by Mike Hodges
Mark shows willing, nodding thoughtfully, stroking a brow furrowed in concentration, forcing his eyes to blaze with fervour at each of her revelations. He desperately tries not to look at her sumptuous, blood-red lips, fearing he might get engulfed in a ferment of erotic thoughts about what they could do to him.
Alice continues, as relentless as a dentist’s drill. ‘Dr Temple can tell you what you must do and be, in order to deserve confidence, obedience, co-operation, respect.’ Then, seeming to reach a state of almost unbearable ecstasy, she stops.
Mark mumbles pathetically. ‘He really is somebody.’
Her button nose crinkles with dismay. ‘Somebody?’
‘Somebody special.’
‘Extra-special.’
‘Extra-extra-special. A colossus.’ Mark nods gravely as if agreeing with himself in his final assessment of Dr Herman Temple. ‘Yes, definitely a colossus. When does he get here?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
‘So you travel ahead of him and prepare the way? Like John the Baptist?’
That pleases Alice. She looks over his shoulder, prompting him to turn.
The waitress is back. ‘Harvey wants a word with you, Mr Miles.’
‘Tell him to come to my office later.’
‘He says it’s either a word with you now…’ adding ominously: ‘…or a word with Mr Springer.’
Miles stands, and stutters. ‘Oh! I see. In that case I had –’
The waitress interrupts. ‘He said you’d understand what he meant.’
Her eyes suddenly drop to below his waist and then widen in astonishment. The crotch of his trousers resembles a bell tent. He drops sharply back into his seat and checks if Alice has noticed. She has, but he needn’t have worried. Alice likes to arouse men.
‘Boy, do you need Herman.’
Her cute smile is suddenly switched off as she looks beyond him and gasps. Her pale hands shoot to her pale face in horror, just like a silent movie star.
Mark turns to find Harvey peering through one of the waiter windows. He looks even more grotesque than usual as its green-tinted glass lends his head, framed in an oval, the appearance of a particularly unpleasant toad.
* * *
Alice hurries from the Dining Room, followed by Mark.
‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful but I’m not at all convinced this place is a suitable venue for the Institute.’ She stops in her tracks, to let Mark catch up, then continues. ‘It’s full of weird people. You sure it’s not being used as a funny farm?’
‘No way.’ Mark tries to make light of it. ‘The handbooks give it three stars, two crossed forks, a bidet, but no padded cells.’
Alice doesn’t laugh at the humour. She moves off at speed for the elevator.
Mark joins her there, determined to gain entry to her room … and maybe even the lady herself. He’d been considerably encouraged by her reaction to his hard-on.
‘Alice, has Dr Temple written any textbooks on how to scientifically –’
She cuts him off. ‘Herman’s seminal work is Power Over People: Secret Techniques Revealed. You wanna buy a copy?’
‘Could I?’
‘Follow me.’
* * *
A chambermaid parks her trolley outside Room 13.
According to the clipboard she consults, it’s occupied.
She then notices that the door to Room 12, supposedly unoccupied, is wide open, and in she goes. A howl of delight emerges, ahead of the maid herself, now calling to her colleague working further along the same corridor.
‘Mildred! The phantom fornicator has struck again!’
Around the corner from the same corridor, the hotel’s ancient elevator comes to a bumpy halt. Alice exits, with Mark tagging behind. She’s humming like a dynamo.
‘Say, for example, you went to the same university as a business colleague and your degree was better than his, yet when it came to promotion he gets it and you don’t.’
Mark nods his head and mutters. ‘That’s too bad.’
‘Too right, it’s too bad. And when the company president throws a party, who heads the invitation list?’
Mark doesn’t reply. A commotion outside Room 12 has caught his attention. He curses himself for not removing the graffiti from the mirror. No wonder the chambermaids are rolling from wall to wall, holding their sides, and screaming with laughter. When they see Alice approaching, they go immediately quiet and disappear into the room.
Alice ignores their stifled laughter as she unlocks her door.
‘Did you hear me, Mark? Who heads the invitation list?’
‘He does.’
