11 Harrowhouse (20 page)

She began. Riding him.

Chesser thought of Dover Mist.

All the way to the finish, which for Chesser was not all that sensational.

Afterward he came down quickly, lay there in the dark with his right arm touching her. He reminded himself that he'd just fucked an authentic Lady. But he knew he hadn't really fucked her. She had literally been ascendant throughout. Not very D. H. Lawrence, he thought. He reached to his trousers on the floor, got cigarettes and the lighter. To be chivalrous, he also lighted one for her. “Careful,” he cautioned as he offered it to her.

“No, thank you,” she said, sounding distant.

He didn't have an ashtray, so he lay there and smoked both. “I've got to be getting back,” he told her.

“You can't stay here, of course,” she said as though he'd already left.

He got up, with the two cigarettes between his lips. His eyes smarted from unseen smoke. He grabbed up his trousers and shirt. He was fairly sure she didn't resent it when he didn't kiss her good night, merely said it. He groped his way downstairs, where he tossed the burning cigarettes into a huge, clean ashtray. The cat didn't look at him, only snaked her tail across the carpet twice. He dressed hurriedly and went out.

The moon was low now, going. What time was it? He hadn't worn his watch. He had only a vague idea of the direction back to the main house. He started off at a brisk clip, the cold, wet grass now not so pleasant under his feet.

As he walked he tried not to think of what he'd just done. And, of course, trying not to do that brought on Maren. Was she still sleeping? Sure she was. But perhaps not. If not, was she all right? Certainly. She wasn't alone. She was safe. There were others in the house. Massey was there. She wasn't alone.

Suddenly a despicable conclusion: Massey with Maren.

Chesser began to run. A race with his imagination, which said Massey had planned the entire thing. Lady Bolding had faked it. Under instructions from Massey to get him away so Massey could force himself on Maren. The lecherous old bastard.

Chesser didn't listen to the more rational thought that Massey with his years would hardly be even physically capable of raping an agile, violently resisting Maren. Nor did Chesser consider that his thoughts were at least partly a ricochet from his own guilt.

Chesser just ran.

To the rescue. Or, if too late for rescue, at least revenge.

He saw a distant light that he believed was the house. His legs ached and his breathing burned when he was close enough for the barking of many dogs to tell him it was only the kennels. He stopped, gasped for breath, and tried to figure which was the right direction. He guessed and ran on.

Finally he came to a continuous hedge, too high to go over and too dense to go through. He ran parallel to it, hoping it would lead to something. It did. An incline that reduced his run to a climb. By now his fears had transformed themselves into a sort of conclusive hysteria, which increased when he looked up and found himself at the rear of the main house.

He controlled his panic, decided against rushing in. Better to rest a moment, regain his strength so he'd be ready for anything. He sat on the terrace steps and let his head lie back to ease his breathing. The muscles of his legs were twitching. Sweat trickled down his temples and neck; his shirt was soaked with it. He advised himself that a forty-year-old man ought not to be out fucking and running around all night.

His breathing finally returned to almost normal. He got up and tried rear doors. All were locked. He went around to the front door he had unlatched earlier, but now it was locked and he took this as an indication of the plot against him. Determined, he backed off and braced himself in position to kick in one of the door's side windows. But he realized, just in time, that he was barefoot. While he tried to think of another way in, the front door was opened by Massey's number-one mute servant, Hickey, who smilingly motioned Chesser in. Chesser hesitated. Much of his resolve gave way to Hickey's size. With a false nonchalence, he stepped by Hickey and into the foyer.

He took the main stairs two at a time, hurried down the hall to their room. He had imagined crashing in, but now he carefully turned the knob, opened the door, and entered.

She wasn't in the bed. Despite his panic, he had held to the possibility she would still be sleeping. The bed was disheveled, but she wasn't in it. The bedside light was on. She wasn't in the bathroom. She wasn't in the adjoining room. She wasn't there. Her
I Ching
book and three half-crown pieces were on the floor. He got his watch from the dresser, saw it was four forty-five. At this hour she couldn't be anywhere else but with Massey. Against her will, of course.

