The Scarlet Thread (51 page)

They swam naked in the warm water of the pool and dried each other lazily in the hot sun. He liked to look at her, to touch the firm breasts and feel the texture of her skin. He told her how beautiful she was and how she made him feel. She had learned a little Italian, and now when he spoke in his native language she understood more than just the music and rhythm of the words. The time passed; the siesta was over. The household would soon come back to life. They covered each other, tied on their robes and walked back into the villa. He caught her from behind and lifted her against him. “Upstairs,” he whispered. At that moment the telephone began to shrill. He let her go.

“Nemesis,” she said, laughing, and went to answer it. It was Ralph Maxton, asking if he might come over and see her that evening to say goodbye.

“You fixed it?” Clara demanded.

“He said yes, about an hour ago. I even gave him time to call back if he wanted to rat on the deal, but he didn't call.” At the other end, he heard Clara's excited laugh.

“Clever Mike,” she exulted. “When? When's it going to be?”

“Sooner the better, I guess,” O'Halloran answered. “I don't want the bastard going cold. It's tomorrow night.”

Clara said, “I want to be there, Mike.”

He was thrown by that. “Don't be crazy,” he protested. “You stay right where you are. You'll hear about it as soon as I can call you.”

“I'm not sitting here waiting,” she said. “Don't argue with me. I'm flying down there today.”

He almost shouted in exasperation. “For Christ's sake, Clara! You want to stand and watch?”

“That,” she said, “would make it perfect. I said don't argue. I've waited a long time for this. I want to be close by when they all get it!” The line went dead while he was still talking.

She packed; she threw clothes into the suitcase. Her hands were trembling. She told the maid in her preemptory way that she was taking a trip and wouldn't be back for some days. No, she snapped back, she didn't know how long.… As long as it took, she said to herself. Steven first. Then that whey-faced blonde and the boy. “Oh, Papa,” she said out loud, “Papa, you'll rest easy when I've finished. They'll pay for what they did to me. And then I'll go home and I'll get Nimmi and the rest of them for what they did to you. It'll take a little time, but I swear it, I swear I'll get them all.…” She smiled as an idea came to mind. Where should she stay? O'Halloran had left the Carlton. He was holed up in a small pension inland, in case Maxton tried to trace him for the wrong reasons—he took precautions, her clever Mike. Good; cops learned precautions from criminals. He'd get his money. When he'd done what she wanted. You never welsh on a contract; Aldo had impressed that on her. They deliver, you pay up.

He could go back to New York, back to his wife and his children and his agency work. She didn't much care what he did once it was over. Where should she stay? The only place she knew. The honeymoon hotel. Romantic Monte Carlo, where her husband had betrayed her with a woman for the first time. The first of so many times, just as he had promised while she wept and pleaded, choking on that woman's scent, Joy.

The Hôtel de Paris. She got the number and made an open-ended reservation. Then she called the airport and booked herself on the afternoon flight to Nice.

“You know how to use a gun?” O'Halloran demanded.

“I know how to use a shotgun. For pheasants, not people.”

He glared at Maxton. “Cut the crap.” He took out his own automatic, laid it on the table. He unloaded it, loaded it, gave it to Ralph. “You do it,” he said. Maxton was surprised at how nimbly he handled the weapon. O'Halloran pulled a pillow from the bed and upended it on a chair. “Now aim at that and pull the goddamned trigger.”

Maxton had a trained eye, for he had participated in the annual grouse and pheasant slaughter at home, though it had bored him. He leveled the gun, aimed at the center of the pillow and fired. It made an alarmingly loud noise. The hole was directly in the center. A few feathers fluttered in the air and then drifted to the carpet.

“Aren't you worried someone might hear?” he remarked.

“No. They're in the kitchen. If you hit a man with that caliber bullet at that range, you'll blow a hole big enough to put your fist in. You want to try again?”

“How do I know it'll be that close?” Maxton demanded. “Make it a smaller target. If you're sure no one's going to come rushing in with the noise.” He examined the automatic. The standard Smith & Wesson: high-caliber bullets indeed. He watched O'Halloran.

