by Jack Barnao
“I thought he was a scholar.”
“So did he.” She set down her wineglass. “He should have been working with Papa.”
“But now you do that instead of Pierre.” Amy had given me that much on the ride over. And she was probably excellent at business. She was cool and brisk, and very few men would have had the heart to haggle with her. Just one million-watt flash of her smile and they would cheerfully pay through their noses for the family’s plonk.
“This is boring you,” she said.
“On the contrary. I’ve been parachuted into the middle of a mystery. Anything I can learn is likely to help me.”
“How?” A fair question, but she used it like an ax, swinging it with real weight.
“His death was no doubt connected with the fact that someone tried to abduct Amy yesterday. Find his killer and we find out what’s happening.”
“I’ll tell you what’s happening,” she said suddenly. “Someone is declaring war.”
“On whom?” Well done. An educated woman like Hélène would appreciate the “m.”
She shrugged and picked up her wine again, not posing, just gripping it as if it were her only connection to sanity. She was angry, I saw, and frightened, but she was not grieving. A very cold fish. “Perhaps my father.”
“You mean some business competitor? Surely they wouldn’t get around to murder? Especially of Pierre. You say he wasn’t connected to the business.”
“He is, was”—she shook her head impatiently—”the most important person in my father’s life. Since my mother died last year.”
“It still doesn’t make sense. If someone wanted to pressure your father, they would have threatened Pierre, they wouldn’t have killed him. That throws away their advantage.”
“Logically, yes.” She sipped her wine and set the glass down. We might have been discussing a soccer game, for all the emotion she was showing. “But my father is weak. His heart. This will crush him. It could even kill him.”
“And then who takes over? Are you a public company?”
“No. We are a family concern.” She pointed at her left breast with her right index finger. The nail was a perfect filbert shape and a quarter inch longer than her fingertip. The breast was world-class. “When Papa goes, we becomes me.
“But where does Amy fit into this? Why was someone trying to drag her into a car with Marseilles plates?”
“Did nobody tell you?” She smiled again. My not trying to impress her was impressing her. I figured she planned to win my heart and then gleefully jump up and down on it in high heels.
“I was hired to protect her from a man called Orsini.” I said. “But from what I heard today from Captain Labrosse, that’s a crock.”
“What did he tell you?” She snapped out the question.
“It’s confidential.”
“Then why did you suggest something?” She was sneering now. If the carrot of her smile wouldn’t work, she’d try the stick.
“Because somebody is after her. Somebody who was angry enough at missing her to kill your brother for his part in her rescue. I thought perhaps you knew something that might help me do my job.”
“The gendarmes will find these people.” She sipped her wine and then rummaged in her purse for cigarettes. I made no attempt to light up for her. The rough-hewn caper was working.
“It may take them months. In the meantime, I think she’s in danger. Have you any idea why?”
“No,” she said. She blew out the match and dropped it in the ashtray. “But I know what you are speaking of. I was with Amy when she met Orsini.”
“Were you?” I shook my head. “If I may make a personal comment, ma’amselle, I find it hard to believe that he would have approached Amy with you at the same table.”
“Explain yourself,” she snapped, but I could see she had got my drift. She wanted to hear the compliment in full, that was all.
“Amy is attractive; you are beautiful. Unless this man had some kind of hidden agenda, something to do with Amy’s being North American, I fail to understand his action.” There, lady, what do you say to that?
She milked it. “Are you paying me a compliment, Mr. Locke?” she asked almost coquettishly.
“Just imagine I’m giving evidence,” I said. “The facts, ma’am, just the facts.”
“He approached our table,” she said. “When I did not reply to him and Amy did, he concentrated his attentions upon her.”
“The girls all get beautiful at closing time.” I grinned. “And then what? You said good night to Amy and left her drinking wine and talking about the good old days with Signor Orsini?”
“You do not find her beautiful?”
