11 Harrowhouse (6 page)

Chesser joined Maren on the floor. They didn't know where they were going and now they couldn't even see where. They could only watch the sky and the tops of some London buildings, and every so often high branches of trees.

“I don't think they're after the diamonds,” stated Maren, with a trace of disappointment.

“Maybe we're being kidnapped,” suggested Chesser for her benefit.

“I thought of that.”

“You're worth a big ransom.”

“So are you.”

“Me? Who'd pay for me?”

“Me,” she promised.

They kissed, because that called for a kiss.

The white Rolls took them about 45 miles down the A-2, remaining in the right lane and passing everything on the road, including signs that said: Hindhead, Liphook, Cowplain, and Horndean. Just before Petersfield the car left the A-2 for 18 miles of smaller road. Between the towns of Petworth and Fittleworth in West Sussex it turned off for another three curving miles. Then it stopped. At the main entrance of Clyde Massey's mansion.

The driver was quickly out of the car to open the rear door. Chesser and Maren achingly uncoupled and stretched. Chesser felt paralyzed and nearly went down as he stepped from the car.

Maren was giving the house a fast appraisal. It was constructed of mellowed brick, three stories, authentic Georgian. Accordingly, the structure appeared to have sunk solidly into the land. Its first-floor windows were just above ground level. The slanted roof was slate and there were numerous wide chimneys, signifying many fireplaces. The house was beautifully preserved or, at least, conscientiously restored. Certainly it was well kept; its white trim fresh. Maren estimated thirty rooms, which was ten less than the correct number.

The entrance door opened and a servant dressed entirely in black hurried out to relieve Maren of her satchel. She refused to surrender it. The servant led the way into the house, through an impressive center hall into a large reception room. Without a word he left them there.

That room was extravagantly decorated. Tasteful pretension. The furnishings were mainly French Regency, but there was some Adams and Sheraton, and touches of Italian Provincial. A Savonnerie carpet covered a section of the floor. An Aubusson tapestry was hung on one wall.

Maren sat on a velour-covered Louis Quatorze taboret. From her satchel she removed her make-up and placed it beside her. She also took out a large Mason Pearson brush and swiftly stroked her hair neat. Then she began doing her face, using the antique mirrored surface of a nearby low table for reflection. It was difficult because her face was inverted and she was rushing to complete herself. As she smoothed on a very light foundation, she asked: “What does he want to see you for?”

“Who?”

“Clyde Massey.”

Chesser teased. “You think it's really Massey?”

“Of course. I knew it all the while.” She glanced at Chesser to verify his reaction.

He used the brush on his wind-blown hair but it wouldn't obey.

“Try some water,” she suggested.

Chesser found several cut-crystal decanters on a side table. One contained a clear liquid. He removed the stopper from that one and was about to pour some into the cup of his palm when he thought to confirm it. He sniffed. It was gin. He noticed a silver mesh covered siphon bottle. He pressed its release carefully but the charged water spurted out, causing some mess. He rubbed the fizzing water on his hair. He brushed as best he could and presented the result to Maren.

“You look like Nick Charles,” she said.

“Who?”

“The old movie detective. I saw him on television when I was in America with Jean Marc. We used to stay up late and watch.” She went back to her make-up.

Chesser mumbled that he didn't care if he looked like a slick Spanish pimp.

He went to get a close-up of the Aubusson while wondering why he was there, in Clyde Massey's house. He thought probably Massey had him confused with someone else. He touched his hair and hoped it would dry quickly so as not to look plastered down.

Maren just made it. She was putting her make-up back into her satchel when the door opened. It wasn't Massey, just the servant in black, who gestured politely for them to follow him.

They passed from that room through several others equally impressive. Along the way, glimpses of a Bonnard, a Monet, a Pissarro, a Degas, a Vermeer, a large Lautrec sketch. Finally they entered what was evidently a huge sun room, what the English call a winter garden. Sides and ceiling of small glass panes slightly vine-covered so that sunlight dappled the pink marble floor. The room opened out onto a wide terrace overlooking spacious grounds. The grass was as finished as a spread of fabric. One could see where it had been electrically clipped in alternate directions, creating a pattern of precise swaths.

