The Women in His Life

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Once more there was that odd pinging sound, then a small crash, a muffled curse.

  The noises were coming from the living room, and immediately all Maxim’s senses were alerted to trouble. There was apparently someone in the house beside himself, an intruder, no doubt about that.

  Moving with stealth, noiselessly crossing the hall, Maxim opened the door a crack. The living room was dark, as was the adjoining library. The latter was in his clear line of vision and he instantly saw the pinspot of light from a flashlamp, which was being trained around the room.

  Deciding that surprise was his best bet, Maxim struck the master switch on the wall. Instantly, six table lamps in the two rooms blazed fully to life, flooding the area with brilliance.

  Startled, the intruder swung around, saw Maxim. He was not very tall and slightly built, dressed entirely in black. He was holding a large black nylon laundry bag that bulged and was obviously filled to the brim with loot.

  The burglar stood gaping at Maxim.

  ‘Drop that bag!’ Maxim yelled irately, his expression one of furious anger. The man did nothing continued to gape. There was a dumbfounded look on his face, and he appeared to be momentarily paralysed.

  With a rush, Maxim sprinted across the floor, heading directly for the intruder, confident he could tackle and overpower him before calling in the police to apprehend him.

  Just before Maxim reached him, the burglar pulled a gun and fired.

  Maxim heard the report, felt the bullet slam against his chest. He went down at once with a thud, sprawling between the living room and the library. The look of astonishment on his face changed to one of stunned shock.

  Maxim thought: This can’t be happening to me… it can’t he ending like this… not after all I’ve been through… I can’t be dying at the hands of a petty thief…

  ***

  The burglar stood stock still, listening.

  He wondered if anyone had heard the shot, then dismissed this idea at once. There was nobody around. These houses were summer places. That’s why he had headed for the area earlier. He’d already pulled two other jobs down the block. Easy pickings they’d been. He hadn’t had to waste anybody in the other houses though. No one had walked in and surprised him, that’s why. Shame about the guy who just had. But he’d had to protect himself. The guy was big, powerful, could’ve taken him easy.

  The burglar walked over to the body, looked down at it dispassionately. The man he had shot was lying on his side. He did not stir. Blood stained the front of his pale blue shirt, was already seeping onto the grey carpet, turning a patch of it a funny rust colour.

  Shoving the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, he pivoted swiftly, returned to the library, grabbed a few more silver trinkets, threw them into the laundry bag. There was a pinging sound as they struck the items he had stolen from other homes in the vicinity. Glancing about, satisfied that he had ripped off the best of the small stuff here, he left the living room, switched off the lights as he headed out. He went through to check the kitchen, doused the lights there, returned to the hall.

  He stood listening again.

  The darkened house was as silent as the grave. So was the street. Nothing moved. No cars drove past. Methodically, he began to carry the pieces of equipment and the television set to the front steps. Once everything was outside, he dropped the latch on the door and pulled it tightly shut behind him. Still moving with speed and expertise, he went up and down the path until all of his booty had been stowed in the station wagon. Sliding in behind the wheel, he drove off without a backward glance.

  He did not see one solitary person, nor any traffic, as he sped down Lily Pond Lane. He knew he was safe. Nobody ever came out here in this kind of freezing weather in the dead of winter. The body would not be found for weeks. And anyway, he couldn’t be linked to the man’s death. He had been smart, cool. He’d not left a single fingerprint, not even half of one. He knew better than that. He always wore gloves when he pulled jobs.

  ***

  Elias Mulvaney sat at the kitchen table in his small, comfortable house behind the railway station in East Hampton. He was enjoying the warmth of the blazing fire, his second cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut on this icy night, and thinking about the afternoon he and Clara had just spent at their daughter’s house in Quogue.

  It had been a red-letter day for them, visiting their first grandchild, revelling in her good health and prettiness, and in Lola’s happiness. She and Mickey, her husband of ten years, had been waiting a long time for this baby. Yep, it’s been the grandest day, Elias thought, and it has given Clara a real boost, made her forget her rheumatism. Clara had stayed on in Quogue for the weekend. Elias was certain she would be fussing and bustling, playing mother hen to the child and Lola, but he didn’t think there was any harm in that. None at all. Do her good, he decided, and picked up his mug, drank the rest of his coffee.

  The shrilling of the telephone broke the silence in the kitchen, made Elias sit up with a small start. He rose, ambled across the floor to answer it.

  ‘Mulvaney here.’

  ‘Good evening, Elias, this is Douglas Andrews.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Andrews!’ Elias exclaimed warmly, his grizzled, weatherbeaten face lighting up. Douglas Andrews had been a favourite of his for several years. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Very well, thanks, Elias. And you?’

