I’m not too bad at guesses-like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church-three with beat-up Dodgers’ caps, the fourth wearing a new painter’s cap. Something off kilter.
So my hunch had been correct. Pasqual had once owned a Dodgers’ cap. Where had it gone? Same place as Mr. Pollack’s robe. Martina had packed the robe in her bag Monday morning. When she was forced off the bus by Jose and his brothers, I pictured her quickly dumping the bag in a garbage bin at the bus stop, hoping to retrieve it later. She never got that chance.
As for the ring, it was right where I thought it would be: among the discards that had shrouded Malibu Mike the night he died. The Dodgers’ cap on Malibu’s head got me thinking in the right direction. If Malibu had found Pasqual’s cap, maybe he found the other bag left behind by Martina. After all, that bin had been his spot.
Good old Malibu. One of his layers had been a grimy old robe. Wedged into the corner of its pocket, a diamond ring. Had Malibu not died that Monday, José might have been a free man today.
Mrs. Pollack didn’t feel right about keeping the ring, so she offered it to Yolanda Flores. Yolanda was appreciative of such generosity, but she refused the gift, saying the ring was cursed. Mrs. Pollack didn’t take offense; Yolanda was a woman with pride. Finally, after a lot of consideration, Mrs. Pollack gave the ring to the burial committee for Malibu Mike. Malibu never lived wealthy, but he sure went out in high style.
LADY ANTONIA FRASER, a London resident, is the widely heralded author of several best-selling biographies of notable British figures, including Mary, Queen of Scots; Royal Charles; and Cromwell. To millions of mystery readers she is known as the creator of Jemima Shore, television interviewer and capable detector of criminals. Ms. Shore has appeared in more than ten adventures to date, including A Splash of Red, The Wild Island, and Oxford Blood, as well as in a collection of stories, Jemima Shores First Case.
GETTING TO KNOW YOU
Antonia Fraser
The moment the door was shut behind her, the man put the security chain across it. Then he ordered Jemima Shore to take her clothes off. All of her clothes.
“But you can leave your shoes on, if you like. They’re pretty.”
Jemima found that the sheer unreality of the situation prevented her from taking in what he was saying. She could hear the words, all right; the man was standing right beside her, his breath on her cheek-although he was not in fact breathing particularly heavily. They were about the same height: his eyes, very widely set, the color of glossy chestnuts, were level with hers.
The man’s hair was dark, very thick, and quite long and shaggy; they were so close that she could see one or two silver threads in the dark mass. He had a moustache, side-burns, and soft dark down on his cheeks; that was what gave him a Mediterranean look. His accent, however, faint but discernible, she could not place. He wore a clean white T-shirt with some kind of logo on it, and jeans. The broad shoulders and the heavy arms revealed by the contours of the T-shirt gave an impression of considerable physical strength. In spite of his calm breathing, Jemima was aware that he was sweating slightly.
She was carrying a large green Chanel-type handbag of quilted leather slung over her shoulder by two gilt chains. The man took the bag from her and put it carefully on the king-size bed that dominated the hotel room. The curtains were drawn and the lamp by the bed was lit, although it was in fact only eleven o’clock in the morning.
The man repeated his command: “Take off your clothes.” He added “I want to get to know you.”
It was idiotic, thought Jemima: the previous television program she had worked on had actually been about rape. During that period she had spoken to at least a dozen victims-of widely differing ages-on the subject. The words she had heard most frequently went something like this: “You just don’t understand what it’s like…. Helplessness … If it’s never happened to you … Until it’s happened to you …”
Naturally, she had never sought to argue the point. Her intention, as an investigative television reporter, had been to present her evidence as sympathetically but candidly as possible in order to illustrate just that gulf: between sufferers and the rest, however well intentioned. The program about rape had been the last in a series of which the overall title had been Twice Punished: it had concentrated on the tragic social aftereffects of certain crimes.
