to?

  But hadn’t her reaction been strange, that night I’d unexpectedly eavesdropped on them? When the car doors slammed, Katta’d been really terrified. She’d leapt off Paul, not pausing to wipe her mouth until she’d been reassured—by hearing Almira. Then, and only then, Katta had relaxed, paused to tease Paul by giving him that erotic moue. Question: Who’d she thought was coming? Answer: Somebody she was truly scared of.

  If I had a permanent bird, I’d know the answer straight off. I knew I would. It’s as if a woman is your missing half. Happen I should get one, some day. Except it never works. I suppose in a way I’m like Dicko Chave, perennial failure. Except I nearly get enough, and Dicko simply lacks any. And settling down for good is impossible. I mean, what if you draw a Cissie? I knew the answer to that for sure.

  Which raised the question why my mind kept coming back to her. Ambition unlimited, ferocity unleashed, anything for wealth, status. She’d married us—there seemed to’ve been no negotiations, just Cissie’s determination—because she aimed to harness my divvying skills and gross a trillion. She said as much. She stormed off because I was uncontrollable, and her scheme didn’t work.

  My head jerked upright. I was stiff from leaning on the log sill. Mostly blackness out there. I occasionally tried standing up, stretching, swivelling like Olympic atheletes do after gulping their anabolic steroids before track events, but you get fed up with fitness so I sat down again. I sometimes looked at Pascal. He was a good watcher. I’d never met anybody quite like him before. Gallic equivalent of Lilian Sweet? If so, I’d seriously underestimated Lilian’s talent.

  Once, in early daylight of next morning, I woke to find him passing me photographs. Two children, both girls, one smiling doubtfully in a small garden pool, the other standing on the bank throwing a scoop of water, laughing. What, eight and fourteen? Yours? I asked with a pointing finger. He nodded, smiling, asked did I carry any photos? I shook my head, pretending rue. He shrugged, stood again at the slit window staring through his binoculars. And that was that, entertainment for the day.

  We had stewed tea and coffee from our row of thermos flasks. One every five hours, our ration. Cold sandwiches of cardboard material. Sausages, well congealed in thickening grease, sliced ham. Couldn’t Paris have raised its frigging culinary game? I wanted to demand, but caught Pascal’s shrug and made do, trying to prove that I too could be a stoic.

  No snow, but pretty cold weather, especially at night. I guessed Pascal’s police’d not set up a rota. Rotas work well when sussing a possible place for a rip, until you actually need to replace the old watchers with fresh invigorated new. Then there’s trouble. If it isn’t a give-away from banging car doors, it’s obvious that something changes in the street’s pattern. I wasn’t too sure about things in the countryside, even though that’s where I live, but I knew the French had gamekeepers too. And those miserable sods can spot reeds misbehaving miles off.

  Doing nothing’s really weird. How do Trappist monks manage? Though I suppose they’re allowed to read. Once, this bird actually hired me to do utter nothing. Honest, true. She was really flash, very chic. Wed, of course, she had a lad at boarding school, husband in mortgages. She truly hired me to just be there. And “there” was simply nearby wherever she was. She even introduced me to her husband, Who okayed the whole thing. For quite three days I thought I was a bodyguard, and went in fear of my life, scared stiff, until it dawned on me that I was mere decoration. I even asked Doc Lancaster if it might be one of those afraid-of-loneliness things. He sent me packing, the swine. Really odd. Can you imagine, a woman just wanting a bloke dancing attendance? They’re strange. I overheard her being teased by her posh friends, chinless wonders, about her “bit of rough”, meaning me. I was deeply narked. On the way home we made smiles, me like a gorilla, she thunderstruck that her figment had suddenly become bestially real. I resigned that night. You won’t believe this, but she thought a lifelong loveship had been sealed, whereas I’d thought I’d been punishing her. See how women insist on misunderstanding? Like Cissie, like Almira, like Jodie Danglass, like Lysette, like Lilian Sweet. They have the advantage of being underhanded. It’s not fair. We’ve got to be honest and upright. Women can do what they want. It should be the other way round.

  “Sssss!”

  “Ssss!” I went irritably back. Okay, so I might have muttered aloud. No need to go berserk. Pascal settled. He’d only given me one small set of binoculars, but collared four pairs for himself. He was forever stealthily changing lenses, looking for some bloody attachment or other, getting right on my nerves.

  Lately, I’d been trying to get my teeth right. Toothpicks always seem one of civilization’s good ideas that never quite comes off, though the Romans used them. It doesn’t bother me that Juliet only had (honest) four teeth in her head when, aged fourteen, she romped with Romeo. So I’d acquired toothpicks. For something to
do I started digging. The best teeth gadgets are those electric rotary brushes you charge up on the mains, but I always lose the little things that go round and round on the end… Pascal nudged me. I mouthed an irritable I’m awake, I’m awake! and roused blearily to more misery.