There was Massey. Standing on the lawn about fifty feet away. A lean figure dressed in a short-sleeved, light-flannel jumpsuit of a creamy color. His slip-on shoes were the same shade of patent leather, and a pale yellow scarf made a splash of color at his throat. He was standing in profile to Maren and Chesser, who remained on the terrace. Massey didn't acknowledge their presence but apparently knew they were there.

Massey was observing dogs. Four braces of dogs held on leashes by four men wearing light blue laboratory smocks. The dogs were being led to run a wide circle, obviously for Massey's benefit. They were exactly matched pairs: Labrador retrievers, Kerry Blue terriers, borzois, and whippets. At a signal from Massey their running was discontinued and they were held in place, forming an evenly spaced line. Each pair was brought to stand before Massey, who examined them all around. The whippets were the last. They were shivering. Massey pointed to the Kerry Blues. The man holding that pair smiled briefly but gratefully. Then all the dogs were led away on the run.

Massey then approached Chesser and Maren. He was still a half-dozen steps away when he extended his hand. He said his name. Chesser introduced himself and Maren, but didn't say Maren's last name, merely, “This is Maren.”

She smiled her best smile. And when Massey reciprocated Maren noticed that his teeth were too perfect, either completely false or totally capped.

“What splendid dogs!” she said. “Are you getting them ready for a show?”

“That was a show,” Massey told her.

“But the dogs are all yours, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“And you were the only judge.”

He nodded, matter-of-fact.

She laughed lightly. “You couldn't lose.”

He was quite serious. “I avoid competition as much as possible. Especially when it comes to such unimportant things.” He read her thought. “Not that I fear losing in an open competition, mind you. It's just that losing would be my fault, not the dogs'. It would be merely because of personal resentment toward me, my money; a chance to beat me that hardly anyone would pass up.”

“But what if you won?”

“Then I'd consider it sycophancy. Either way, the dogs would not be judged on their merits. As it was, the Kerry Blues received the award, and they deserved it.”

“Did they get a blue ribbon, or what?”

“The trainer received a one-fifth increase in salary. A more tangible incentive.”

Massey started them walking down the terrace. He was between Chesser and Maren, but favoring Maren. A servant came with a white telephone, playing out its lengthy wire from somewhere inside the house. Obviously a call for Massey, who refused it with a gesture.

“I'm pleased you could come and share some of this lovely day with me,” said Massey, breathing deep and sounding sincere. “I seldom get up to London, except when the theater offers something special. Did you happen to see Paul Scofield in Chekov's
Uncle Vanya
last year—or was it the year before?”

Maren was annoyed. “I personally adore anything by Polanski,” she said with a mock sincerity Chesser recognized and saw through.

“He does films, doesn't he?” asked Massey, and again didn't wait for an answer. “We have most of the better films sent down and shown here, of course. But the ones they're making these days I don't find very entertaining. They seem involved with such unpleasant little subjects.”

“I suppose you've seen Polanski's
Macbeth
?”

“No, but I will now that you've recommended it.”

“I haven't,” said Maren.

That stopped him. “It's bad?”

“It's excellent,” she said, and smiled innocently.

Chesser made no contribution to the conversation. He thought about the wealth walking beside him. Massey and Maren. He knew she'd never seen Polanski's
Macbeth
. They'd never both been in the mood for it. Chesser looked up to a fluffy, isolated cloud. His stomach complained.

By then they had reached a corner where the terrace turned around a wing of the house and continued to a more intimate area. There, in full sun, were bright-yellow and white lounging chairs, and, to one side, a table, set for four for lunch. Yellow cloth, laid with English silver and eighteenth-century Moustiers faience.