“Helplessness … You just don’t understand…. Until it happens to you.” Now it seemed Jemima was going to find out for herself the truth of those sad, despairing cries. Rather too late for her program. Ironically enough. And she had a feeling she was going to need all the sense of irony (or detachment) she could hang on to in the present situation. And then something more.
“Take off your clothes,” the man said for the third time. “I want to get to know you.” He was still not hurried or breathing heavily; only the slight perspiration on his upper Up betrayed any kind of agitation. Jemima now guessed him to be Moroccan or Algerian, maybe even Turkish; his actual use of English was more or less perfect.
“Who are you? And where is Clemency Vane? I have come to interview Clemency Vane.” Jemima decided the best course was to ignore the ludicrous, frightening command altogether and attempt in some way to gain a mastery of the situation. She was glad to find that her own voice was absolutely steady even if she, unlike the man himself, was panting a little. She found that she was also able to manage a small, sweet, composed smile, the one the viewers loved, because Jemima generally went to demolish the recipient of that sweet smile-some pompous political leader perhaps-politely but totally.
“Clemmie”-he accented the last syllable just slightly-“is not here. I have come instead. Now you will take off your clothes, please. Or …” He paused as if to consider the situation in a rational manner, “I could perhaps take them off for you. But you would probably prefer to do it yourself.”
The man bent forward and undid the loose drawstring tie at the neck of Jemima’s cream-colored jersey dress. His hands, like his shoulders, were large and muscular; they were covered with dark hair, the nails, Jemima noticed automatically, were very clean, as if scrubbed, and well kept. He undid the first pearl button and made as if to touch the second; then he drew back.
This is where I scream, thought Jemima. Argument stops here. There must be somebody in earshot in this damn barn of a hotel
“Don’t touch me, please,” she said aloud. “And I must tell you that whoever you are, my camera crew are due to arrive in this room in exactly one minute; they took the next lift.”
“Oh, don’t be frightened.” The man ignored her remark about the camera crew, which was in itself a worrying sign-since it was in fact quite untrue. Jemima doubted whether at this precise moment anyone in the world knew exactly where she was, not even Cherry, her faithful P.A. at Megalith Television.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Even if you scream”-he had clearly read her mind-“I shall not hurt you, only silence you with this.” For the first time Jemima realized the man was carrying a large white scarf or cloth on his arm. “But please do not scream. There would be no point, I think, since both the rooms near us are empty, and the maid is far away.”
The man hesitated, then he led Jemima quite gently but firmly in the direction of the large bed. They both sat down. That brought her-possibly-within reach of her green handbag; but what kind of weapon was a soft quilted-leather handbag, however large? The man gazed at her earnestly with those wide-apart brown eyes.
“I have seen you on television, Jemima, I think you’re very beautiful, and you’re intelligent too. I like that very much. You’ll find I really appreciate your intelligence when we get to know each other better. Women should cultivate their intelligence so as to be of interest to men. How can a stupid woman be of any interest to a man? Education is very important for women. In order to help their man.”
Now that the man was talking, almost rattling along, poking his face cl
ose to hers, talking at manic speed but not attempting otherwise to touch her or her clothing in any way, the best plan seemed to be to keep him at it.
The education of women! A bizarre subject to discuss, perhaps, under the present circumstances, but one on which Jemima did at least have strong views-if not precisely these views.
“You’re absolutely right,” she agreed, her tone still resolutely equable, resisting the temptation to adjust the loose tie and button of her dress.
On the subject of education, would it be a good plan or a very bad plan-to reintroduce the subject of Clemency Vane? Her captor-for such he was-either knew her or knew of her. As it was, one could indeed fruitfully talk about the education of Clemency Vane and at some length, in view of what had happened to her following that education. Had the missing Clemency been actually present in the hotel room where she promised to be, Jemima herself would have shot off some pertinent questions on the subject: even if she would have recorded the answers in her own well-trained memory (and not as yet with a camera crew). Clemency had asked for her to take no notes and certainly not use a tape recorder at these preliminary interviews. And Jemima, who at this stage was committed to nothing, Clemency having made all the running herself, had nothing to lose by agreeing to her terms.
