The Scarlet Thread (46 page)

“I was so bored with that old fart Bernard,” she said, pouting. “He was talking about losing money too; that really bothered me. So when Mahmoud came along, I thought, Adieu, Bernard.” She giggled delightedly. And then she gave Maxton a celebrity for the gala opening who would raise eyebrows all along the coast.

“I'd like to help you, Ralphie darling. My friend is very close to the Shah; he's got signed photographs and personal presents all over his apartment. I was telling him about the gala, because I want him to take me. But he said it was a bad date for him. The Shah's sister's on a visit here, and she wants him to take her to Monte Carlo. Guess what I said?”

Maxton didn't spoil it for her. It wasn't often she did anyone a favor. “No idea,” he said. “Tell me.”

“I suggested he bring her along to your casino instead. And he said yes! Isn't that wonderful? She gambles like a lunatic—so does he. And they're so rich, you can't even imagine it.”

“You're a clever girl, darling,” Maxton told her. “This is going to please my charming boss. He's been climbing on my back about bringing in talent.”

“You mean that handsome man I saw—the one who changed his name? Why don't you like him anymore?”

“I never did like him much,” Maxton said. “Gangsters don't exactly grow on one. On the strength of this, I'm going to order some champagne for us. And what time do you have to be available for your rich Iranian friend?”

“When does your boss, Mr. Falconi, expect to see you?” she retorted. Her voice had risen; it always did when she was excited.

“Shush,” Maxton said. “Keep it down, darling.… Sometime tomorrow morning. I've booked us a room, in case you were free.”

She smiled at him, punching the loose skin on the back of his straying hand. “Not that nasty little attic room again?”

“No. A nice double on the second floor. Why don't we have them send up champagne?”

“Why not?” They left the bar arm in arm. She looked over her shoulder and whispered to him, “My God, there's that freak! She's still here, sitting in the same corner.”

“What freak?” he asked.

“That women with the dreadful face. You know, the one who lives here. Ugh—she ought to wear a yashmak.”

“Now I know you're sleeping with a Persian,” he said, and their laughter drifted back behind them into the bar.

Pauline Duvalier didn't move. She had her pack of playing cards set out for patience, and the daily bottle of champagne leaning in its ice bucket. She kept herself in shadow; the corner table was reserved for her. She spent most of her day there, drinking and playing patience, but at night she ate a solitary dinner in her suite, fashionably dressed and bedecked with jewels. Nobody saw her but the floor waiters.

The niche in the dimly lit bar was her foray into the outside world. If she wanted to buy anything, the goods were sent to her in the hotel.

Sometimes she listened to other people's conversations, but not often. She'd seen the Englishman and his French whore on several occasions. She hadn't forgotten the girl's reaction the first time she'd got a clear view of Pauline. The intake of breath, the grimace of revulsion. It had happened often enough over the years. She'd had a lot of plastic surgery, and they'd repaired what was left with great skill. Her eye was gone, but the little silk patch covered that. There was no pain anymore; they'd rebuilt her shattered jaw and done what they could to reshape her nose. The result was hideous, but she had grown used to it. Champagne sustained her. When her doctor warned her of the effect on her liver and kidneys, she dismissed him. When they gave out, it would be time to stop.

Robbery, they'd said. A petty thief surprised in her bedroom. But Pauline Duvalier knew better. She suspected that the police knew better too, but there was nothing they could do about it. She hadn't been robbed; she'd been punished. She hadn't surprised the thief; he had surprised her. She had gone into her bedroom to change for lunch, and then there was a blow and total blackness. He must have watched her, crept in after her when she entered the house. And then systematically beaten her. In all the years that followed, she had never understood why. And then she'd read about the murders at a Mafia wedding. Sitting up in bed with her breakfast tray, the array of newspapers spread out, she'd seen the name. Falconi. Steven Falconi's widow. She had read the details, studied the gory photographs. Falconi. That was the name of the last man she had slept with. The handsome American on his honeymoon in that same hotel.