“I’m working for her, or for her uncle. I don’t mix business and personal feelings.” It sounded good even though it wasn’t true. And there’s a big chunk of business sense in getting close to the woman you’re guarding. You can spend your nights outside her door with one ear open or inside her room, where you’re at hand if anything occurs. I’m all business, really.
“I think you have spent too much time with the English,” she said, smiling as shyly as Lady Di. “Your blood has become cold.”
“It’s as red as ever. I have a job to do, that’s all.” This was a lot more fun than sitting upstairs reading a book, waiting for Amy to come out of her room and make herself a target again.
“Does she know what this gendarme told you?” She nudged me back on track.
“Not yet. I plan to discuss it with her to see if she can explain who might be threatening her in all this.”
“And how will you pass the time until you have an opportunity to talk to her?” The invitation floated across the table as tangible as a visiting card.
“I have to stay in the house, but I’m open to suggestions.”
She stood up, crushing her cigarette on her plate, ignoring the ashtray. “Come with me,” she said harshly.
She led the way upstairs, pausing at the top to turn and put her finger to her lips. I inclined my head and followed, walking softly, my excitement rising with every step.
She stopped at Amy’s room, tapped at the door, and then opened it and slipped inside, pushing the door shut behind her. She was out a minute later and closed the door carefully, nodding her head along the corridor. I followed, and she opened the door of her own room and turned to beckon me.
I went in after her and closed the door, noticing that the wall was almost a foot thick. Even though Daddy was next door, he wouldn’t hear anything unless we started yelling at one another.
The room was huge and sported a business-sized bed. She stood by it and turned to face me, smiling now. I wasn’t sure if this was a spider-and-fly party. She had me in her web now. She could holler “Rape” and have me arrested if she wanted to. No French cop would believe I’d been invited in. I stood there, looking at her, frankly admiring her beauty but not moving in.
“You are frightened, perhaps?” she asked, smiling.
“Not frightened. It’s just that I’m a little too old to believe in Santa Claus.”
“Perhaps you will change your mind,” she said, and came over to me. I stood while she slid her arms around my neck and kissed me, softly, a very practiced kiss. At that point my hormones took over from my conscience, and I responded, moving slowly, one arm around her waist, the other caressing the nape of her neck. She sighed and then gently stood away from me and undressed, slowly, teasingly, like someone opening an expensive present.
First she unbuttoned the jacket of her suit, dropping it casually behind her. Under it she had a cream satin blouse, which she unbuttoned carefully, from the top, then the cuffs, then wriggling if off her shoulders so it shucked like the skin of some white snake. She was wearing a brassiere with fine lace across the top of her breasts. I was ungentlemanly enough to notice that the opaque bottom half seemed to have some kind of bone in it to take the strain.
Now she reached around herself and unzipped her skirt, pushing it down over her hips
so that it and her slip slid down with a faint swish of fine fabrics rubbing together. She was wearing cream-colored flare-legged panties over an honest-to-god garter belt with white stockings, something you only ever see on the Benny Hill TV show. The effect was heart-stopping. Lord, she’d even left her high heels on.
I managed to avoid saying, “Wow,” but only because I put my arms around her and kissed her again, concentrating first on the kiss and then on unsnapping the brassiere. It came away, and I bent my head and kissed her breasts, tugging at her nipples with my lips until she groaned and started unfastening my belt impatiently.
She was like the survivor of some disaster, reassuring herself that she was alive. I tried manfully to pace us, but she dragged me backward onto the bed, and we came together in a frenzy.
Afterward I expected her to pull away, disgusted with herself and therefore with me. It had all been too precipitate, grief for her dead brother, anger, I wasn’t sure what, except that I don’t ever think of myself as God’s gift, especially to a woman as beautiful as this. But she didn’t. She clung to me, not fiercely, as if she were afraid I’d get up and drop a couple of hundred francs on the mantelpiece, but as if we were longtime lovers with an architecture to our relationship. I kissed her again, and soon we made love a second time, more slowly, savoring one another, giving as well as taking.