Clemency Vane was a convicted criminal who had recently been released from prison, where she had spent something over five years on a charge of drug dealing. It was an odd case. Nobody seemed to know quite where all the money had gone: some really large sums had vanished. Jemima remembered that the original sentence had been for eight years and that Clemency had been released for good behavior: it had certainly been a strong sentence for a first offender. On the other hand the proved details of Clemency Vane’s drug dealing were pretty strong too. And it was undeniably dealing: no question of a desperate addict merely trying to service her own expensive habit. Quite apart from the fact that she had pleaded “guilty.”
The oddness lay in the hint of political background to it all, a hint that mysteriously and totally disappeared when the case came to be tried and the “guilty” plea was entered, What was the country concerned? Jemima tried to remember. Red Clemmie? Blue Clemmie? Green Clemmie? Not the latter presumably in view of the drug dealing. Since none of this had finally been proffered by the defense at her trial, temporarily the name of the country eluded her, which was ridiculous. But she would have reminded herself of all the details of the case beforehand if Clemency Vane’s summons to an interview in the anonymous barn of a West London hotel had not come so peremptorily to her this morning. That had altered their previous more-long-term arrangements.
“No, it can’t wait. I thought it could when I spoke to you originally. But now it can’t.”
Santangela. That was it. Santangela: one of those little states, whose precise connection with drug traffic, antidrug traffic measures, nationalism, and anti-imperialism was so difficult to establish even for those who were keenly interested. Which most Britons, and Jemima was no exception, frankly were not. That was the hint of political background that had come and then mysteriously gone away. After all, shortly after Clemency Vane was imprisoned, there was a successful revolution in Santangela in any case; so the whole situation had changed. Santangela: where exactly was the place? Latin America? Central America? South America? It was ridiculous to be so ignorant about sheer geography, which was after all a matter of fact. But then that was Europe-centered Britain-including Jemima Shore-for you.
Jemima looked at the man again. Not a Moroccan, an Algerian, or a Turk, then, but a Santangelino? If that was what its nationals were called, as she seemed to remember they were. More vagueness, she ruefully admitted. All the same, for the first time her gaze was inquisitive, not challenging and self-protective. A Santangelino. Somehow connected to Clemency Vane’s drug charge, once deemed in some way political, then all of a sudden quite apolitical, just criminal. What she was not yet in any way clear about as yet was exactly how Clemency and her drugs fitted into Jemima’s current series. She had been wondering that ever since Clemency Vane had made the first contact. But there seemed plenty of time to find out.
Jemima’s new series-very much at the planning stage-was tentatively entitled For the Love of the Cause. It concerned the rival claims of public campaigning and private life. She had already made various soundings concerning it and had had one or two preliminary interviews with dedicated campaigners of various sorts-including one with a man who, very much against Jemima’s own beliefs, wanted to bring back capital punishment but whose wife opposed him, To her irritation, she was failing to turn up sufficient numbers of “strong women” who fitted this particular bill; they existed, all right, but preferred to keep their private lives and/ or disputes to themselves. Jemima sympathized, of course, but remained professionally irritated….
Then Clemency Vane telephoned out of the blue. Jemima herself would certainly never have thought of a reformed-one hoped-drug dealer in connection with this series. Yet Clemency’s original call, fielded by Cherry, indicated that this area of conflict was what she wished to discuss. Various other calls followed, guarded conversations, all on the telephone, with Jemima herself, with no direct information offered absolutely pertinent to the program, yet a good deal of talk about the principles involved. Love and duty, their rival demands, and so forth.
They had met only once; as now, in a hotel, an anonymous block in a different part of London; as now, the summons had come suddenly, giving Jemima little time to prepare.
