Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (72 page)

Solemnly, she stared at the picture, came back to earth.

I’m a prisoner, she thought.

She raised herself. Instantly, the thread of pain that shot through her mounted, sent her reeling back again. They hit me with something hard, she thought, almost laughing with the insanity of it. They had hit her, knocked her out and then …

And then Senor Nascimento had said they’d taken the wrong woman.

They hadn’t wanted her. But they’d taken her. And now they’d never let her go … that was, not alive.

She leaned on an elbow. Standing peacefully in a small, lovely park, watching the balloons rise into the sky. Such a lovely day … and the children laughing …

Richard laughing …

Oh, my God, she thought. I can’t believe this! That I’m here …

She sprang up, falling instantly, weak and uncoordinated, sprawling on the floor.

How could such a thing be, she asked herself, and was immobilized with fear, dread and frustration. I can’t stand being here, she thought, hysterical. Why should this happen to me?

Painfully, she got to her feet, stood, wobbly, holding on to the edge of the bed. I can’t believe it, she thought somberly. That this hideous thing should happen to me.

The door was firmly closed.

She hobbled over and tried it. It didn’t do any good. It was bolted from the outside.

Wanting to pound on it, she knew better. She didn’t want another blow on the head. She walked unsteadily over to the window. It wasn’t barred. But it was so far above the courtyard level that, were she to jump, she would surely break a leg, an arm, or very possibly her neck.

She turned away and circled the room, feeling out the boundaries of her prison. There was only the brass bed, a low chest of drawers, an armoire. And then she saw the other door that led into a small bathroom. Inside was a toilet and a sink.

There was no medicine chest, no mirror.

She used the toilet, found a cracked, dry bar of soap in a niche, dried her hands with tissue from her handbag. And then walked around the room again, looking for something that could be a weapon.

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She sat on the edge of the bed, blank-eyed. Her fate was sealed. There had been a mistake, a ridiculous mistake, but they would now have to cover up. They would never let her go.

She fantasied. In a ditch, covered over with leaves. Bloodied, dead, left to the changing seasons, until her remains were only bones. She would lie, in some gully, for years upon years. She would rot there.

Desperate, uncomprehending, she looked up at the picture of the Avila fortress, at the green grass and the beautiful leafy trees, the wide open spaces outside the grim fortress. And then stood up, an idea forming in her mind. She went to the picture, felt it, dragged it off its hook. It was about seventeen by twenty inches, and it was heavy, heavy …

The picture was a weapon. This could kill someone … if you hit him at the base of the skull.

She hefted it, feeling its weight. If you were to catch someone unaware, bring it down with all your might, you could incapacitate your victim.

The idea jelled in her mind.

What else was there? This, at least, was a kind of defense. There was nothing else she could think of.

And then she recoiled from the thought. To break a person’s skull.

And if she tried, and failed, they’d hurt her. They could do terrible things to her.

This was what solitary confinement could do to a person. Turn them into a coward, into a quivering mass of jelly. I won’t be like that, she thought, gritting her teeth. I won’t fall to pieces. I
won’t.

She went over and took the picture off the wall again.

It was very heavy and yes, it was a perfect weapon.

She hung it up again.

And at last, exhausted, got into bed again.

Eyes blurred, looking up at the picture of the Avila fortress, she longed for the green grass and the beautiful, leafy trees, the wide open spaces outside the grim fortress.

Let me be free, she thought, winding her arms around herself. Please, God, let me be free.

• • •

Darkness.

Waking, instantly apprehensive, Kelly tensed. There was a sound.

She lay there, cringing.

A scrape of the key in the lock. The door opened. A beam of light met her blind eyes. Then there was a lamp flicked on in the room.

It hurt her eyes, and she shaded them. Only it wasn’t a lamp, it was a flashlight.

Someone came into the room.

“Senorita?” It was the good voice.

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“Your supper. Eat.”

He came over to the bed with a tray. “Your supper,” he said, and set a tray down on the floor.

