The Scarlet Thread (47 page)

“I'll pay half a million dollars,” she said.

He stayed where he was. He said after a pause, “What are you buying with it, Clara?”

She sat down beside him; she reached for her drink and sipped it. She was suddenly cool. “My peace of mind,” she said. “My family's honor. I want them dead, Mike. All of them. I'll pay half a million dollars to the man who fixes it. Or does it.”

He reached for his own glass. His hand wasn't quite steady. “You could get the President of the United States knocked off for that.”

“For less,” she corrected him.

He still didn't get up and leave. “With your contacts, that shouldn't be too much of a problem,” he said.

“I can't use them. No one from back home would touch a contract for me. The word's gone out. No trouble. That's why I'm here. That's why I need you, Mike. I need you to find someone for me. But we won't talk about it now. Tell me about the man my husband hired. What was the name?”

“Maxton,” he said. “Ralph Maxton.” He was finding it hard to concentrate. It wasn't the Scotch. He had a head like a rock.

“Tell me about him,” Clara insisted. Her voice was soft. She laid a hand on his knee. She had long red nails and very white skin.

Half a million dollars. And she meant it. She had the money. “He's English,” he said. “His old man's some kind of lord. They kicked him out for stealing and gambling. He was into every kind of shit before he came out here. He worked in Monaco; they caught him playing the roulette wheel, and he was out. Then your husband picked him up. He sounds the kind who'd do anything for money.”

“And where did you get all this?”

“From his old bosses at the casino. They're not too pleased with him in Monte Carlo. He's done too good a job pulling some of their customers into the new place. They don't like him for it. They hoped they were getting him in some kind of trouble.”

“He'd need money,” she said thoughtfully. “If he gambles, he'd always need money.”

“That's what I figured,” O'Halloran said. “But we can't rush it. We've got to get an angle on this guy first. He doesn't fit into the picture they gave me up in Monaco.”

“Why not?”

“Because the maid Janine talked about him too. He's some kind of family friend, from what she said. Stays at the villa to take care of the wife, goes to England with them at Christmas. He's gotten himself stuck in there.”

Clara snapped impatiently, “Then why waste time on him? Why the hell think he'll be any use?”

“Because from what she said, he's got the hots for the wife.”

Clara stared at him, then said, “And my husband doesn't know? They're cheating on him?”

“No. That Janine would bad-mouth anyone, but she didn't even try that one. She said Maxton was crazy about her. ‘Madame doesn't see it,' she told me. She was smirking all over her face. ‘And Monsieur Lawrence must be blind.' She's the kind that gets a kick out of that kind of situation. I guess she looks through the keyhole when they're in bed.”

Clara was silent. He waited. He hadn't told her the woman was pregnant. He didn't think she was ready to hear about that yet. He said, “If it was only your husband, this could be the guy. He could have two motives. The money and the widow. But we're speculating, Clara. Nothing adds up till I've made contact with him.”

“And you think you'd be able to judge?” she demanded.

“I spent the best part of twenty years with crooks, and I always reckoned I could smell the ones who'd murder. Why don't I go to this gala and take a look at him?”

“Why don't you?” Clara said quietly. “And if you like what you see, Mike, then maybe I should meet with him. I went to the casino at Monte Carlo on my honeymoon with Steven. Maybe he was there. When is this gala?”

“Middle of May,” he told her. “I'd have to get an invitation. They're pretty choosy who gets in.”

She smiled at him. “You'll fix it,” she said. “Show someone a wad, and turn on the charm. Now why don't we eat? You like Algerian food?”

He stroked the back of her neck, feeling the small nape and the silky hair under his fingers. “I've never eaten any,” he said.

“It's spicy. I like it. And you'll stay, won't you?”

“I'll stay,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her. Half a million dollars. He could really get out from under if he had that kind of money.

Meantime she was writhing under him like a beautiful snake. They didn't eat till very late.

NINE

“It's a girl,” Steven said. “She's beautiful!”

“That's great,” Piero said, “Just great! The mother's okay?” He covered the telephone mouthpiece and shouted to Lucia: “Steven's had a girl.… Yeah, yeah, I'm here. So what's she weigh?” He was an expert on babies. Lucia was expecting their fourth child.

“Just six pounds,” Steven said. “She came a little early, but it was easy, and Angela's fine. Tell Mama, won't you? And Papa …”

“I'll tell them,” Piero promised. “Mama will be happy. You know how she is about babies. Listen, Steven, maybe we could come out and visit and bring her. How would that be?”

“You think Papa would let her go?”

