11 Harrowhouse (37 page)

“Shall we go back?” he asked.

“Not until after dark.”

“You're not chilled?”

“No. Give me a cigarette. I just want to stay here and watch the night take over.”

They were out of cigarettes, he told her.

“I want one.”

“Then let's go back and have a drink before dinner.”

“You go. Fetch the cigarettes. And you can also bring us a drink if you want.”

“You'll be all right?” He didn't like leaving her, even for that short time, even in that idyllic place.

“Hurry,” she urged, sending him off and thinking how very much she loved him as she watched him pick his way across the rocks and up to land, past the concrete bunker, which cut him from her view.

He walked at a brisk pace, not taking time to appreciate things as he did when he was with her. He chose the path that was the shortest route to the hotel—about a half-mile.

He just happened to look inside before entering. He almost walked right into them. They were seated at a table in the dining room, drinking beers. One had a face Chesser had said he'd never forget. From the highway robbery and the film Massey had shown. Max Toland.

Chesser moved quickly to one side of the hotel entrance, where he crouched below the window level, out of their view. He wasn't altogether certain they hadn't seen him, and expected them to come rushing out. He wondered if he should run now while he had the chance. However, he doubted that he could run, the way his legs felt—as though he didn't have legs.

He remained there in a crouch. They didn't come out, and Chesser decided he hadn't been seen.

The System, Chesser thought. Toland was working for The System. Massey's investigators had stated that in their report. Toland on Ste. Marguerite meant The System was on to everything. But how? How had they known where to come?

No answer. No time now for answers. Chesser's stomach felt inverted and he heard his own breathing, like a balloon inside him being blown up. He ran in a crouch below the windows and around the corner of the hotel to its only windowless, solid side. He kept close against the building for a few moments, but knew he was vulnerable there if they came searching. Some scrubby growth a short distance away offered better concealment, and, when he was behind it, he positioned himself so that he had a view of the hotel's entrance, an advantage because from there, if they came out, he would see them first.

He tried to organize his thoughts. He had the urge to get back to Maren, but he decided she was safe where she was for the time being. But how could they get off the island now? It was almost night. No more ferries to the mainland and no way of calling for a speedboat to come over and take them off. No way. The island that had been so good to them was now their inescapable trap. He thought if they could make it through the night they might get on tomorrow's first ferry, and, although Toland would undoubtedly be watching for that, it was the only chance. He reviewed his impression of Toland and the other two men. From the brief glimpse he'd gotten, they appeared tough, dangerous. Hired by The System.

He waited there until dark, then he went stealthily around to the front of the hotel, the long side that faced the bay. He took a cautious peek in through one of the windows. They were still there at the same table, and he watched them long enough to realize they were growing restless, particularly Toland's two companions. One, he noticed, was extremely thin, had ominous, gaunt features. The other was stocky, had blond hair; Prussian-looking, with a full, sort of little-boy mouth and round cheeks that made him appear as if he had something stuffed into each jaw.

Chesser sighted up to the roof-balcony. There was no easy way up to it. A drainpipe ran down the side of the building, but he decided that would be impossible without too much noise. Then he remembered that ladder against the fig tree on the far side of the hotel. He hoped it was still there.

It was. He propped it up and found it was just long enough.

Everything was extremely difficult because his sense of touch seemed lost, numbed by fear. He climbed the ladder, not believing he could but knowing he must. Up all the way and over the roof-balcony railing. He paused, saw the double doors to their room were open as they'd been, and the room was dark. He took one full-weight step and heard gritting beneath his shoes. He retracted the step and removed his shoes, placed them there, and walked quietly into the room. He listened a moment and believed he sensed someone's presence in the hall. Yes, someone was there. Now he definitely heard a movement. Someone waiting, posted outside the door. That meant four against him.