  The day seemed to have turned itself inside out far more than twice when finally Pascal tapped my shoulder. Something happening. I hope I hadn’t snored. It was early afternoon. I looked out, fumbled for the binoculars. He pointed to my pair hanging round my neck. I peered, focused, got it blurred, tried again.

  A big Merc. Whatever colour they paint them, a Merc always looks black. Ever noticed? Grandeur, I suppose. Even Hannover taxis look black, and most aren’t. A bonny girl, slender as an arrow, arriving down there with a bloke. Servant out to say hello, show them inside. The motor retired, pomp in every line. I ticked the air to Pascal. He nodded. I’d seen them at that party, or in the hotel meeting at that security room. He nodded okay, keep looking. Irritably I nodded back that I was, for God’s sake, don’t keep on.

  They arrived faster, increasing numbers. I started a pattern of gestures. Thumbs up, yes I recognized the couple from Madagascar, the bloke who looked something artistic, the slightly plump woman with too-young dress sense, her besuited banker husband. The German moneybags who’d asked the wrong question of the Colonel in Zurich. Then Almira, her husband. Philippe Troude with—heart in my mouth—a popsie having difficulties in stilt-like high heels on the drive surface. Definitely not Jodie Danglass, multo definitely. But yes, she’d been at the party.

  Then, astonishment showing me how astonishment should be really felt, Sandy, in splendiferous garb, gold cloak, what looked like electric Christmas-tree lights flickering along the rim, ostrich feathers in an absurd halo. He looked ridiculous. Still no Jodie Danglass. But Corse the roller, last seen abusing me and the rest of the known world at Josh Sparrow’s barn. I grunted with satisfaction.

  Pascal was looking at me oddly. I smiled, indicated that all was going quite well. The numbers began to dwindle. Then ceased.

  Nudge. He showed me the time. Two hours, the daylight not yet fading but definitely less encouraging than it was. Motors revved, cars lined up to one side of the mansion house. No marquees today, no tents or awnings, no sherry on the lawns. Some uniformed drivers smoked, one reading a paper. All cars were left-hand drive, Continental design. Pascal stirred, hands asking if that was it.

  No, I gestured back. I opened my palms, fingers asplay as if holding a large ball. Many more to come, I indicated, though, waggle waggle, I still wasn’t sure of the number.

  How many, then? He was becoming edgy, scanning the sky. What for, helicopters? Dusk? Some additional help he’d requested should things start to go wrong and the whole syndicate looked likely to escape? Or something much much worse?

  He indicated, drawing an imaginary net tight, that he’d got them in the sack, all the evil swine in one. Why delay? I shook my head. More would come, hold on, wait.

  No sign of anything flying overhead. No signals from the trees. Nothing that I could think of or see. Only Pascal, finally watching me more than he watched the mansion house in the clearing below. I smiled a bit at him now and then, showing willing, offered him some of my tea, tried his coffee with a grimace. Not a single smile now, nothing but wary glances. It began to nark me. What the hell could I do, with the daylight now definitely losing interest and the mansion-house lights starting to come on, and me stuck up on a hillside in a plank shed with a cop? For Christ’s sake, I thought, narked. You’re a frigging copper, not Tracker Joe Wilderness. Get a grip, Pascal.

  The motor came at last. Paulie’s, the same one I’d driven in to visit hospital that day. No need to be prompted now. I was all attention. Without having even to focus, I saw Paulie halt his motor, leap out and scurry round to the opposite door, open it.

  She looked smart, trendy even. And stern. She simply gave no acknowledgement of his politeness, and sternly swept by without a look into the mansion house.

  Cissie always did run true to form. Katta heaved her enormously beauteous bulk from the low motor, and walked round the back of the building with one of the chauffeurs who’d been having a smoke leaning on the bonnet of his Bentley. I felt glad Katta’d be out of it, when whatever it was happened.

  My finger gave Pascal pause. By now he was hopping from foot to foot, less taciturn than he’d ever been in his entire life, I shouldn’t wonder. One more yet to come, I mimed, stabbing the air. Keep looking. Wait, wait. Hold them off, whoever they were.

  And even as I recovered my binoculars, his motor arrived. Marc got out of the car, chucked the keys indolently to one of the other drivers, and walked into the building. I’m sure it was him. He carried a large suitcase-size thing, not so large he had to trundle it on wheels. I said nothing, just started a slow counting on my fingers, clearly trying to work out if I’d forgotten anybody. No, that was about it.

  Still I waited. Why? Nudge from Pascal. He even scribbled me a line on his barmy notepaper, his pencil shaky, all over the place. I went sssssh very softly, read his scribble, frowned at Maintenant????, waved a downward palm slowly, take your time, mate.