After that she slept, and I lay wondering what had triggered the explosion. Had it really happened because I’d been cool? Or was she like so many beautiful women, so intimidating to men that they get far fewer advances than they should because guys just figure they wouldn’t stand a chance, so why get their egos damaged? It was a mystery, but I didn’t care if I ever solved it.
In the end I got up. She moaned in her sleep but did not wake up, so I got dressed and sat across the room from her, marveling at her looks. I’m not a scorekeeper. Making love to a woman doesn’t diminish her in my eyes. She was just as beautiful as she had been an hour ago, but I couldn’t help wondering what her reaction was going to be when she was vertical again.
As I sat there, I heard a car crunching over the gravel. I looked out through the jalousies and saw a big black Daimler pull up in front. It got me moving. I went over to the bed and woke her, speaking softly.
She stirred and then sat up, startled. “What is it?”
“A car just arrived. It looks like it could have an executive in it. That probably means someone will come and wake your father. I should go.”
She was very French. “D’accord,” she said, and gave me a brisk kiss on the lips.
I winked at her and left, checking the corridor to make sure Papa wasn’t prowling. He wasn’t, so I went up to my bedroom and retrieved the book I’d brought with me from home, Bruce Catton’s Stillness at Appomattox. Then I came back down to the second floor and sat on the top step with the open book on my knees. I’m a big fan of General Lee’s, and now, all languid from my time with Hélène, I was prepared to sit there all afternoon if I had to, reliving his triumphs and final disappointment. But I didn’t get the chance. Madame came up the stairs from below, cocking her head inquisitively when she saw me. “J’attends Ma’amselle Roger,” I said.
That triggered a burst of French that I had to ask her to repeat. This time she tried her very creaky English. “Ma’amselle ’as a visitor. M’sieur Orsini.”
CHAPTER 9
Madame stood there, smiling, waiting for instructions, so I smiled back and indicated Amy’s door. She tapped, and Amy called out, “Who is it?” and Madame gave her the glad tidings in French.
I set my book down and waited while she headed back downstairs. Amy came out the door, looking anxious. She saw me and averted her eyes for a moment, embarrassed. Then Hélène appeared in her own doorway. “Isn’t that Victor Orsini downstairs?” she asked.
“Yes. He’s here to see me.” Amy looked at me nervously. “It’s all right. I’ll be okay here.”
“I know,” I said. “Labrosse told me what really happened last year.”
Amy bit her lip and said nothing.
Hélène had come down the hall to join her. She had changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt but still looked like something out of Vogue. She touched Amy on the arm and spoke to her rapidly. Amy turned and answered also in French, then said to me, “I don’t need your judgments.”
“Judgment isn’t part of my job description. I’m here to keep you safe. Maybe your old buddy downstairs can give us an idea of who’s after you.”
“Hélène and I will speak to him alone,” she said quickly.
“Fine. I’ll be right outside.”
Amy waited until Hélène joined her, and when they passed me, Hélène put her hand on my arm and smiled. Amy saw the move and flicked a disbelieving glance my way. Did her dishy friend see something in me that she hadn’t? I just stood back and let them go ahead.
Hélène led the way into the drawing room, and I was close enough to catch a glimpse of Orsini. He was sitting in an armchair but stood up when they entered. Then Hélène shut the door behind her, and I wandered out of the house toward the front, where Orsini’s car was parked.
His driver was right out of a Renoir movie, about my age, chunky, dressed in a dark suit. He had left the car and was leaning against a tree, smoking Gitanes, the pack stuffed into his top pocket. Armand’s chauffeur had come around from the back and joined him; they were chatting together like old buddies. It made me wonder whether they were two of a kind, that the wine business was rougher than I’d imagined. Did Armand’s chauffeur provide the same kind of muscle for his boss that his buddy did for Orsini?