He couldn't turn on a light. Fortunately, he knew where Maren had put them. In her Vuitton satchel. He found it and removed the Mausers, one at a time, tucked them snugly into his belt. He dug into the satchel and his fingers identified the cellophane wrapping and shape of a pack of cigarettes. He quickly put it into his pocket and again felt in the satchel to find the box of extra cartridges, heavy, compact. What he didn't realize was that the end flap of the box was partially open and, as he brought the box to him, several cartridges fell from it, landing sharply on the hard enameled floor. As soon as they hit, his instinct told him to hell with caution. He ran out through the double doors. Someone immediately shoved open the door from the hall and was after him.

Chesser leaped over the balcony railing without thinking of the drop. He landed on the dry, packed ground with such force it felt as though he'd come down directly on two long blades, piercing all the way up to his knees.

But there was no time for pain. He ran around the end of the hotel, through the scrubby brush and across the path, and kept on running until he estimated he could afford a glance back. He didn't see them but was sure they were hunting for him. So, instead of taking the shortest route back to Maren and possibly leading them to her, he hurried in the opposite direction to the fortress. Then he circled back on the outer side of the island and was relieved when he came to the spruce grove, because his bare feet were badly bruised and cut. He hoped to God Maren's impatience hadn't made her return to the hotel. She couldn't possibly still be way out on those rocks in the dark.

He reached the point, sighted out, searching desperately for her. He couldn't risk calling out. He didn't see her out there where he'd left her.

She was sitting safe and quite content on the top of the bunker, not more than ten feet from him. She let him know she was there by singing a fragment of a song they shared.

He lives all alone

in his great big house

with his Jacobean chairs

and his marble stairs,

and he sleeps …

He hushed her, and she climbed down quickly.

He told her what had happened and his idea of trying for the first ferry in the morning. She thought what they'd better do was swim out to one of the yachts that usually anchored in the channel between Ste. Marguerite and its brother island St. Honorat. They'd noticed there were usually one or two vessels there, using the channel as a stopping place. And many more on nicer days, because owners would sail out from Cannes especially to stop there, swim, and have lunch aboard rather than in crowded Cannes. It was the thing to do.

The channel was only about a quarter mile across. Maren and Chesser would have to swim a hundred fifty to two hundred yards at most. Easy. And it certainly wasn't beyond Maren's physical talents to persuade someone to take them aboard and give them passage back to Cannes. Then, at least, they'd have running room.

Chesser agreed to it. The channel was just around the point. At dawn they'd make their way along the rocky shore, and if the tide was out it would be even less difficult.

For the night they'd take shelter there in the above-ground bunker. They went in and sat on its concrete floor, against the deepest wall, facing the entrance. The bunker had three other openings. The largest was in the wall at their backs, above them, the opening through which the muzzle of the Nazi artillery gun had once extended. Now that space was completely overgrown by brambles, inaccessible. The left and right walls had rifle ports, horizontal slots approximately thirty-six inches by ten inches, too narrow for a man to squeeze through. So, for Toland or any of his men, the entrance was the only way in.

For the moment, Chesser and Maren felt relatively safe. It was night. They could be anywhere on the island. Toland wouldn't know where to look, probably wasn't even aware of the bunker's existence. But tomorrow—tomorrow would be a different matter entirely.

Chesser placed his gun at hand on the floor. Maren held hers in her lap. Both off safety. One thought was turning over in Chesser's mind. Finally it came out: “How the hell did they know where we were?”

Nothing from Maren.

“They couldn't have figured it out.”

Maren remained silent.

“Someone must have told them.”

“Yes,” she said, low.

“But who?”

After a while, she told him, “I called because we left London without even saying good-bye.”

Chesser knew immediately she meant she'd called Mildred. He was suddenly too angry, so angry that at that moment he stopped loving Maren. She was stupid, careless. To hell with her. And that Mildred. He'd been right about her all along. No wonder she'd refused the certified check he'd offered her. She was holding out for a bigger pay-off. From The System. The fucking phony runt, thought Chesser bitterly. The small medium had done them in.

“I didn't do it purposely,” Maren said, her voice discernibly controlled to keep from breaking.

Chesser began loving her again. He felt what she had to be feeling. Perhaps there is no pain as excruciating as when faith is shattered. He put his arm around her, drew her against him. His hand brushed her cheek and found it wet. He was glad it was dark so he couldn't see her tears. But he felt them and hated the hurt they represented, hated Mildred more for that than anything.