It was a room rented in a small hotel. An empty room, not where the American was staying. He marked the man's caution. His lack of trust.

“Try this,” O'Halloran suggested. He marked the same pillow with a ballpoint pen: a circle the size of a man's head. He set it up again. “Okay,” he said. Maxton hit within the circle.

O'Halloran took the pillow and stuffed it under the bedcover. More feathers were floating about. He said, “You don't need to worry. I'd say you were a natural. Now let's get down to the details.” Ralph handed him back the gun. “Let's get down to the money and how it's going to be paid.”

Pauline Duvalier had not been feeling well. She'd spent a lot of time in her room resting after the gala night at Antibes. Nothing wrong, she assured the manager when he called to inquire. Just tired. The excursion had been too much of an excitement. She didn't plan to sally into the outside world again. Eugène the barman came up to see her. He brought the patience cards. She thanked him, but she didn't feel like playing. She was sure she'd feel up to going to her old corner in the bar tomorrow and watching the world go by.

The next day she was late going downstairs. It had been an effort to get up, to let the chambermaid help her dress. She had fought off the lethargy that told her to stay in bed and let the hours drift by. Her champagne was on ice; her cards were ready for her to play.

But someone was trying to sit at her special table. She saw the woman's back, and the stubborn stance Eugène had assumed in front of the table as he told her he was so sorry, madame, but that place was always reserved. The woman's voice was American and loud.

“It doesn't say so. There's no sign on it. If it's reserved, why doesn't it have a sign? I'm sitting here anyway. Bring me a Scotch and water and plenty of ice.” Eugène didn't move. Pauline stayed back, just outside the entrance to the bar. She felt weak, and began to tremble.

Her place, her safe corner in life, was being taken from her. She had to hold on to the doorframe. She heard Eugène's voice. It wasn't discreet anymore. It was raised, and it was angry. “I'm sorry, madame, but that table is always reserved for one of the hotel guests. She lives here, and that is her place in the bar. If you will kindly move somewhere else, I'll bring your order.”

The woman said in a furious tone, “Goddamn you, you'll bring me the manager!” Eugène had been hoping for that. “I was going to call him anyway. And don't swear at me, madame!” He was in a rage as he hurried to take the woman at her word and bring Monsieur Jacques himself to deal with her.

He was shocked to find Pauline standing at the entrance. He led her away, taking her arm. “Don't worry, I'll get rid of her. I'll see you to the lift, and when Monsieur Jacques has told that one where to get off, I'll ring you and you come right down, eh? Here, let me get someone to go up with you.… Take Madame up to her suite.” He surrendered her to a young waiter and hurried off to the manager's office.

In her room, Pauline sank down on the bed. She meant to take off her shoes, then she forgot and kept feeling her face with her hands instead.

She wouldn't go down. She'd never risk that again. If she had only been a few seconds earlier, the woman would have seen her, seen the special guest Eugène was protecting. She would go back to bed, where she was safe. There was a knock on the door. It was the manager himself. He was shocked. She looked so old suddenly; the eye patch was awry, showing the corner of the empty socket. “Madame Duvalier, I've come to apologize. That most unpleasant scene downstairs. The lady has left the bar. Your place is waiting for you. I've come to escort you myself.”

“No,” she said. “Not today. I won't come down today.” He was a kind man; he had admired her courage for many years. He came and sat beside her. “Madame,” he said gently. “You must come to the bar as usual. If you don't, you may never leave this room again. Do you understand me? And all your brave efforts will be wasted. Now give me your arm, and we are going down in the lift together. I shall join you for a glass of champagne to celebrate, if I may. Allow me.” He reached out and moved the eye patch into place. “Now,” he said. “We are going.”

At the door of her bedroom, she hesitated. “You say she's left the bar?”

“She won't be going there again. She said so. I did suggest she might be happier in another hotel. When guests here aren't welcome, madame, they don't stay long.”