  ‘Can’t complain,’ Elias replied.

  ‘I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to reach Sir Maximilian at the cottage, but there’s no reply. I was wondering if you’d heard from him this evening?’

  ‘Well, no I haven’t,’ Elias said, sounding surprised. ‘Been in Quogue all day, didn’t get back until seven. I didn’t even know Sir Maxim was out here.’

  ‘He did try to get hold of you several times today. Obviously, since you were in Quogue, there was no answer. Sir Maxim left the city around four-fifteen. I rented a Jaguar for him and he was driving himself. I figured it would probably take him about three hours, or thereabouts, and I started to call him around seven-thirty. I have a number of messages for him. I don’t understand why he’s not there, since it’s now turned eight already.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Maxim should have reached East Hampton by this time,’ Elias agreed. Because Douglas Andrews sounded so worried he tried to reassure him. ‘Mebbe the line is wonky in some way or other, it’s been mighty cold and windy out here these last few days, and we’ve had a lot of rain.’

  ‘Yes,’ Douglas said and paused. He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I must admit, I’m growing concerned. I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the road.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure he hasn’t!’ Elias exclaimed. ‘Sir Maxim’s a careful driver, you know that. Now don’t you worry none, there’s more’n likely a good explanation.’

  ‘It’s very important that I speak with him tonight, Elias, and I wonder if you’d mind going over to the cottage, checking things out for me?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll go immediately, that’s no problem. Just give me your number so I can call you the minute I get there.’ As he was speaking Elias picked up the pencil near the message pad, licked the end, quickly scribbled down Douglas’s number as it was reeled off to him.

  ‘Thanks, Elias, I’m very appreciative; Douglas finished.

  ‘I’m glad to be of help, Mr Andrews. Now remember what I said, don’t you worry none, you hear?’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Douglas replied, knowing that he would.

  They hung up, and Elias hurried out into the passage-way. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out his bunch of house keys and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Hanging on a coat stand near the door were his down-filled parka, a woollen scarf and a cap with ear flaps, and these garments he took down and put on. He picked up his gloves and left at once, anxious to get over to Maximilian West’s place as fast as he possibly could.

  The pickup truck Elias used for running around the village was parked in fr
ont of his house, and he clambered in more agilely and swiftly than he usually did, and drove off down the street with a screeching of tyres.

  Once he had crossed the railway tracks he sped through the village, heading for Lily Pond Lane, driving through streets unimpeded by traffic this evening. East Hampton was deserted, and it looked as if every one of the locals had left along with the summer residents. Within minutes Elias arrived at the grey-shingled cottage.

  Alighting from the pickup truck, he walked briskly to the Jaguar parked immediately in front of him, shone his flashlight on the windows, peered inside. The car revealed nothing.

  Elias swung around, began to walk up the path between the frost-covered lawns. As he approached the house he suddenly experienced such a strange sense of apprehension he was startled, and he stopped, taken aback at himself. He had been born and brought up in East Hampton, and in all of his sixty-five years of living here he had never felt uneasy or afraid.

  But at this moment he was filled with a certain trepidation, and he did not understand why. It was eerie.

  Elias looked up at the house.

  The moon was high, a great chunk of silver shining vibrantly, casting its bright glow across the lines of the roof, the chimneys, the towering trees. The cottage was thrown into relief against the dark backdrop of the sky and the copse, and it looked unnaturally gloomy and sombre, almost sinister. No welcoming lights winked in the windows as they normally did when Maximilian West was in residence.

  If Sir Maxim is inside then why are all the lights turned off? Elias asked himself, and continued to stare at the house worriedly. He knew Sir Maxim had arrived because of the Jaguar parked in the street next to his pickup truck. He wondered if Sir Maxim had had a heart attack or a stroke, and was lying somewhere in the house stricken and unable to phone for help. Sir Maxim was a young man, and he looked healthy enough, but you never knew about anybody these days. On the other hand, he could have gone for a walk. Elias dismissed this idea the moment it entered his mind. Who would go wandering around the neighbourhood on a freezing, bitter-cold night such as this? It then occurred to him that someone driving their own car could have picked Sir Maxim up and taken him out to dinner.

  This last theory was the most reasonable explanation so far, and a feeling of vast relief washed over Elias. He hurried up the path, strode purposefully around to the side of the house and halted at the kitchen door.

  Even though he was now convinced that Sir Maximilian West had gone to dinner with a friend, Elias nevertheless rang the doorbell several times. When there was no answer he took out the bunch of keys, found the right one, and let himself into the house. He switched on the lights, closed the door behind him, and, walking into the middle of the floor, he called out, ‘Hello, hello, anybody home?’