“I really didn't do it for any other reason,” said Maren, meaning this time she hadn't invited danger just for the excitement of it.

“I don't believe it was Mildred who told them,” lied Chesser.

“You don't?” hoped Maren.

“No,” lied Chesser. “She had too much to lose, her power and all that.” He invented quickly. “I think it was Catherine at the hotel. She was on the phone a lot, wasn't she? She probably just happened to mention to the wrong person that we were here. Her kind of friends are a network of gossip.”

“Catherine?”

“Sure,” said Chesser with exaggerated conviction. He let her think about it a while.

It helped. Maren didn't completely believe it, but instead of expressing her doubt she accepted its possibility and used it. It was better than nothing.

Chesser remembered he'd brought the cigarettes. He lighted two. “My feet hurt,” he complained, trying to distract Maren's thoughts.

“Poor baby,” she soothed.

He drew his legs up and she touched his feet tenderly. “You're always losing your shoes,” she remarked.

He recalled the last time. The Lady Bolding night. He changed the subject. “I'm thirsty,” he said.

“Try not to think about it.”

It was all the running he'd done. He was really thirsty and said so again.

“Suck on something,” she advised. “That's what they do on the desert when they're lost. They put a pebble in their mouth for some reason.” Her fingers found one of the buttons on her dress. She tore it off and put it in his mouth.

“Hell of a place to spend what might be our last night,” he said.

“It won't be our last.”

“They're killers, Toland and the others with him. They had the look.”

“At least it's better than dying in bed.”

Chesser scoffed.

“Really.” She was serious. “Too many people just lie there and let death happen. They just die out, when actually there are so many better ways. I think people should meet death, not let it come and get them.”

It's coming to get us, thought Chesser.

“I never told you about my uncle, did I? My old Uncle Olan?”

“No.”

“They put him to bed and said he was going to die in a few days. Uncle Olan knew it was true, so, rather than just lie there, he got up, put on his best clothes, went to Stockholm, got half drunk, shoved his way into the National Assembly, cursed the government, was thrown in and out of jail, got more than half drunk, went to bed with three sixteen-year-old girls ensemble, ate everything most expensive at the best restaurant and refused to pay because he didn't have any money, robbed a bank of fifteen million kroner and was killed making his get-away in the direction of the most famous sauna bath-whorehouse in all Sweden.”

Chesser had to laugh. “What a lie.”

“It's true,” insisted Maren. “Well, some of it.”

“You probably never had an Uncle Olan.”

“Yes I did. He used to tell me bedtime stories. When he wasn't out trying to get killed.”

“It would be ridiculous to die here, for this,” said Chesser.

“It's a good enough cause.”

“The cause doesn't bother me,” he told her, “as much as the effect.”

“You'll never learn,” sighed Maren.

She slept some in the cave of Chesser's arm. He didn't once close his eyes, kept them almost constantly on the upright rectangle that was the entrance opening contrasted by the lighter outside. He had time to think, couldn't stop it. Fragments, quick changes … women he had known, vague first names, nebulous bodies, intimacies experienced and forgotten, as forgotten as meals. Sylvia doing her dance costumed in only a sanitary belt. Followed by Meecham and Weaver and Watts and Lady Bolding and Massey. A big-as-life revue, building to the main attraction. His father, who started a remonstrating soliloquy, but Chesser beat him to the word, brought up the subject of mother, forcing father just to stand there on stage, with his mouth open. Chesser claimed she'd died from malignant lack of attention. He'd never seen his mother, that he could remember, not even a photograph. That was how much she had been eliminated. There must have been photographs, at least. He'd studied his birth certificate once and that inscription of her name officially linked with his caused him to imagine her more vividly. She must have been beautiful, too beautiful, and not really unfaithful, which was the eventual claim that replaced her death when he was old enough to be allowed to understand such things. He had never confronted father with the subject, but this time he brought mother into it and father couldn't take the blame, did an abrupt exit threatening never to make another personal appearance, ever.