The Assassin (24 page)

‘What would you like me to put on the death certificate?'

‘The truth, of course.' Huntley looked at him that time, with surprise. ‘What else? Whatever caused the poor kid's death.'

‘Heart failure,' Dr Harper said. He mumbled the words slightly. ‘She'd been on the pill for the last couple of years. I prescribed them myself. In my findings she suffered a cardiac failure which may or may not be a result of using this form of contraception. I shall make it clear in my statement that I don't approve of this method until it's been further investigated.'

‘You do that,' Huntley said. ‘Now I guess we'd better call the police. You talk to them, Harper. I'm too upset.'

By lunchtime Freemont was under siege. Reporters, photographers, TV cameras and sightseers were camped round the walls like an army. Police were on duty outside, co-operating with the Cameron security force, to control the traffic and prevent any attempt to climb into the grounds. Immediately the police were notified. Huntley's own news service broke the story; he himself had stayed in his office, giving one short interview to the local police captain who got his picture in the papers and appeared on television, saying the millionaire was brokenhearted at the death of his fiancée. They had been planning to get married after the Presidential election. Huntley had played his part well; he didn't underestimate his own power, nor did he use it unnecessarily, except with someone like Harper who he knew could be bought. It was wise to have the local police on his side; he filled the captain up with whisky, and lies about himself and Dallas, and sent him away as his friend. The captain proved to be a better guardian of Huntley's wish for privacy than any of the men on his private payroll. Huntley turned on the TV in his office and watched for the first news reports to come in. And while he listened and watched he was following the three unanswered questions through, like a man reeling up a cotton thread through a maze. Why had someone cut the telephone wire to Elizabeth's room? Why had Eddi King disappeared? Why should anyone want to murder Dallas? The fourth question was answered only in conjuction with the other three. Who had killed her? And when he came to the end of the cotton he was also out of the maze; he could see clearly.

Nobody had wanted to kill Dallas. But somebody had wanted to keep Elizabeth from making contact with the outside world. Somebody had tampered with her phone to make certain she was incommunicado for the night. And the same person had made the error into which both he and the maid at the pool had fallen. They had mistaken the swimmer for Elizabeth Cameron because of the cap.

Whoever had killed Dallas had done so thinking that their victim was his niece. And then they had run for it. As Eddi King had run, leaving what he hoped would seem an accident lying at the bottom of the swimming pool.

There was only one reason why King should fear Elizabeth enough to need to murder her. Somehow, probably through Dallas' drunken maunderings, he had discovered that she had liaised with him, Huntley, and guessed that she was in possession of the assassination plan. So he had tried to kill her to protect himself. Huntley was safe because he was an equal accomplice. But King had feared Elizabeth might talk. He had feared that she might betray both him and her uncle.

And so he had cut her telephone and sneaked down to the pool that morning. Huntley wondered exactly how he would feel when he discovered he had killed the wrong girl. There were two things he had to do. First he had to find Elizabeth and tell her to come back to Freemont, where she could be protected. Second, he had to think how to settle with his good friend Eddi King. He owed that to Dallas, anyway.

New York on a Sunday was like a city struck by plague. The streets were almost empty of traffic; the absence of noise in its human and mechanical variations was almost sinister. Elizabeth sat back in the cab and looked out at the clear streets and vacant sidewalks. The morning was chill, and clouds were gathering. The brief sunshine at Freemont had gone and the March day would be damp and depressing. She had forgotten that her car was still at Freemont; as soon as she was inside her apartment, she called down for a cab, checking that the slip of paper with Keller's address on it was still in her handbag, and then come out again, only ten minutes after Peter Mathews had driven away. She had to get to Keller. Leary's people were getting very close. That single question, ‘Did you travel back with anyone?' … that had shown how near they were to the truth.

And the two murders in Beirut; Souha, the Arab girl who had been strangled. It was beyond coincidence; the money, the European she had been living with, since disappeared. As soon as Mathews told her the name she had known it must be Keller's girl.