They sat in lounge chairs, Massey opposite Maren. A servant came. Massey asked what they would have to drink. Chesser was about to say coffee, but Massey suggested champagne. Chesser liked champagne in the daytime only when he was alone with Maren, but he didn't decline. He wondered who would be the fourth for lunch. Or perhaps he and Maren weren't even expected and the table was set for other guests. Anything was possible.

Chesser stayed on the perimeter of the conversation, which was pure trivia. Now their subject was flowers. Chesser remembered when Maren had put an avocado pit in a jar of water and had been astonished when it sprouted. She barely knew daisies from violets. However, she seemed to be holding her own now by letting Massey do most of the talking.

Chesser contrived a politely interested look while he studied Massey. The famous billionaire was past seventy. His complexion was well tanned, but that did not hide the different pigmentation of many age spots. Massey's nose: narrow, long, and slightly irregular; perhaps it had once been trimmed. Massey's eyes: pale green irises, as though faded with time; the whites were as creamy as his jumpsuit. Despite his age, he transmitted a surprising virility. There was nothing cautious or strained about his movements. No doubt the man was still quite active sexually. That impression was also supported by his voice, which did not sound old. An energetic voice that demonstrated the enduring acuity of his brain. Chesser thought of Massey's brain and all that was recorded and stored in it. The only true history of Massey was in Massey's brain, including how it felt as a young man to out-maneuver Supreme Oil, to cunningly victimize that great power. Massey had been just a salaried employee of Supreme. His job was to travel around and buy up land after it had been secretly surveyed by Supreme's geologists. Based on the geologists' findings and using Supreme's capital, Massey would make the purchases on behalf of the company. Massey had some capital of his own. Not much, a few thousand he'd saved and twenty-five thousand he'd inherited from his grandfather. He waited until he received a geological report that was an absolutely sure thing. Highly confidential information regarding a section of apparently worthless, cheap land in Oklahoma. Then he went in and bought the land for himself. Of course, the oil was there, and that was the big start. He was a millionaire in less than a week. Mighty Supreme could only shout with anger. Massey only grinned and counted. Now there were fleets of Massey tankers, six Massey refineries, thousands of Massey service stations, and solid agreements with the honorable sheiks of Kuwait.

Chesser knew the facts regarding Massey's beginning because Massey himself had made them public knowledge. Nearly every time he was interviewed, the subject would come up and Massey would tell the story with complete candor. Premeditated strategy to avoid the criticism that he'd been devious, which of course was the truth. What better way to evade an expose? Besides, that he'd managed to put one over on Supreme was something most people considered admirable.

Chesser gulped the champagne. He thought perhaps this might be the longest day of his life. He noticed that each time Massey wanted to emphasize a point in the conversation he turned his palm up, as though expecting one's concurrence to be placed in it.

“Evidently you're not interested in roses, Mr. Chesser.”

“He's unusually quiet,” said Maren.

“I'm hungry,” said Chesser. It just came out.

Maren consoled him, her hand found the back of his neck for a few possessive strokes.

“We'll have lunch soon,” Massey promised. “I must say I'm enjoying myself immensely with your Maren. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” lied Chesser, and thought,
my Maren
.

“Women and roses,” announced Massey. “According to Thackeray, ‘if a woman is beautiful who shall demand more of her? You don't want a rose to sing?'” Massey sat up higher, obviously feeling he'd just made the go-ahead point.

Chesser imagined how many women Massey had bought during the past ten years. He also wondered how much the price of admission had increased.

“I like better what Oscar Wilde said,” contributed Maren, hesitating for effect. “‘The only way to behave toward a woman is to make love to her if she's pretty and to someone else if she's plain.'”

“Marvelous!” exclaimed Massey.

Chesser remembered an old country cart road near Chantilly in the middle of last summer, in the middle of a day, when they'd been walking and Maren had read quotations aloud. He particularly recalled that one by Wilde which she'd just repeated. He resented having to share it now, as though that reduced its value. Christ, Chesser thought, we've been into dogs, movies, flowers, and quotes. Next will come acquaintances and risque stories. Massey's summons had said business. Why the hell didn't he get to it?