She didn’t say anything, and he went on. “Good food. Rice. Lobster and beef. Please. Eat.”

He went to the door again.

Framed there, he said, “Is there anything you want?”

“Oh, yes. Aspirin. My head hurts.”

“Very good. In a few minutes.”

He went out again. The door closed behind him.

She looked at the contents of the tray. The man had left the flashlight on the floor. It was the only light. The food smelled tantalizing. How could you have an appetite when you were in such a ghastly situation?

I won’t eat it, she thought. It was probably poisoned. She wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.

She turned away, resolute.

In a few seconds, aroused by the aroma of the dinner on the floor, she swung her legs over the bed and looked at it. What did it matter if it was poisoned? That would be better than having one’s throat cut.

It was delicious. She ate every morsel. After a while the door opened again and the man came in.

He looked at the empty plate, and then held out his hand. There were four tablets; she took them.

“Aspirin,” he said.

He waited while she put them in her mouth and then washed them down with the glass of red wine she hadn’t touched. She said thank you, and he bowed, picked up the tray. He went out and took the flashlight with him. He murmured something, which might have been “Good night,” but she wasn’t sure. The door closed, with a firm thud, and a bolt was drawn. She was alone again, in the darkness. She got up after a while, felt every inch of the wall for a light switch, but found nothing.

She sat quietly on the edge of the bed for a long time, until she couldn’t bear her thoughts any longer. The aspirin had calmed her and, in spite of everything, she slept. It was an excessively warm night, but she pulled the covers over her, nesting inside them. She was, of course, exhausted. Even fright had left her. There was only a deep sopor.

There was something so wonderful about sinking into forgetfulness. All thoughts left her, and she lay, supine, a part of the black night.

• • •

It was just past nine when Steve called Lisa Comstock’s room.

Her voice was blurred and thick.

“Yes?”

“This is Steve Connaught.”

“Who?”

“Please,” he said. “Wake up, would you mind? The girl’s not back yet.”

“Oh.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Yes.” She really did sound concerned. “I’m so sorry.” There was a short silence and then she said, “Oh, yes, just let me get myself together. Could you wait … about an hour, that’s all. My God, how terrible. What could have happened?”

“I don’t know, maybe you can shed some light,” he said.

“Oh, I hope so. Is Richard all right?”

“Richard’s fine.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after nine.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes, Mrs. Comstock. In the morning. A.M.”

She groaned.

“Mrs. Comstock, you will come down?” he said, gritting his teeth. “You must realize how important it is.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be right down. Just as soon as I can.”

“Please hurry. I’ll be waiting for you in the lounge.”

“Yes.” She was obedient. “I’ll get right up. I promise.”

• • •

“Tell me what happened,” Steve said to Lisa. “From the time you got to Madrid.”

“Well. I had a flight from Rome. Then I got a taxi to Constant’s house. He was horrid. He hates me. I hate him too. He’s an opportunist, I always told Lawrence that.”

“So you left the airport and went to the Villa Bondadoso. You had a talk with your brother-in-law?”

“He was
so
irritating.”

“You were upset about Richard.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I guess so. You stayed there overnight?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t sleep. So I called the airport and booked a flight here.”

She put a hand to her throat. “I’m dry,” she said. “Order me a drink, will you? Vodka on the rocks.”

He called the waiter over.

“That’s better,” she said, when the drink came. “Thank you.” She was almost humble. “You seem to be a decent man. You understand about these things, don’t you?”

Yes, he understood about a lot of things. Who was he to cast the first stone? He was gentle. But he had to pick her brain. “You booked your flight, what then?”

“Uh … the flight was for six o’clock in the evening.”

She fished in her handbag for cigarettes. Kelly had nice things, good clothes and all the rest of it. But women like this, like Richard’s mother and Dolores Comstock, had alligator bags that ran into the hundreds of dollars. Pucci stuff, Gucci stuff. They were bitches, really, while Kelly worked hard.

Anger surged through him.