Widow. He was dead, then. Had she known he was a big name in the Mafia, it might have made her think before picking him up in the bar. Or it might have intrigued her, added extra spice to the liaison. She hadn't been afraid in those days. She was confident then, confident in her looks and her wealth. He had been a very satisfactory lover. An angry man making love to a stranger while his bride slept alone.

She never saw him again. And a week later she was attacked and maimed for life. Almost killed.

Her friends had been very loyal; people who had known her late husband offered help and hospitality when she came out of the hospital. But when she looked in the mirror, she knew what the answer must be. Flowers from the manager and staff at the Hôtel de Paris had given her the solution. She could never live in a house alone, or be left alone again. She went from the hospital to a permanent suite at the hotel, and she had been there ever since. It was her home, and she was free to live there until she drank herself to death. It was taking a very long time.

Falconi. She mouthed the name. She had just heard it, the brittle voices only a few feet away, discussing a gala at some casino … and then the shrill young woman: “your boss, Mr. Falconi …”

And the nasal English answer: “Shush. Keep it down, darling.”

Her heart had begun beating too fast. She'd been warned about that too.

She knew the Englishman by sight. He used to be one of the publicity people at the Monte Carlo casino. That was a long time ago; he'd been there when her husband used to gamble.

She watched them leave arm in arm, to keep their tryst in the “nice double on the second floor.”

Falconi.

She could remember him vividly. Their cool formality. Madame Duvalier. Monsieur Falconi. Never Steven or Pauline, even in the lazy aftermath of lovemaking. Falconi. The Mafia. “Gangsters don't exactly grow on one.” She called the barman over. He'd been there for three years. He looked after her. Nobody ever got her seat in the corner, even on the days when she didn't feel like leaving her suite. He was almost a friend: he looked at her so kindly.

“Madame?”

She said, “Who were those people—the couple that just left?”

He leaned toward her. “Monsieur Maxton and the lady? I do not know her name; I think it is Madeleine. He brings her here sometimes. Why—did they disturb you?”

“No, no. But they talked so loudly. He works for the casino, does he not?”

“Not for some years now, madame. He runs the new one down at Antibes. It is a big success, I believe.”

“Ah,” she said. “And who owns that? I heard him talk about someone called Falconi.…”

“Not Falconi.” The barman shook his head. “It is an American, Steven Lawrence, who is the front man. Nobody knows for certain who is behind it. There have been rumors that it is the Mafia.” He spoke very quietly. “This is the only place where they can't get a foothold. Maxton could not ever come back here if he's mixed up with them.” Then he said, “You're not worried, are you, madame?” He was genuinely sorry for her. She had her odd ways, and she could be irritable and demanding. But she was generous, and she never carried a complaint to the management.

“No, I'm not worried. Why should I be? I was just interested, that's all. Eugène, I want you to do something for me.” She opened her handbag and began taking out franc notes.

“Find out about this casino. They talked about a gala evening.” She pushed the money toward him.

He shook his head. “That's not necessary. I can ask for you.” He lifted the champagne out of its nest and checked the level.

Pauline Duvalier thrust the money into his pocket. “Don't be stupid, take it. And pour me the rest of that. Let me know about this gala.”

“Yes, madame. Thank you very much.”

He went back to the bar. It was very strange. She hadn't left the hotel for nearly twelve years. Maybe she was going off her head. But the tip was a big one. The questions were easy to answer. At lunchtime, he crossed the room to help her up from the table. It was a sign of courtesy since she was actually steady on her feet. She gave him the pack of playing cards. “Keep them for me for this evening,” she said. “And one more favor. Find out what this Steven Lawrence looks like.”

O'Halloran had been living in Valbonne for six weeks when Clara summoned him back to Paris. He looked around the apartment in the Rue Constantine. He'd never seen anything like it. “This is one helluva place. And you've fixed it up so fast!”

Clara shrugged. “It's all right. It needs doing over properly, but that can wait.”