He rushed out, along the landing. He didn't know which was Massey's room. Perhaps, thought Chesser, the old bastard sleeps the same as he eats, wherever, according to his mood. Or maybe he had a secret room especially equipped for such affairs. Chesser went down the corridor and around to a wing of the mansion. He tried doors, listened at doors, called her name but got no reply. He went back to the landing, intending to search the opposite wing. It was then he saw her.

She was coming up the stairs in a long, sheer silk Dior dressing gown, semitransparent. A palest blue color. Her long Viking hair was slightly mussed. She was carrying a glass of milk with a thick slice of well-buttered bread balanced on it.

Chesser was so relieved to see her that he couldn't speak.

“I woke up starved,” she said. She hesitated when she came to him, extended her lips for a little kiss, and then proceeded to their room, sure that he was following.

She took a large bite of the bread. Chesser took her in his arms.

“I love you,” he said with less intensity than he felt.

“I know,” she said, chewing.

He had to wait for her to swallow. Then he kissed her. There was butter on her lips. She felt so good to him, so marvelously familiar.

“I was worried about you,” he told her. He thought she might say the same.

“I did your
I
Ching
for you,” she said. “You got the Cauldron and Inner Truth.” She broke from him so she could take another bite and a sip. She glanced down at his bare feet. His trouser cuffs were wet. Some blades of grass were stuck to his skin.

“I took a long walk,” he explained.

“I thought maybe you were out playing cricket or something.” She grinned.

“As a matter of fact, I got lost.” A true lie. He hoped she wouldn't pursue the subject. He was so full of love and guilt he was afraid he would spill everything. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“About what?”

“About before, losing my temper.”

She didn't pardon him, except with her eyes. She sat on the bed, preoccupied with the slice of bread. She ate around the crust and drained the glass of milk. Then she looked thoughtful.

Chesser felt horrible. Foolish, tired, and dirty. Maybe if he took a shower he'd feel better. Wash the guilt away. He wondered if Lady Bolding would tell Maren what had happened. Undoubtedly she would. Beautiful women always inflict such things on other beautiful women. Chesser realized that his best chance was now, before tomorrow, to put so much of his love into and around Maren that Lady Bolding's words, no matter what, would seem ridiculous.

“I love you more than anything,” he said.

“Why don't you take a shower,” she suggested.

Chesser went into the bathroom. He hated himself in the mirror while he undressed, kicked his soiled shirt and trousers into a corner, got into the shower stall and turned on the cold for a momentary punishment. He adjusted the spray to a more benevolent temperature, lathered and rinsed and did feel better, cleaner.

Maren came in and helped. She used a towel to wipe his back and down the back of his legs.

“We're getting away from here tomorrow,” said Chesser.

“To where?”

He wanted to say Chantilly but decided London might please her more.

“Business?” she asked.

“No more business,” he told her, meaning it.

In the other room she lighted two cigarettes and tossed his with more force than usual. He caught it with fearless ease.

He thought he should say something to demonstrate his change of attitude. “You know, we ought to take up sky-diving,” he lied. She'd suggested it once or twice, but he'd always vetoed it, adamantly.

“Why?”

“Oh, just for something different to do.”

She gave him a long, suspicious look. “What was the deal Massey offered you?” she asked casually.

“You wouldn't believe it.”

“I might. If I want to.”

Chesser was sure that last remark referred to his most recent carrying-on. “Massey's deal is no deal,” he said.

“Stop being cryptic.”

“All right. He wants me to steal twelve billion dollars worth of diamonds.”

She didn't laugh as he had expected.

“Isn't that absurd?” he said, sprawling on the bed. He was very tired.

“Tell me about it. Everything Massey said.”

He told her, droning the words out.