“I can get away now,” Clemency Vane had said. “Please come.” And Jemima, to the sound of a few protests about work load from Cherry, had gone.
For Clemency Vane’s appearance, Jemima had been dependent on the numerous newspaper and television news images: the strong features, particularly the nose, which might be described kindly as patrician, otherwise as beaky; the circular tinted glasses that added a somewhat owlish look; and the pretty, softening halo of blond curly hair at her trial. In fact Clemency was darker than Jemima had expected, or perhaps the blond hair had been allowed to darken in prison; as it was, her hair, also much straighter, was scraped back, and her face behind the circular tinted glasses-they at least were familiar-virtually devoid of makeup. You got the impression of someone deliberately rendering herself unattractive, or at least unappealing; gone was the feminine softness of the prisoner on trial.
At the same time Clemency was quite tiny physically; that, along with her cultivatedly plain appearance, was another surprise. Well, you never really knew about people from their newspaper photographs, did you? That was one certain rule. Even television could be oddly delusive about size and scale.
It was still a strong face, despite the unexpectedly small scale of it all. A strong face: and a strong character too, judging from the evidence yielded up by the trial.
“I need to find out about you,” Clemency had said at this meeting. She spoke quite abruptly, dragging on her cigarette. She had smoked throughout the interview, stubbing out each cigarette with fury when it was about halfway finished. “I need to know if I can trust you.” Her attitude was certainly not conciliatory: defiant if anything. But she was also nervous.
“As it happens, you can trust me.” Jemima was prepared to be patient. “But I hope you will find that for yourself. With time. That’s the best way. I’m in no hurry about this series: we’ve only just started to research it, as a matter of fact. For the Love of the Cause. It’s a fascinating topic but a tricky one. I need to get exactly the right people-”
“That piece in the paper-the woman spy in love with an Israeli-”
“Ah, you saw that. I wondered. Premature, I’m afraid. She won’t talk to us. Too much conflict already about what she did for love-”
“I, too, did it for love,” Clemency said, interrupting her. “You could say that I, too, gave up everything for love.” She was busy stubbing out yet another of those wretched cigarettes, and she did not look at Jemima as she spoke.
“You mean there wa
s a man involved?” Jemima spoke tentatively. Clemency’s nervousness was perhaps not surprising under the circumstances but quite marked all the same, including this sudden out-of-the-blue request for a face-to-face interview. She had no wish to frighten her off at this stage.
“Correct. There was a man.” Clemency pulled on her cigarette with increasing ferocity and then once again stubbed it out.
“That didn’t come out at the trial.”
“I didn’t want it to. I pleaded ‘guilty’ and that was that.”
“Is he still involved? Or rather, are you still involved with him? You were in prison a long time. Or is it over? Is it this love-versus-duty question of the woman spy and the Israeli you mentioned when you first contacted me? Is that what we might talk about on the program?”
Jemima realized too late that she had posed too many questions too quickly. An obstinate closed expression on Clemency Vane’s face warned her of her mistake.
“I don’t want to say anything more at the moment. You must understand: there are problems.” And Clemency declined to explain any further, sharply and inexorably. That was all Jemima was left with-until the summons this morning.
So there was a man involved. And this was him? Was Jemima now looking at the man for whom Clemency-product of a privileged education, showered with worldly advantages by her doting parents, clever enough to achieve university, achieve anything she wished, in truth-had thrown it all away? Infatuation was a fascinating subject. One woman’s infatuation was another woman’s poison…. Take this man. Very strong physically, perhaps-she hoped not to find out-and certainly quite handsome … this was the man for whom a privileged English girl had wasted five years of her life. This Santangelino without even a name …
“My name is Alberto,” he said to her with a smile-his first smile, and that might be a good sign, might it not? Once again, however, he had apparently read her thoughts-not such a good sign, that.
A Woman’s Eye Page 17