Mark also listens to the excited chamber maids whispering to each other, followed by subdued snorts. He can’t help marvelling at the unintentional comedy routine being played between the maids and Alice, who seems blissfully unaware of the dialogue originating from Room 12.
‘That’s one big prick!’
‘Right,’ intones Alice. ‘And so he heads the invitation list, not you.’
‘What balls!’ comes from Room 12.
‘That’s when you ask yourself what he’s got that you haven’t?’
‘He’s rigged like a horse!’
A final explosion of bawdy guffaws reaches Mark as he gratefully escapes into Alice’s room.
* * *
The sitting area is filled with files, charts, posters, books, all carrying the image of Herman Temple. As Alice bends to pick up a copy of the great man’s seminal book, Mark catches a glimpse of naked thigh above a white stocking.
He visibly starts to shake.
‘This book will make even your wildest dreams come true,’ says Alice, unaware of the effect she is having on the mad-eyed Mark.
‘Oh, good,’ he mumbles.
Alice holds up the book with a reverence usually accorded the Holy Bible and fixes him with eyes full of spiritual promise. Not surprisingly, he interprets this look as of more secular nature than spiritual. Even the book’s title – Power Over People – seems to endorse this impression. She riffles through the opening pages: ‘There’s a chapter here on “How to Unleash a Fantastic Reservoir of Mental Force”.’
Mark moves beside her, ostensibly to share in Dr Temple’s wisdom. In reality it allows his right hand to hover close to her arse; what she herself would call her butt. Moving along the corridor, he’d been driven almost crazy while watching her from behind. Not just by her perfect butt but by her shapely legs, feet, ankles, her bobbing hair; each part of her seemed to obsess him separately. It was time he brought them altogether in one glorious coupling.
Alice’s enthusiasm bubbles on as she finds the next chapter: ‘This one is crucial. It reveals “How to Turn that Incredible Force into Action”.’
Each chapter title seems to Mark like a green light to seduction. His eager hand moves closer to her arse. Alice turns more pages: ‘Here’s another chapter: “Special Techniques on How to Get Started”.’
His hand lands gently on its destination.
‘“How to…”’ She looks sharply at Mark, snapping: ‘Take your hand off my derrière right now.’
The hand abruptly lifts off, and she continues: ‘There’s a chapter on “Survivalism: Dr Temple’s Unique Instant Self-defence System”.’
Mark is too aroused to realise the significance of this chapter. Instead, he foolishly attempts a full-frontal kiss. As he wraps her in his arms, he finds himself swiftly unwrapped by an expertly executed throw. She swivels him over her hip and dumps him in a pile of books and photographs.
Then she towers over him.
‘Herman teaches us body language, Mark. Mine was saying Don’t touch! Like in museums, right?’
Mark, stunned by his misreading of red for green, peers up at her from among the multiple images of Herman. His confusion is compounded when she lifts her skirt to reveal a broken suspender.
‘Just look what you made me do.’
Mark is only too happy to look. He feasts his eyes on her soft golden thigh, wondering exactl
y what kind of body language Herman taught.
Alice starts to rummage in the wardrobe, humming happily as she selects a fresh set of clothes.
Mark gets to his feet. ‘Gee, I’m sorry. The thermostat on my libido must have malfunctioned.’
‘Forget it.’
She goes into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
‘I seem to affect some men that way. I don’t know why.’
Mark creeps across to the small filing cabinet sitting on the desk. Keeping a sharp eye on the bathroom door, he keeps talking while he begins searching through the files.
‘Could be you’re sending out the wrong signals?’
‘You think so? I must talk to Herman about that. He reads me like a book.’
Mark runs a finger down lists of names while she prattles on; ‘Herman calls me Barbie ‘cos I change my clothes such a lot.’ She laughs. ‘My record is twelve times in one day. Do you find that peculiar?’
Mark pauses to contemplate this revelation, finding it indeed very peculiar. ‘Peculiar? Not at all.’