I took a chair on the terrace, under the awning, and waited, looking as innocent as I could manage. They glanced my way, and the chauffeur said something that made the other guy snort on his cigarette smoke, blowing it out of his nostrils like Puff the Magic Dragon. It figured that they had me marked out as a cream puff, the dumb boyfriend who didn’t share their knowledge that Amy and Orsini had been playing Mom and Pop the year before.
After about ten minutes, Orsini came out, with Hélène and Amy beside him. Amy was carrying her purse, she was planning to go with him. I sauntered down toward them, sizing up Orsini. The likeness Cahill had given me was accurate except that the man had preserved his strength in a way the computer couldn’t calculate. He was obviously in his late sixties, but he still had a lot of the husky peasant vigor of his youth.
“Going somewhere?” I asked Amy.
“Yes. I’ll be gone for a while.” She smiled disarmingly.
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No.” She snapped the word nervously. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
I smiled back just as brightly. “It could be.”
Orsini asked her something in French, and she replied, waving at me. Then it was his turn to smile. He said something else, and Amy translated, “M’sieur Orsini says no.”
“I’m working for your uncle, not for Mr. Orsini.”
I took another couple of steps toward them, and Orsini snapped his fingers to his chauffeur. It was time to earn my pay.
The chauffeur came for me, moving fast, expecting me to back off and start pleading with Orsini. I could read the pride in his eyes. He would squash me in front of his boss and two attractive women, the stuff that daydreams are made of.
I stood, left foot forward, as if I’d changed my mind in mid-stride. My right hand was down by my groin in case he kicked out. I needn’t have worried. He was planning to shoo me away by force of will. He grabbed the lapel of my jacket with his right hand and raised his left forefinger to jab in my face. Reacting to that kind of approach is something you learn in your first hour of hand-to-hand combat. I grabbed his wrist with my right hand, pivoted, and bent down, sending him flying over my head to sprawl on the gravel.
Most fights end there. The thrower stands and waits while the throwee scrambles to his feet and heads for the horizon. This guy had more to prove. He picked himself up and turned, his nose streaming blood.
I spoke to Amy over my shoulder. “Tell your buddy to call this guy off before I hurt him.”
Amy spoke, but I didn’t hear Orsini answer. I flicked a glance around. Everyone else was still where I’d seen them last. I had been half-expecting the Armand chauffeur to butt in, but they were all standing back, so I concentrated on the first one again. He slid his hand into his pocket and came out with a knife. He flicked a button, and it opened with a neat little click. He was about ten feet from me, too far to spring but close enough to posture. He crouched, tossing the knife from hand to hand lightly and smiling. He was good with knives, his stance told me, and my time had come. Behind me I heard one of the women shriek. Out of my own vanity I hoped it was Hélène, anxious for me.
I beamed at the gladiator like a proud father and opened my jacket so he could see the butt of my pistol. “A bas,” I said. Down.
He looked at me very hard, his hatred as sharp as the blade of that knife, but after thirty seconds he dropped it. I made a little shooing motion with my hand, backing him off. He did so, walking back with tiny steps until I was able to come forward and pick up the knife.
I shook my head sadly and turned toward the nearest tree. The distance looked right, so I flicked the knife, and sure enough, it turned over three times and stuck into the trunk. To make my point I went after it and bent it sideways until the blade snapped, then tossed it back to its owner. Finally I turned to Orsini. “Je vais avec vous.” I’m going with you.
He hadn’t seen the gun. As far as he was concerned, I’d done a lion-taming trick, facing down his man through strength of will. On top of which I’d demonstrated that I could handle a knife. Tricks like that impress Corsicans. His face did not change, but he shrugged, and I opened the back door for Amy to get in. Bloody Nose almost ran to the car to open the other back door for Orsini, and then the pair of us got into the front seat.
Orsini was sitting behind his driver, so I turned sideways in my seat to keep an eye on both of them at once. Orsini was looking at me with amusement in his eyes. He continued looking at me as he spoke to Amy in his growly French.