She drank a lot of champagne that morning. The bar filled up, but the woman didn't return. She had only seen her back and heard her voice, but Pauline felt she would have recognized her. She was feeling less tired; she'd played out three games in a row, smoked half a pack of cigarettes and got her confidence back. Someone had shielded her still further with a large vase of flowers, strategically placed. Eugène, most likely. He was kind, she thought, the champagne melting her perceptions into a benevolent blur. She had been weak-willed, foolish to behave as she did that morning, because an outsider had seemed to threaten her secure routine, her safe little world. She despised herself. When the trade slackened at lunchtime, she called the barman over. “I've had a good morning,” she announced. “Three games in a row! Do you know how difficult that is? Three games. Who was that creature shouting at you this morning, Eugène? Monsieur Jacques said she was staying here.”

Eugène leaned toward her. “You ought to have heard her, madame. These rich Americans think they can buy their way in anywhere. ‘I came here in the old days,' she shouts at him. ‘When you had staff that knew how to treat important guests and a manager that made sure of it! I wouldn't be seen dead in this lousy little bar.' And she swept out. She's taken the best suite, that's the trouble. I asked about her afterward. Her name's Salviatti. Mrs. Salviatti. When my father worked here, we never allowed rubbish like that into the hotel!”

Pauline stayed on till long after lunch. When she did go upstairs she was rock steady, despite the bottle of champagne she'd drunk, and its half-empty companion in the bucket of melting ice.

She slept that afternoon, waking in time to dress as usual and choose her jewels for the solitary dinner in her suite.

What had Eugène said? Salviatti. Why did she think she knew that name? She hated her lapses of memory. It only happened when she was upset, like this morning. The waiter came in to take her order, and she put it out of her mind. If you didn't force it, memory readjusted itself. It would come back to her.

“It's such a lovely evening; why don't we have a drink outside?” Angela suggested. Ralph had brought her flowers. It was sad and touching to have to say goodbye.

“He hates my father,” Charlie had insisted. Did he? she wondered—but even so she pitied him.

He followed her out onto the terrace. The beautiful evening was the aftermath of another blistering day, almost too hot. A pleasant breeze stirred the trees overhead; that was the joy of living in the hills. The coast was merciless in such weather.

“You're looking very well,” he said. “I'm sorry I haven't been up before. I thought you might come down to the casino tonight.”

“I won't be coming tonight,” she said. “I like to spend time with the baby, and Steven is always so busy there.… Ralph, I'm sorry you're leaving.”

“Do you really mind? I rather hoped you would.” No mockery, no light touch this time. He had pale eyes, a watery color that changed from green to gray-blue. He was looking at her intently.

“You know I do,” she said. “We've always been such friends. All of us. Steven'll miss you too.”

“I doubt that,” he responded. “We've come to the end of the road. He doesn't need me anymore.”

She rose quickly to his defense. “You shouldn't say that, Ralph. It's not true.”

“No, I shouldn't say it,” he agreed. “Certainly not to you. Forget it; don't let's spoil our time together.”

“What are you going to do now?” Angela asked. The exchange had made her feel uncomfortable.

“Take a short holiday, look round for another job. I thought I'd see what Italy has to offer. I need a break from the coast; I've been here a very long time.”

“You wouldn't go home,” she asked him.

“No.” He shook his head. He smiled at her and said, “It's not home to me. Except when I stayed with you that Christmas. I'm going to miss you, Angela. You've been very special to me.” He was going further than he meant, urged by the gambler's need to try his luck. Flying a kite to see if the wind would lift it even for a moment. She poured them each a glass of wine, saying nothing. No wind, no flutter of the kite as yet.

“I hope I mean something to you,” he said. She knew then that her son was right. Right about Ralph's feelings for her.

She had blinded herself to what was happening, leaning on him, encouraging him to think he meant more to her than a friend. A brother almost, like the one killed in the war. “Dear Ralph,” she said gently. “Of course you mean a lot to me. I had an older brother—I told you about him, didn't I? That's how I look on you. I often said to Steven, if only you could meet a really nice girl and get married, settle down. I hope you haven't misunderstood.…” She left the rest unsaid. The long, thin face was a mask when she looked at him. No reaction, no expression. “I'm making such a mess of this,” she said desperately.