The Scarlet Thread (54 page)

She couldn't return to her Persian friend. He would be very angry. Very angry indeed. She didn't want to risk it.

She went back to the information desk. To her relief, a man was on duty. He told her the next plane to Paris was at seven in the morning. Did she wish to go to a hotel? No, Madeleine decided. She wasn't risking her luggage, her clothes and her precious jewelry in some strange place. He directed a porter to bring everything to the VIP Lounge, which he unlocked specially for her. She was so attractive and charming, and he was aware of her distress.

She smiled at him, thanked him. If something had happened to Ralphie, what could she do about it? She'd stay there for the night. Only a few more hours. They boarded at six-fifteen for the early flight. She'd be quite comfortable. She settled herself on a sofa with her baggage piled up around her. Maybe it was fate. Time to leave the coast and start afresh. She had a big savings account. Paris was as good a place as any. There were lots of rich men to be picked up there. She slipped off her shoes, made herself comfortable and dozed off.

That night, Clara had dressed for dinner. She chose carefully, for an occasion known only to herself. A long cream dinner dress, part of the trousseau for her honeymoon with Bruno Salviatti. The ruby earrings Steven had given her for a wedding present. She'd worn them in this same hotel. She had twisted and turned before the looking glass, assessing her appearance. This was her night, her moment of triumph. She would walk into the restaurant alone, making an entrance. The last time people had stared at her, seeing her as beautiful, desirable, her handsome husband at her side. No husband this time. She looked at her watch. Eight-thirty.

The hours had dragged since she'd come back from Beaulieu. The hairdresser, the beautician, had served as diversions, but not for long enough. She had adjusted her left earring. It had always pinched, in spite of the new fitting. Then she'd gone downstairs in the elevator and into the restaurant. The headwaiter showed her to her table; he hovered deferentially. She had the best suite in the hotel. She wasn't hungry, but she ordered just the same. Some champagne, she decided, and looking coolly at the sommelier, she mentioned that she was celebrating.

It was difficult to eat; she picked at the courses, smoking between them. She took her time drinking the champagne. She had wanted to enjoy every moment, to let her imagination wander to the isolated road where Steven Falconi would meet his just end. How she had worshiped him all those years ago, when they had come here, dined in this same restaurant together.

And how she had suffered, impaled on the sharp stake of her own jealousy, all through that miserable marriage. Misery had made her barren. There was no other cause. He had rejected everything she had to offer. Her love, her sexual passion, the family traditions that bound them together.

Rejected her for the woman she'd seen in that photograph. A pale, bloodless image of a blonde like any other blonde. A nothing, Clara had called her, and O'Halloran had echoed it. How lucky she had been to find him. How wise to approach him with her proposition for the agency, instead of the ex-policeman with the Italian name. She was a shrewd judge of people, like her father, Aldo. She smelled corruption in that dingy office. The Ace Detective Agency. It made her smile. Fate had directed her that day. The fate that had overtaken Steven Falconi, even as she saw the time in the glitter of ruby on her wrist. He was dead. The woman and the son she had borne him were dead too. She'd lingered long over her coffee, dreaming of vengeance. It was a quarter to eleven. She thanked the headwaiter for an excellent dinner and made her way back to her suite.

A good-looking man with a much younger woman gave her an admiring look as he passed. She smiled provocatively at him. She was free. Free at last. She went into her suite. The bedroom door was open, her bed turned down, the satin nightgown draped across it. She kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette. Eleven o'clock. She curled up in an armchair by the telephone to wait. The earring hurt a little. She unscrewed it, put it on the table. It rolled back and forth for a moment, glittering under the light. She reached up to undo the other one, when there was a knock on the door. “Mike …” She jumped up. He'd come instead of phoning. She called out, “Come in,” and hurried to meet him.

It was the worst day in the history of the hotel. Worse than the fire of 1937, which had destroyed one third of the building, though without loss of life.

It started at seven that morning, with a commotion on the second floor. The manager was roused out of sleep. He came hurrying up to the suite. He was a man used to dealing with crises.

The young floor waiter was shaking uncontrollably. “I stumbled over it,” he kept repeating. “I opened the door and nearly fell on top of it.” He had dropped the breakfast tray. The manager crouched down beside the body of Clara Falconi Salviatti. She was lying on her back, and she had been stabbed to death with one of the hotel's own sharp-pointed steak knives. Right through the heart. The handle was sticking out of her chest. The dead woman's face was twisted in a grimace of such naked horror that the manager hurriedly covered it with his handkerchief. He stood up; he spoke kindly to the trembling boy and sent him downstairs. But on pain of instant dismissal, the waiter was ordered to say nothing. Nothing at all until the police arrived. He sidestepped the body. Thank God he didn't have to look at her face. And only God knew what she had seen that terrified her so much at the moment of her death. He went to the telephone and dialed the private number of the superintendent of the Monaco police. He was aware, just before the call was answered, of a strong smell in the room.