‘Lady, you know anyone owns a blue Chev?' It was the first time the driver had spoken; she had thanked God not to have drawn a garrulous type. Some of them talked from the start to the finish of the trip.

‘No, I guess not. Why?'

The man glanced back over his shoulder at her. He had a heavy, dark face and a bristled jaw in need of shaving.

‘Because there's a blue Chev tailing us,' he said. ‘He's been right with us since I picked you up.'

‘You're sure? You're sure he's following us?'

‘Sure I'm sure. Look, lady, there's no traffic around. I noticed him way back in the mirror. I don't want trouble. You better get out.'

‘No, please,' Elizabeth said quickly. ‘Here's ten dollars; just go on for a while.' She looked back and through the rear window she saw the car, just rounding a corner after them. What a fool not to have thought of this. Of course Mathews was having her followed. And she had been just about to do what he expected and show them the way to Keller. Suddenly she found herself shaking with anger. He had been playing her along deliberately; he was no more honest in his professional dealings than he had been as a lover. She called through to the driver.

‘Drop me at Lexington Avenue.'

‘Okay.'

The driver of the Chev was doing thirty miles an hour, a steady cruising speed which kept the cab in view. When it stopped at a traffic light it was six cars ahead of him. Elizabeth looked back through the rear window; the Chev was hidden in a solid wedge of other cars. She didn't wait, or say anything to the cab driver. She opened the offside door, bending a little, and ran for the sidewalk. Then she stopped, staring into a shop window, until she saw the traffic move and the Chev reflected in the plate glass as it drove past her in pursuit of the cab.

She undid her silk scarf and tied it over her head; rain had begun to fall in a thin, chilly drizzle. She started to walk, watching for an empty cab. The rain fell harder, turning the sidewalks greasy, driving against her in the wind. There were no cabs visible; the cars were multiplying and they congealed at each traffic light before spreading out again, their wipers whirring; Elizabeth walked slowly, keeping near the kerb. She had reached the middle of Lexington and she was wet through before she saw a cab going at cruising speed. It pulled in for her and she jumped in.

‘Morries Hotel. West 39th.'

The Chev had followed her original cab to the end of the avenue; it suddenly occurred to the driver that it was going at a dawdling pace, as if looking for a fare. When he finally drew up alongside and passed, he saw that it was empty. He swore, picked up his radio phone and called in. ‘Red Charlie to switchboard. I lost the fare. She slipped me. No, no possibility now.' She had shaken him off with the skill of a professional. He got instructions to go back to his post outside her apartment and wait.

When Elizabeth stepped out of the cab, she hesitated. The driver took the fare and a tip, and then looked at her for the first time. His expression told her more about Morries Hotel than the shabby entrance.

‘Have a good time,' he said, and drove off. She had never been in such a place in her life. She walked through the door, past the nudie magazines and the smutty art books, determined to keep looking straight ahead. At the top of the dirty stairway she came to the superintendent. He was reading one of the tabloids, worrying his bad teeth with a split match, a cigarette burning away in a saucer beside him. An empty coffee cup was by his elbow, and there were wet rings on the table. He hadn't washed or shaved, and he looked as if he had slept in his shirt. He had heard her come up the stairs and seen her quickly from behind the paper. He went on reading.

‘I'm looking for a Mr Keller,' Elizabeth said. She was surprised at the speed with which her heart was beating. She had never appreciated the risk of being assaulted or robbed in a place like this until she actually stood there. The paper, with its lurid black headlines, lowered a little, and the smudged glasses peered at her.

‘Beat it,' the mouth opened and shut. ‘We don't run no cat house!'

‘Keller,' Elizabeth repeated. ‘He came here on Friday. Please, it's terribly important. I know he's here.'

Again the paper went down, lower still this time, and the little eyes sneered at her through the prismatic lenses. But he said nothing. She had got the message. She was opening her purse. Elizabeth didn't know how much to give him; she gave the biggest note she could find loose.

‘Here,' she said. ‘Here's ten dollars. Now take me to him, please.'

‘What's he look like?' the super said. ‘We got two or three guys come in for rooms. Nobody with that name.'