“You're going to stay here alone?” he asked her. She'd met his flight from Nice at Charles de Gaulle Airport. He hadn't expected her, and it pleased him. She had moods. Moods when she felt sexy, moods when she behaved like a bully, and other, softer moods, which made him feel he was important.

“I've got a maid,” Clara answered. “She sleeps down the hall. I got your old room back in the Place de l'Opéra.”

“Thanks.” No invitation to move in. But perhaps an invitation to stay the night; he badly wanted that. She seemed on edge, smoking too much, moving about with restless energy. He said, “Clara, why don't you relax? Stop burning yourself out.”

“Why don't you get us both a drink and then get down to business. I want the details, everything.”

“Okay, okay. Scotch coming up, followed by progress report. Just try and sit still, for Christ's sake. You'll wear out the floor.”

She bit back an angry retort. She'd taken him into her bed; he'd naturally presume on that. She needed him too much to slap him down. She threw herself into the deep sofa, watching him move across the room, getting the drinks. He moved well; he was fit and light on his feet. He was a crack shot with a revolver. He told her he had trophies for marksmanship at home.

“He's going by the name Lawrence. The name she uses. He bought this place a couple of years ago. Spent like crazy and turned it into the smartest casino outside of Monte Carlo. He employed this guy Maxton to negotiate and set it up for him. They rented a villa and then bought it last year. Her old man died recently in England. The son is around eighteen years old and in school over there. You want to see pictures?”

“How did you find out all this? Where did you get the pictures?”

“From the maid. It's pretty much a village up there. I took a room and hung around. I said I was an artist. Set up an easel and painted by numbers. So long as I spent money and bought wine, nobody gave a damn what I was doing. The maid came to buy groceries, and the old dame behind the counter couldn't wait to tell me what a good job she and her mother had, working for the rich American who owned the casino at Antibes. So I picked her up in the café, and we went on from there.”

Clara was not really listening. He had an envelope, and the photographs were sticking out of the open flap. She reached forward and took them. O'Halloran went on talking.

“It wasn't too difficult to get her to gossip about them. She was full of yap. I got the feeling she didn't like him much. I had to pay for those,” he said, pointing at the pictures. “They sure know the value of money.”

Steven was smiling up at her, with his arm around a tall, dark boy, his double. She felt as if she were being knifed. In another photograph, a woman with blond hair was laughing at the camera, wearing a sundress that showed her to be full-breasted, smooth-skinned.

O'Halloran leaned over. “That's her. Jesus, you really had it figured. I didn't believe it until I went to see her old man in England.”

“She's nothing,” Clara said slowly. “She looks like nothing.” He could see she was going to tear the picture to pieces. He took it away from her and put it back in the envelope.

“Like I said,” he reminded her. “How could any guy want to leave you? She's nothing, you're right. Just another blonde.”

“He threw everything away for her,” Clara said slowly. “He could have ended up the head of all the families. My father would be alive today if he hadn't run out on us. It must have been for the son. That's what got to him. That's what I couldn't give him. And there was no reason, no goddamned, fucking reason, why he never got me pregnant.”

She was on her feet by then. He didn't try to stop her. He had never imagined she could cry.

“I went everywhere. Every specialist, every quack practitioner promising miracles. I made him take a test; I thought it was him. I thought she must have cheated on him, and I said so. He hated me for that. He hated me for being jealous—he hated me period! His test was okay. He had his pride in his dead wife and baby, and I had nothing! You know what happened on my wedding night? He was screwing me, Mike, and he yelled out her name. ‘Angelina!'”

O'Halloran said, “Jesus,” under his breath.

She stopped in front of him. “I was crazy about him. He went with a woman on our honeymoon. I wanted to kill him, kill myself.…”

There was a moment, as he watched and listened, when he recoiled. He had his soft side; he was a fond father, and he loved his wife, even if he did get between the sheets with other women now and then. He didn't like this kind of savage self-exposure. He felt as if she might tear at her clothes, claw at her skin. It wasn't love as he understood love. The word “evil” came into his mind. He was very close to getting up and getting out while the going was good.