  His question was greeted by total silence, but this did not particularly surprise him. He swung his eyes around the kitchen, spotted the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, went and looked inside, saw that it was filled with provisions for the weekend. Nodding knowingly to himself, he then strolled over to the door leading into the main entrance hall, determined to investigate further on the off chance that Sir Maxim had been taken ill.

  When Elias opened the door, such a strong sense of foreboding assaulted him again, the hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Telling himself he was being a stupid old fool, and clamping down on this unexpected feeling of dread, which he considered to be ridiculous, he put the light on, glanced about, saw that there was nothing untoward here in the hall.

  Reassured, Elias walked across to the double doors leading into the living room, flung them open, and flicked down the master switch. Instantly he saw the body on the floor.

  He gasped, then exclaimed out loud, ‘Oh my God!’ His chest tightened, and for a split second he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his eyes staring, the expression on his face one of mingled horror and alarm.

  After a moment or two Elias managed to take hold of himself and he walked over to the body. The shock he experienced was like a violent punch in the belly, and he gazed down at Maximilian West disbelievingly, feeling as though his legs were turning to jelly. He thought he was going to keel over, and he gripped the back of a chair, took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

  Eventually he was a little calmer and he stepped closer, saw the blood, the gunshot wound, and his heart sank with dismay. The injury was serious. He knelt down, peering into Maxim’s face worriedly. It was ghastly, the colour of bleached bone. Elias searched for signs of life, brought his head nearer to Maxim’s chest. He was breathing. Just barely. Elias took hold of his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there.

  Elias straightened, his face stark, his eyes glassy with shock. Who had done this? And why? Rage flooded him, and he thought of searching the house looking for clues. Instantly he changed his mind. Whoever had shot Sir Maxim had doubtless fled without leaving any telltale evidence. Besides, it was vital that he get help immediately, act with speed if he was to save Sir Maxim. He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘East Hampton Village Police. Officer Spank speaking.’

  ‘Norman, it’s Elias here. I’m at the West house out on Lily Pond Lane. Sir Maximilian West has been shot,’ he said in a voice that was both shaky and shaken. It faltered slightly as he continued, ‘I just found him. Call Southampton Hospital for an ambulance. He’s alive but he looks as if he’s lost a lot of blood. So tell them to hurry. And you’d better get here as fast as you can.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.

  Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.

  ***

  Maxim floated in space… in a great white void… in a vast nothingness.

  He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.

  Where was he?

  He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.

  Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.

  And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air… it was light… musical… and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.

  ‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.

  ‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’

  ‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.

  The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, Sir Maximilian is a healthy man, strong, robust. That’s an important factor. And he is in the best of hands here at Mount Sinai. He’s getting superior care and treatment, and he is being monitored night and day.’

  Maxim made a supreme effort and finally he managed to lift his eyelids. He blinked, adjusted to the light.

  The room where he was lying was quite large.

  He saw a man in a white coat. That must be the doctor.

  Then he became aware of the others standing at the bottom of the bed.

  The women.

  They were grouped in a semi-circle. He was conscious of five pairs of female eyes focused on him intently, watching him, waiting. His mother. His first wife. His third wife. His mistress. His daughter Alix.


  All of the women in his life were assembled here, keeping vigil over him.

  He snapped his eyes shut. He did not want to see them, nor deal with them.

  Everything suddenly came back to him. He remembered driving to Long Island in the rented Jaguar, going into the cottage in East Hampton, surprising the intruder. Then the man had pulled a gun and shot him. He could not remember anything after that.

  The doctor in the room had just mentioned Mount Sinai. So he had been brought to New York. How long had he been here? He had no idea.

  He wondered if he was going to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

  Teddy. Where was Teddy?

  Maxim tried to open his eyes but the effort to do so was far too great.

  He wanted Teddy. She could save him. She had always saved him in the past.

  He could not die now. He must live. He had so much to do. So much to put right.

  Maxim tried to speak but the words would not come out of his mouth.

  Teddy. Oh Teddy where are you? Help… help… me…

  He felt himself drifting back into the vast white nothingness, that great vaporous void that had engulfed him before, and he fought it, but it was too strong for him in his weakened state and it overwhelmed him.

  And finally he succumbed to it, fell into a deep unconsciousness once more.

  PART 2

  URSULA

  BERLIN

  1938

  Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

  Psalm 91: The Bible

  SIX

  The woman stood before the Empire-style cheval mirror in the bedroom, staring hard at her reflection.

  Slowly she turned, studying the gown. She had bought it on a trip to Paris three years ago and it was by Jean Patou, her favourite couturier. She had worn it only once since then and now she saw that it had retained its incomparable style and elegance, as had the other Patou creations she owned.