Dover Beach (29 page)

And so another dream came true, more or less. In the dream I had never kissed away her tears—she was too perfect to cry. In the dream, entering her flesh was like entering a new world, a world of warmth and happiness and hope, where I could leave my past like a shed skin far, far behind. Reality, as always, was different, but reality had its own pleasures. I experienced them all that night, and I would not have traded that night, those pleasures, for any dream.

Chapter 26

I was staring at Kathy when she woke up. She smiled at me. "Were you awake all night?" she asked.

"I dozed off a bit, that's all."

"What did you think about?"

"I was thinking that I'm probably the luckiest guy in the world."

She kissed me on the cheek. "Why don't we go over to your hotel and get your things?"

"Okay, but there may be trouble. Winfield and I owe them a good bit of money by now."

"Oh, I forgot. How much?"

"I've lost track. Eighty pounds or so."

Kathy shook her head. "Haven't got it."

Thinking about that hotel room made me very uncomfortable. "I suppose I could at least check out and keep the bill from getting any higher," I said. "Maybe they'll let me have my clothes, anyway."

Kathy ran a hand over my chest. "Why don't we just forget about it for today? Let's just stay here and be happy. It's a holiday, after all."

That was certainly okay with me. "Great. Um, what holiday is it, by the way?"

She laughed. "Boxing Day, Walter. It used to be about giving gifts to your household staff or the poor or something, but now it's just a way of surviving your Christmas hangover."

"Ah. Sounds like a wonderful holiday."

"It will be this year, anyway." She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and we forgot about the hotel bill and the holiday and everything else.

* * *

We went out and got some food and a newspaper, then returned to the flat and had a late breakfast. Christmas hadn't changed the world much:

TYPHOID EPIDEMIC SWEEPING MEDITERRANEAN STATES

NEW ULSTER ACCORD SEEN POSSIBLE BY SPRING

NERVE GAS REPORTEDLY USED IN MIDEAST CONFLICT

CHRISTMAS DAY SHOOTING IN SHREWSBURY: MURDER HUNT FOR YOUTH'S KILLER

TIPS ON USING THOSE CHRISTMAS LEFTOVERS

I wasn't interested in any of it, although Kathy appeared to be. She stared at the newspaper long after I had given up and returned to staring at her. "I saw those same headlines in a thirty-year-old paper once," I said finally. "They aren't worth memorizing."

Kathy looked up at me, startled, and then smiled. "I'm sorry, Walter. I was just daydreaming."

"About what?"

"Oh, about the future."

"Stick to the present. It's safer."

"I suppose you're right."

I reached out and caressed her hand.

There was a knock on the door. Kathy clutched at me. "I'm not expecting anyone," she whispered.

I got up from the table and went to open the door.

It was Inspector Grimby. He did not look pleased to see me. "Ah, Mr. Sands, I was wondering where I might find you," he said. "You haven't been at your hotel since yesterday."

"Has a crime been committed?" I asked. "I have an alibi."

He glanced at my rumpled clothes with distaste. "Indeed. May I come in? I'd like to speak to Miss Cornwall, if she's here."

I stepped aside, and Grimby entered. Kathy was standing by the door to the kitchenette, looking worried. "Have you found out anything, Inspector?"

"Nothing of great consequence, but I had to come in to London today, so I thought I'd look in on you and tell you what we know. I also called at the Guilford Hotel, but you are apparently aware of the situation there."

Kathy blushed. "Won't you sit down?"

Grimby sat on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea. I sat opposite him. He looked as if he were about to protest, but he said nothing.

"No word of my father, then?" Kathy asked when she brought in the tea.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Cornwall. The local police have conducted inquiries, but have turned up nothing. Unfortunately, it's difficult to say how thorough their inquiries have been. Since your father is not wanted for a crime and is not apparently the victim of foul play, I doubt that searching for him would rank high on their list of priorities."

"I see. What about Winfield?"

"Well, we've had a little more luck there, although actually it does seem to complicate matters." Grimby reached into his breast pocket and took out the photograph Kathy had given him. He handed it over to her. "The owner of a pub near your father's house recognized the snap," he said. "Winfield was at the pub on the night of the fire. Apparently the publican noted the resemblance to your father, who frequents the place."

"How does that complicate matters?" Kathy asked.

"Because Winfield didn't leave until after the fire began. The publican clearly remembers when people came in with news of the fire—it was a major occurrence, you may well understand. And he remembers that Winfield left immediately afterward—to watch the fire, or so the man thought."

"But that isn't much of an alibi," Kathy pointed out. "You say the pub is nearby. Winfield could have left and come back, and no one would be likely to notice."

"Possibly true, but the publican seems convinced otherwise. Apparently he kept his eye on Winfield, who was drinking heavily and being rather obnoxious. The publican tried to engage him in conversation, assuming that he was Professor Cornwall's son, and was apparently rebuffed in no uncertain terms."

"Ms. Cornwall mentioned that her father got a phone call shortly before the fire," I pointed out. "Did anyone see Winfield use the phone?"

Grimby shifted awkwardly. He hadn't thought to ask. "If Winfield was at the pub at the time of the fire, it doesn't matter if he made any calls or not, does it?" he demanded.