His finger stops at the name with a star inscribed beside it, then runs sideways across the adjacent columns. This student came top of the class, and he was the only one awarded an onyx and marble mantel clock. His name is Claudio Cross and his address tallies with Snazell’s account: Nirvana Nous. Mark finds a ballpoint pen to copy it on to the back of his hand. That done, he treads softly to the door and lets himself out.
Alice comes out of the bathroom wearing a new costume. Immediately absorbed by her image in the full-length mirror, she doesn’t notice that Mark is no longer in the room.
‘Herman likes me to look fresh. He says appearance is everything. Say, aren’t you going to be late for that wedding?’
Even the ensuing silence cannot break the one-on-one she is enjoying with herself in the mirror.
eleven
Mark tilts his gleaming Yamaha into a bend: an apocalyptic apparition in his silver helmet and black leathers. The bloody knife embedded in his back flaps ominously as he zooms along the country roads. Bare hedgerows and trees, haystacks, gates, docile cows, farmyards fly by.
He slows at the entrance to a country estate. The name of the house is interwoven into the filigree wrought-iron arch spanning the open gates. Nirvana Nous is a gloomy gothic pile at the end of a long drive lined with yew trees. Tennis courts and stables are reflected in his visor as Mark approaches it. Croquet hoops circle the huge lawn-covered island facing the frontage. Fifty or more expensive cars, with nail-varnish veneers, are parked higgledy-piggledy, all about.
* * *
A liveried butler answers after Mark raps the heavily sculpted knocker against the iron-studded wooden door. The man holds out a hand, assuming this is a delivery, and looks surprised when Mark says: ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Cross.’
The butler moves solemnly aside to let him enter, closing the door after him. Without a word he leads him across the marble hallway, pausing only to ring a bell. A uniformed maid materialises from behind a portable clothes rail laden with coats, many of them fur.
Mark pats his sweaty hair into place, after parting with his helmet. The girl gives him a cheeky look when he holds out his jacket. She can’t resist touching the bloody knife embossed on it before placing it on a hanger.
The butler speaks for the first time. ‘This way.’
Mark follows him past the colossal chimneypiece, through a Norman arch and along a half-timbered corridor until they reach a door. A Gaelic cross sits in an alcove beside it. Again the butler steps aside to let Mark enter.
Inside it’s as dark and silent as a mausoleum.
Mark freezes, petrified, as the door closes silently behind him. He panics, wants out. His clammy hands move around the door surface with all the delicacy of a safe-cracker, but can’t find a handle. Deep breaths help to slow his pumping heart before he turns to face the scene awaiting.
The only light comes from the flickering candles posted around a coffin. As his eyes adjust, he can see rows of faces sitting there, old faces like gargoyles staring at him.
He’s in a small private chapel.
Feeling his way like a blind man, he finds an empty pew, kneels, crosses himself and bows his head. No sooner has he settled there than a long bony finger reaches from behind to tap his shoulder. Mark is reluctant to face its owner.
When he finally turns, he’s confronted with the emaciated face of Emily Block. The same bony finger now beckons him back to the door. She, at least, has no trouble finding the handle. They step out into the corridor.
Up until now Mark has thought he was dealing with an old man. The short, parted hair, white shirt and tweed tie, all he could see in the candlelight, have misled him. In the light of the corridor he realises his mistake, but not immediately. Her black suit has a masculine cut that causes him to hesitate. Only her soft purring voice settles the matter.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m sorry to intrude…eh… Mrs Cross?’
‘I’m not Mrs Cross.’
‘I do apologise. It’s just that I have a very delicate errand to…’
He stops when the mourners begin to emerge, having dutifully followed them. Emily Block, suddenly engulfed by commiserative embraces, abandons him before leading them all to a sumptuous drawing room. Giant potted palms reach up to a magnificent coffered ceiling. Ancestral portraits line the walls. Leather sofas and armchairs, tables crowded with silver-framed photographs, sideboards and numerous artefacts help fill the space. Among all these treasures, uniformed waitresses circulate with fancy canapés and champagne.
Mark tags along, accepts a drink, helps himself to the elegant bites offered to him, studies the faces of the female mourners. Again the bony finger finds his shoulder.