  I wanted his watch. He had an unbelievable three, honest to God, three, ripped one off savagely, thrust it at me. I stared at the hands, counting, my lips moving to show him I was on the job.

  Marc would go into the assembly room. Only the syndicate would be allowed in, nobody else. That was their pattern. I saw the whole glitterati lot—can we take our drinks in? How much will the pay-out be? What claim we shall put in to the insurers? Isn’t Colonel Marimee coming, then? Shame! Monique gorgeous, lovely, taking the place of honour on the dais. Would there be a rostrum? Lights?

  Marc’d be going in now, smiling, handshakes, proud.

  They would be chattering, talking of their expected riches. Claim for tons of priceless furniture in the Repository, share out. What were their expectations, really, when all was said and done? They’d have the perfect money machine, for slavery is eternal, pure, elementary, a model of perfection. Everybody’s fatal siren call.

  One minute fifteen seconds. Tick tick, silent second “hand but shuddering me with its mute force. One eighteen, twenty.

  What orders had Colonel Marimee given Marc the killer? To activate some switch on the case in the meeting? Probably. Or would the case be on auto? Or externally controlled perhaps? Had he told Marc it was an aiming beam for his famous flash mortar? Marc would believe he’d have a few minutes to get clear…

  “Your watch, ta,” I said, returning it.

  One minute forty seconds, plenty. “Go now. No more, I’m sure.”

  Pascal flipped a switch on a small box thing strapped to his shoulder and yelled into it, over and over again. It sounded like “Lay-lay-lay-lay…!“ He hurtled from the place leaving me alone, looking out at the building through the foliage. A motorcycle engine sawed the air, Pascal running like a rabbit through the trees towards the road.

  A crump sounded. I felt the earth press up slightly against my soles. No waft of heat on my face this time, no blizzard, no residual crackle audible, no sky glow from a fading blaze, none of that, no snow on my face, no whine of Marc’s car.

  The drivers were bewildered down there. Two had run towards the mansion, then withdrawn. Maids and waiters emerged, scattering, shrieking, pointing. Katta came, smoothing down her skirt, perhaps from some motor parked behind the house.

  A man came staggering round the side of the house, blood on his head, trying to wipe it. The drivers took him, shouting, beckoning. Some went to the edge of the drive, peering at the back of the building’s west wing. Two thought, dived into their motors, stood free with car phones in action. A few windows had billowed out, sharding on the lawn. No smoke, no sign of fire, no bright flames. One thing, Marimee did a precision job, every single time.

  An explosion, I guessed, in the syndicate’s meeting. There’d be grave injuries, I shouldn’t wonder, even deaths.

  Helicopters
headed over the trees, shining headlights. Four. Another, distantly, higher. Searchlights of amazing power. Motors shrieked and wahwahed along roads. Police were everywhere. It was very efficient, motorcycles roaring and those sharpedged police vehicles short on windows arriving by the column. I thought, why am I so cold inside? Why am I not weeping? For Paulie, Marc, Sandy, all the others so recently living?

  For Cissie?

  I’d probably got time for a walk. Stretch my legs after all this standing about. So I left, walked down among the trees.

  Goodnight, Gobbie.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  « ^

  Lovejoy!” The last person on earth I wanted to see, Dicko Chave. He was impeccably dressed, tweeds to his eyeballs, handmade leather shoes.

  My heart sank. “Dicko! Just in time, mate!”

  He stood in the corridor, beaming. “Had difficulty finding you, old chap. Some young lady guided me. Seems like everybody’s talking about you there. Made a killing, what?”

  “Er, aye. Look.” I was trying to explain my nakedness, towel wrapped round my middle. I lowered my voice. “The lady—remember my temporary partner, that I want to introduce you to? She’ll arrive in half an hour. I’m trying to get ready. Mind if we meet up in the residents’ lounge?”

  He almost fell over with enthusiasm. “Certainly, Lovejoy!” He wrung my hand. “Never forget this, old sport. You’re a brick!”

  I went in and shut the door in relief. Katta looked up from the bed. Credit where credit is due, a plump woman is real value. I realized I’d never seen her under the bedclothes. A natural counter-paner.

  “Khoo theyet?”

  “Eh? Oh, friend.” She flicked the towel from me. She stared. She had a smiley kind of stare, the most erotic I’d ever seen. She reached. She had an erotic kind of reach, the most erotic reach I’d ever felt.

  “He naye-iss?”

  “Aye. Yes.”

  As we started to make smiles, and I groaned in bliss at the ceiling and she grunted with divine relish, a strange possibility came into what was left of my mind. I tried hard to register it for afters, so to speak, but failed.