"If you don't think Winfield started the fire, who
do
you think started it?" Kathy demanded in turn.

Grimby's gaze moved in my direction.

"Oh, but that's absurd," she said. "The fire wasn't set when I left the house. I went to the railway station, got Walter, returned to the house, and it was on fire."

Grimby rubbed his finger alongside his mustache. "There is more to this case than meets the eye," he said. He had obviously been studying his lines.

"Well, here's something you should consider," Kathy said. "My flat was broken into sometime on Christmas Day. The lock's all twisted—you can see for yourself. It wasn't a robbery—nothing was stolen. And it couldn't have been Walter, because he was with me all day. We think it was Winfield, trying to find out where my father might be."

Grimby rubbed a little harder. "Difficult to prove that, though," he said.

"You could dust for fingerprints," I suggested, trying to be helpful.

Grimby glared at me. "And what would that prove?" he asked. "We don't have Winfield, so we don't have any prints to compare with whatever we might find here."

"Cornwall's prints are probably available somewhere, for his security clearance," I responded. "And Winfield's prints may actually be the same as Cornwall's. Be interesting to find out, anyway."

The idea was so absurd that Grimby couldn't bring himself to reply. He returned his attention to Kathy. "Miss Cornwall, we are still interested in finding this man Winfield, and I assure you that he will be questioned about all aspects of this affair when he is apprehended. Please try to be patient."

"I'm afraid that I might be in danger," Kathy said. "Winfield sounds as though he may be mentally unbalanced."

"I understand your concern. But believe me, we are doing all we can."

Kathy stood up. "Well, thank you for taking the time to visit me, Inspector. I appreciate it."

"Not at all." Grimby stood up too. "I'll be in touch if there are any new developments." He gave me a final glare for good measure, and then Kathy escorted him to the door.

She was smiling when she came back. "He warned me about you just now," she said. "He says he can spot a bad one right away. And you're clearly a bad one."

"It's true, I admit it. I was lurking in the bushes behind you when you left your father's house. I set the fire, then took a shortcut to the railway station so you could find me there. It was very clever of me, I thought."

"And I was just beginning to trust you." She took the empty teacups out to the kitchenette.

"You know," I said, "it sounds as if the police aren't looking very hard for your father. I was thinking—we could go look for him ourselves. I mean, I've spent my entire professional career tracking him down; there's no reason why I couldn't do it some more."

Kathy came back into the living room. She sat on the sofa and closed her eyes. "I just don't know," she said after a while. "I mean, how seriously should I take all this? Rehearsals start again tomorrow, and classes start the day after that. Should I disrupt my life looking for him, if he's just on a binge somewhere?"

"It's up to you. I could look for him by myself, I suppose."

She opened her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, please, Walter, don't go anywhere. Just stay here with me."

"Okay," I said, more than willing to do that. "I only thought—"

"Look," she said, "we'll enjoy our holiday, and then tomorrow you can see about the hotel, and after rehearsal we can decide what to do about my father. Maybe he'll have shown up by then. Maybe everything will be fine."

"All right," I agreed. I sat down next to her.

She leaned her head against my shoulder and looked enormously relieved. "What shall we do with our holiday?" she asked.

"Well, uh, you wouldn't by any chance be a Humphrey Bogart fan, would you?"

* * *

The Maltese Falcon
and
Casablanca
were playing at Notting Hill Gate.

Kathy hadn't seen
The Maltese Falcon
before. "Oh, but
Casablanca
..." she sighed.

I admitted to being quite fond of
The Maltese Falcon
as a novel. I didn't know anything about
Casablanca.

"Well, it will be fun to compare our opinions," she decided.

We went to a Chinese restaurant for dinner first. Strange, wonderful food. Wonderful companion. Kathy confessed that she had been attracted to me from the start. "I couldn't figure you out—still can't, I suppose. But I thought you were utterly charming, especially compared to Winfield."

"I wish I had known," I said. "We wasted some lonely nights."

Kathy nodded. "Christmas Eve, I sat at home by myself staring out the window. I thought it would be too forward to invite you over."

I groaned. "I was sure you were out having a wonderful time with your boyfriend."

She smiled. "No boyfriend, Walter. I've been working too hard at becoming an actress."

"Do you think you'll make it?"

"Oh, I expect I have the looks to get some work. But I want to be
good.
I'm hoping to apply to RADA next year—the Royal Academy, you know, very exclusive, and that's why I'm taking all these classes. I've got so much to learn. This Chekhov is only a student production, but it's my first really big role, and I want so much to do it well."

"You sound like Nina and Konstantin—desperate to be an artist."

Kathy stared into her wonton soup. "Maybe I'm just desperate."

Desperate to please her father, to prove her mother wrong? Maybe all of the above. I didn't want to press it. This was our holiday, after all. I covered her hand with mine, and eventually I got another smile.

Later, we held hands in the darkness as the double feature began.

The Maltese Falcon
was every bit as good as the novel; the actors seemed to have been born to play those roles. Watching it, I felt the same old adolescent yearning I had felt when I first read the novel—the yearning to be tough and smart and honest, according to my code, and irresistible to good-looking women. The yearning to be in control of events. To have happy endings.