‘You won’t find Mrs Cross here.’
‘It’s important I speak to her. Maybe I could wait somewhere?’
‘Try the cemetery. She’ll be there tomorrow.’
Mark’s smile dissolves into funereal obsequiousness. ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’
Block enjoys watching his discomfort. ‘Who are you anyway?’
Mark fumbles in a trouser pocket, nervously pulling out the card inscribed: William Snazell. Private Investigator.
She takes it. ‘I see you’re licensed. Licensed to do what? Gatecrash funerals, Mr Snazell?’
‘I’m not Mr Snazell. I’m his assistant…. Mark Miles.’
A waitress approaches with a tray of sushi. ‘Can I tempt you, Miss Block?’
Block, still intent on the card, waves her away. But that’s not before Mark has grabbed a couple of tuna mini-rolls and stuffed them in his mouth.
‘So what brings you here? Apart from the food.’
Mark’s can’t talk. He tries desperately to swallow both the rolls, while Block watches with obvious distaste. When he eventually speaks, a piece of tuna has attached itself to his upper front teeth.
‘Mrs Cross employed our agency to –’
Block interrupts with a fury that fans his face.
‘No, she didn’t! I was her personal assistant for fifteen years. She told me everything.’
‘As I said this is rather a delicate matter.’ He directs an equally delicate whisper into her ear: ‘Concerning her missing husband.’
‘Is that so?’
Her head swivels, like a gun turret on a battleship, until she has a group of mourners in her sights.
‘You see that obese fellow over there? The one with a toupee that looks like a dead Pekinese?’
There’s no mistaking him.
‘That’s Commander Jeremy Cross, Royal Navy retired. Her seventh and last husband.’
Mark can’t help but be impressed.
‘Seventh? I see. She never mentioned that to Mr Snazell.’
‘Far from going missing, the commander has never strayed far from his wife’s bank account and booze cupboard.’
Mark remains optimistic. ‘Maybe it was one of her other husbands?’
‘Maybe we sh
ould sort this out in my office.’
He follows her through a small door set in a lancet arch, then up some steps to a long, fan-vaulted chamber. Crates of tinned foods are stacked to the ceiling on both sides. Mark takes in the stencilled markings as he passes: peas… asparagus… carrots… baked beans… sardines… salmon. They draw alongside sacks of flour, sugar, dates, and pause by some huge bundles of toilet paper.
Block relishes his confusion.
‘Mrs Cross recently became a Mormon. A young American sold it to her on the doorstep, like it was a vacuum cleaner.’ She continues to another door and pauses: ‘Mormons believe that famines will sweep the world before Armageddon and the Second Coming. They stock up with enough canned food to keep the family going for a whole year.’
She opens the door and they resume walking.
‘In the basement there’s a swimming pool filled with Perrier water.’
‘Mrs Cross certainly did things in style. May I ask how she died?’
‘Blew her brains out with an elephant rifle.’
Mark stops in his tracks. ‘An elephant rifle? She must have been a very big woman.’
‘No. Just prone to overstatement.’
* * *
Not surprisingly for a blunt woman unconcerned with social graces, Emily Block’s office is a room dedicated to disorder and dust. Books, papers, trilby hats, dried flowers, spill over everything. She sweeps a pile of yellowing newspapers off a beaten-up sofa.
‘Sit.’
Mark does as he’s told.
‘So what’s your problem?’
‘With Commander Cross, her current husband, not on any list of missing persons, I am wondering…’ Mark takes a deep breath and goes for it: ‘who Claudio Cross is?’
Block fires back without hesitation.
‘A gigolo.’
‘A gigolo?’
‘That’s what I said. You know what a gigolo is, don’t you?’
‘A gigolo using her surname?’
‘Draw your own conclusions.’
‘Have you any idea where he is?’
‘Back in Italy.’
‘Is that what the PII told her?’
‘Correct. And that’s when she hit the roof. Literally. Brains all over the bedroom ceiling. The one thing she couldn’t take was rejection.’