He recognized the distinctive scent of Joy.

Pauline Duvalier's funeral took place at the end of the week. She had died peacefully of a heart attack in her sleep, but the murder of the woman in the suite on the same floor overshadowed her passing.

Pauline's possessions were locked up. The old newspapers she'd hoarded were thrown away. Her will was found, addressed to the manager. She had repaid their kindness and care over the years by leaving everything to him and his staff. She was buried in Monaco, as she'd requested, and old friends like Eugène wept at the graveside. Among the mourners was Steven Lawrence, owner of the Casino Poliakoff.

“Oh, darling,” Angela said, “I'm sorry I didn't come with you. I just couldn't face it.” Steven put his arm around her.

“You've been through enough,” he said. “I wanted to go; I owed it to her. For all she'd suffered,” he added. And more. Much more.

She had found Clara before he did. He knew immediately who had plunged the knife into Clara's heart. Mercifully, Pauline had died the same night. He looked anxiously at his wife. She was pale and exhausted after the flight with Charlie and the baby.

They were together in the villa, and for the first few days they had stayed close as if some danger still threatened them. He was worried about his son. He seemed so quiet, almost in shock, after the emotional reunion upon his return with his mother and sister. Steven had rushed out to embrace them all and bring them inside. There had been tears, tears of joy and relief, but then reality had intruded. When Steven came back from Pauline Duvalier's funeral, he had already made up his mind what had to be done. He said gently to Angela, “Darling, where's Charlie?”

“Upstairs,” she answered, “playing with the baby. He'd spend all day with her if he could.”

“Go and call him,” he said. “I've got things to talk over with both of you. And don't worry, everything's going to be all right.”

He went into the kitchen and brought out a bottle of wine and three glasses. Wine was the gift of the gods; it eased pain and enhanced pleasure. They would drink wine together in the old tradition, and they would talk, as a family should when decisions had to be made.

He embraced his son. “Pour for us, Charlie,” he said.

And the boy said simply, “Yes, Dad. Mum says you want to talk to me. You don't need to; she told me everything while we were away.”

“I know she did,” Steven answered. “But you and I must talk about it too. I promised you that now we have no secrets. I will explain everything to you, as a father to his son. But not today. Today I went to a funeral. I buried more than a friend. I buried my life here. All our lives here.” He paused, waiting for Angela to speak.

“You mean you want to leave?” she asked.

He said simply, “I want us all to leave. This villa will never be a home to us again. I will never forget seeing you drive away, and spending that night here waiting. I don't want to live on the coast.”

“What about the casino?” Charlie asked him.

The answer was prompt. “I will sell it. I don't want to live by gambling either. I'd like to start again. A clean business: hotels, restaurants … a new home and a new life for us. That's what I'd like. But I want to hear from your mother and from you.”

Angela put down her wine glass. She looked at Charlie and then at Steven.

“Nothing would make me happier,” she said. “I see Ralph around every corner here. I couldn't bear to go near the Poliakoff again. I would like to get right away and forget everything that's happened. Even the good things, the happy times … they've been blotted out for me now.”

“Charlie?” Steven asked quietly. “What about you? Everything I've built here would have been yours if you wanted it. I can't guarantee the same success if I try again. I won't do this if you don't want it too.”

Charlie finished his wine. He set the glass down. “I don't know what I want to do, Dad,” he said. “Hotels and restaurants sound pretty good to me. I just want us to be a happy family and be together. I never want to live through another night like that last one.”

“Then it's decided?” Steven asked them. “We make a new start somewhere else?”

Angela got up and put her arms around him. “That's what we'll do,” she said. “Charlie, come here, darling.”

She drew him close to them and said, “You have a wonderful father—you know that, don't you?”

“I know,” he said. He reached out and gripped Steven's shoulder. “Don't worry about making a success, Dad. Whatever you do, it'll be great. Any idea where we'll go?”

“We could fly over to Biarritz and take a look,” Steven suggested. “Take a break while this place goes on the market.”

“I could look up some timetables,” Charlie suggested.

“You do that.” Steven nodded.

When his son had left them, he turned to Angela. “He's a good son,” he said gently. “And you're the best wife in the world.
Io ti amo, amore mio
—remember, darling?”

“I remember,” she said, and kissed him.

About the Author

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas, a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book,
The Occupying Power
, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel,
The Tamarind Seed
, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony's books have been translated into nineteen languages. She lives in Essex, England.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1990 by Evelyn Anthony

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2428-0

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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