Of course, Elizabeth realised her own naïveté; of course he wouldn't use his own name.

‘He's big,' she said. ‘Not tall, but well built. Fair, blue eyes. Not American …' She trailed off, suddenly losing hope. Her eyes filled with tears; she felt like turning and running down the stairs and out into the street. The super scraped back his chair. ‘I'll take you up.'

Keller's portable TV set was tuned into a news programme; the main item was the St Patrick's Day Parade the next day. Keller was sitting in front of it watching intently. The announcer was giving details of the service in the cathedral; a list of guests followed, with a commentary on each. The Mayor of New York. The Governor. The Presidential candidate John Jackson. The Vice-President, who was a Catholic. The list went on and on. The Democrat candidate, Patrick Casey, would miss the High Mass for the first time in his political career; he was away on a fact-finding mission in strife-ridden central America … The announcer returned to Jackson. As a chosen spokesman for the white Anglo-Saxon element in the South, where Roman Catholicism was regarded with the same superstitious horror as witchcraft, Jackson's attendance at a High Mass was an obvious bid for popularity with the hostile Irish, Polish and Italian elements in the electorate. The still photograph of Jackson was replaced by shots of Jackson taken from newsreels, during the commentary. Jackson speaking at rallies, glad-handling at conventions, posing with his wife and four children for publicity shots.

Keller disliked his face. It was thin, with a pinched mouth, and the grey hair was brushed up into a halo round the skull. His tight little eyes, falsely smiling, peered out from behind steel-rimmed glasses. Then the scene changed, and it was the Cardinal's image he saw projected on the screen. He switched off the set immediately. He didn't want to hear about Regazzi, or see his face. It wouldn't help tomorrow.

When he heard Elizabeth's knock he thought it must be the superintendent again, pestering him for the night's rent. ‘What do you want?' he called out, but there was no answer, only another knock. He went to the door.

‘Who's there?'

‘It's me, Bruno. Please let me in.'

He opened the door slowly and stepped back. She didn't wait for him to speak. She came in and went straight into his arms.

‘Thank God I found you,' was all she said.

For a moment Keller didn't move; one hand went up to stroke her hair as he had always done when they embraced. He forced it down, and made himself put her away from him. He could hardly believe that she was there.

‘How did you find me?' he said. ‘Why did you come here?'

She took off her wet coat and paused, looking round the room. ‘You wrote this address down. I found the pad afterwards. But it doesn't matter how, it only matters why.'

‘Then why?' Keller asked. ‘It's finished between us. I sent you roses, just to say goodbye. I don't want you here, Elizabeth. Put your coat back on and go home.' He walked away from her towards the door.

‘It's no good trying to throw me out.' She said it quietly. The rain glistened on her face and hair. ‘It's no good trying to lie to me any more either. I know what you've come to do. You've come to assassinate John Jackson for my uncle and for the man who hired you, Eddi King. I've come to offer you double what they're paying not to do it.'

For some moments there was silence in the room. A car passed outside, its engine throbbing and then dying out. Keller waited. His heart was pounding in his chest.

‘Why haven't you gone to the police?'

‘Because I've been trying to find you first,' she said. ‘I couldn't lead them to you, Bruno—don't you know I love you?'

‘This is none of your business.' He said it angrily. ‘I told you before, stay out of it. Now for the last time go home!'

‘It is my business,' she said. She lit a cigarette and sat down on the one chair. ‘Our Intelligence people are on to the whole thing. They know Eddi King is a communist agent. That's who you're working for—the communists.'

‘And your uncle,' Keller asked. ‘What about him?'

‘He's being used by them, he doesn't know the truth. But he's no better. He's paying you to do this, Bruno. Murder means nothing to him either.' She got up and held out both hands to him. He didn't move.'

‘All right, I'll have to tell you then,' she said. ‘If the money won't change you perhaps this will. You're never going to collect it. Immediately you've killed Jackson you'll be killed yourself, to keep you from being arrested and talking. And that's not all. I'm afraid they've murdered your girl in Beirut.'