She walked the room, back and forth, restless. She went to the entrance to the bathroom and flipped her cigarette accurately into the toilet bowl. Chesser heard the brief
phhht
it made as it was extinguished. He wished she'd come to bed. He had some crucial repairing to do. She sat on the floor, down from him. She separated half her hair into three strands and began braiding. The repetitive motion of her fingers was nearly hypnotic to Chesser's weary eyes. She told him, seriously, “It's a fabulous idea.”

“Sky-diving?”

“No. Massey's deal.”

Chesser scoffed.

“How else could you make fifteen million so fast and easy?”

Fast maybe, but not easy, thought Chesser. He told her: “It can't be done.”

“Sure it can.”

“I don't know a goddamn thing about stealing.” He thought about what he'd just done that night.

“What about Marrakesh?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“Smuggling is a lot like stealing, isn't it? You already know how to smuggle.”

That hit him. He was positive he'd never told her about the Marrakesh affair. How did she find out about it? He didn't want to ask her.

“Anyway,” she went on, “stealing can't be all that difficult or so many people wouldn't do it. Perhaps we could learn, read up on it, get the advice of experts.”

Chesser noticed the “we.” From that and her exuberance he knew he was in trouble. “People get killed stealing,” he said emphatically.

That seemed to increase her enthusiasm. “I'll bet it would be the biggest robbery ever. Twelve billion dollars.”

“Let's go to sleep,” he said, closing his eyes.

“I'm too stimulated.”

He opened his eyes. “Okay. What do you want to do?”

“Beat The System.”

“Nobody beats The System.”

“We could.”

“Nobody.”

“I don't even hate The System and I want to do it.”

“It's impossible.”

“How can you say it's impossible? No one's ever not done it.”

That, thought Chesser, was very much the same as Massey's reasoning. “Let's go to sleep,” he told her.

“We'd make criminal history.”

“We'd get caught. Or killed. Probably both.”

“Not us,” she said, as though together they enjoyed some special immunity.

“For Christ's sake, let's sleep,” Chesser said.

“Not until you promise.”

Chesser held out a while longer until he was too exhausted not to promise. Anything to get some sleep.

“No matter what,” said Massey, “you must not contact me. Not for any reason.”

“You'll want a progress report, won't you?” asked Chesser.

“No. I don't want to hear from you again until it's over. And then only after a respectable period.”

“What's respectable?”

“Two weeks, at least. Remember my terms. If you bungle it you're on your own.”

“I'm on my own.”

Massey was delighted with Chesser's compliant attitude. It was one of the main reasons he'd chosen Chesser for this project rather than a professional. Massey was certain he could control Chesser, whereas a professional, no matter how competent, would have been difficult to manage, impossible to manipulate and, of course, unreliable. Chesser's amateurism was actually an asset. Chesser was clever enough to serve but not ruthless enough to betray.

Massey warned him, “Even if you do try to involve me, no one will believe you.”

Even I don't believe me, thought Chesser, feeling ridiculous, actually standing there with a straight face taking Massey's instructions. He told himself the only reason he'd gone along with it this far was to pacify Maren. No one could possibly be serious about stealing twelve billion dollars worth of diamonds. Although Massey seemed to be. Perhaps, Chesser thought, the old billionaire had finally blown his old mind.

Massey contradicted that theory with a very sane, though faintly chilling, smile. “I've complete confidence in you, Chesser. I'm sure you'll pull this thing off. My only regret is that I won't be right beside you, enjoying the adventure of it.”

“You're invited,” Chesser said.

“My money will represent me,” Massey said quietly.

“What about expenses?”

“It's all been arranged.”

They were in Massey's study. Massey was behind the desk. He opened a leather-bound folio and turned it over to Chesser, who was seated opposite. “Sign this,” Massey directed.

Chesser saw it was an ordinary application form for a checking account with the National Upland Bank of London. The form was pre-dated, July 18, 1968. Beneath the form was a sheaf of checks.

Massey started to hand across his personal old Tiffany fountain pen but thought better of it and got a white ballpoint from a drawer. Chesser took it and noticed it was imprinted “The Waldorf Astoria, New York, N.Y.”