He fished for his lighter and just then she brought forth some matches from her handbag. He picked them up and lit her cigarette.

The matchbook lay on the table between them. She started talking again, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking at the matchbook. At first it didn’t mean all that much, but his subconscious absorbed it and then it meant a great deal.

“Where did you get this?” he asked Lisa.

“Get what?”

“These matches.”

“I don’t know. How should I know?”

“You have to remember. It’s important. Where did you get them?”

“For God’s sake, with all that’s happened, I’m supposed to remember where I got some
matches?
”

She was very nearly hysterical. She picked up the book of matches and hurled it to the floor. “So much for your God damned questions,” she cried. “Are you crazy?”

Steve bent down and picked up the matchbook. The name on the cover was Hotel Indepencia, Madrid, Spain.

Where he and Kelly had gone to hunt up the Nascimentos, who had checked out a couple hours earlier.

“You took a cab from the Madrid airport?”

“Yes.”

“Then you stayed overnight at the Villa Bondadosa.”

“Yes.”

“And then decided to come to Seville.”

“Yes!”

“Who drove you to the airport in Madrid? Did you take a cab?”

“I was driven.”

“By whom?”

“The family.”

“Constant?”

“No. Dolores.”

“She was at the wheel of the car?”

“Certainly not. The chauffeur was at the wheel. Jose.”

“I see,” he said, his brain whirling. So that was the way it had been.

“What does it matter?”

“There were just the three of you? Dolores, Jose and you?”

“Yes, but what are you trying to — ”

“Did you smoke in the car?”

“I don’t know! I always smoke. Of course I — ”

“Do you have a lighter?”

“I did. It was stolen. Pure gold. Someone stole it. What does it matter?”

“So you needed matches to light your cigarette.”

“So what?”

“Who lit your cigarette?”

“Who? The chauffeur, of course. Who else, Santa Claus?”

“So the chauffeur provided the matches.”

“No, Jesus Christ did,” she said profanely, and her face was ugly, ugly.

“You needed a light and the chauffeur slowed the car and passed back the matches. Is that right?”

“Naturally! What was he supposed to do, rub sticks together?”

She followed his eyes, looking at the matchbook with its gilt lettering, Hotel Indepencia. And a shred of intelligence, of honest concern, lit her eyes.

“Do these mean anything?” she asked.

They meant everything, Steve thought, staring at the matchbook. The Hotel Indepencia, where he and Kelly had gone to talk to the Nascimentos, who had checked out with no forwarding address. That meant that there was a tie-in between the South American couple and the Comstock family in Madrid. That meant —

“What is it, what is it?” the woman was asking. “Tell me, for God’s sake. What are you
thinking?
”

He looked up.

“Why, your relatives want to get Richard away from you,” he said. “It’s as simple as that. They want it so badly that they arranged for your sudden demise. I know who they’re working with. This matchbook tells me that. Only they mistook Kelly for Richard’s mother, for you.”

The woman’s face paled. “You’re not talking sense.”

“Yes I am. I’m talking sense. And now there’s only one thing left to do. Put it squarely in the lap of the American Consul.”

His face worked.

“And hope for the best,” he said, out of a tight throat. “I can’t put it off any longer. Maybe I’ve waited too long as it is.”

A dream about green grass, and the smells thereof, and the gentle swish of leaves in the trees. Cool, fresh air, the sounds of animal life …

It was, of course, the sound that brought her out of sleep.

A stealthy sound, a key turning in the lock.

Her body gathered itself together in the blackness.

The lock turned and there was the sound of someone sliding into the room. It was not the good man. The good man hadn’t come in so furtively. This was different, was terribly different.

So tense that the calves of her taut legs hurt, she slid out from under the covers. Thank God, now, for the darkness. She was as quiet as a mouse. She had to be so terribly quiet. Because …

Because she knew it, sensed it. This was the bad man.

Trembling, she tiptoed round to where the picture was on the wall.

Now, she thought. It was her only chance. Now.

There was the gust of a wine-soaked breath.