“I don't know. We could talk about it. Lucia and me and the kids would love to see you. We miss you, Steven.”

“I miss you too,” was the reply. “How's everything? No troubles?”

“No troubles,” Piero assured him. “No Fabrizzis, no troubles.” He laughed. “And Clara's gone off on her broomstick! If Papa'd see sense, you could come home and bring the family with you.”

Steven didn't answer. Whether his father forgave him or not, he would never go back, and never bring his wife and family. He said, “It's good to talk to you, Piero. Give everyone my love, and I'll send you pictures of the baby. She's beautiful. She's like Angela.… I'll call again soon.”

For a moment nostalgia clouded his happiness. He missed them. He missed the warmth that was so much a part of his old life. The birth of a new baby was such a celebration in his family. Everyone participated. Cousins and uncles and relatives stretching way back were all involved in the event. But the nostalgia didn't last; by the time he'd left the phone booth and gone back to Angela's bedside, he'd forgotten his regret.

The baby had come early; there'd been a late-night dash to the hospital, and the little girl was born within two hours. He'd held her in his arms and loved her instantly. As he loved her mother. He'd missed the birth of his son; he wept at the thought of that lonely birth in England, without a husband to comfort and rejoice with Angela. And she smiled with the baby in her arms and told him not to be so silly. She loved him more for those tears than for the pride and happiness that followed. “You said we'd have a girl,” she reminded him, “in that crazy old bed in the hotel at Palermo.”

In the end the nurse insisted he go home and let mother and baby sleep in peace. He came to get them three days later, and drove them back to the villa. He'd filled the rooms with flowers; and in spite of Angela's protests, he'd engaged a nurse to look after the child so she wouldn't get tired.

She telephoned Charlie at school. Steven had already given him the news, as soon as the baby was born. “I wish I could get over,” he said. “I'd love to see you, Mum. But it's right in the middle of exams. They'd have a fit if I suggested it. You sure you're okay? Dad said it was very easy.”

“I'm fine, darling,” she told him. “And don't you think of anything but passing and getting the best marks.… You'll love the baby; she's sweet. Looks a bit like a little monkey—Steven goes mad when I say that! … No, she's quite fair. She may be dark later, but I don't think so.… Yes, I will. You too.”

The baby was christened Anna Joy, after her grandmothers. They delayed the ceremony until Charlie came home, his exams over. To Angela's surprise, Steven refused to have Ralph Maxton as a godfather. Two of their French acquaintances stood for the child. They weren't even close friends. But they were Catholics. Steven wanted his daughter baptized, and Angela didn't object. To her, all religions were much the same. She preferred the less flamboyant Anglican services, but that was only because she had been brought up with them. It was a happy day, and they gave a party at the villa afterward. She went among the guests, carrying her little daughter in her arms. Toasts were drunk, and a handsome cake was cut, to applause from the guests. Maxton had been very generous. Too generous, she felt, since he must have hoped to be a godfather. His gift stood on the table with all the other presents: the exquisite baby clothes, the stuffed animals, the silver dishes and spoons.

Maxton's gift was a silver rattle with a coral handle, festooned with little silver bells.

Angela thanked him, the tiny child, wrapped in lace and silk, fast asleep in her arms. “What a lovely present,” she said. “It looks very old.”

“It is quite old,” he said. “I got a chum in England to get it for me.” The chum was his younger brother, and the rattle was a Maxton heirloom. It had been passed on by tradition to Ralph at his own christening. “I'm glad you like it,' he said to her. “I hope she'll play with it one day.” He touched the miniature closed fist with the tip of his finger. “She's a pretty little thing,” he said. “Very like you.”

“Darling”—Steven had come up beside her—“why don't we give her to the nurse, so you can join in the fun?”

“I
am
having fun,” Angela answered. “Isn't Ralph's present beautiful? What date is it?”

He said, “About 1720. There's the nurse hovering over there—shall I call her for you?”

“Thanks,” Steven said. He was pleasant, but there was a note of firm dismissal in the word.

Maxton gave a crooked smile. “At your service—as always,” and he moved rapidly away through the crowd.

“You should have thanked him for the lovely rattle,” Angela said.

“I thought I did,” Steven answered. “Here, give her to me for a minute.
Bellissima
,” he murmured to his tiny daughter, and kissed her gently on her downy head. “Here, go to Natalie.” He handed her over to the nurse and took Angela by the arm. “Stop frowning at me,” he said quietly. “You make too much of a fuss over him. He might misunderstand it. And it annoys Charlie. It's even starting to annoy me.”

“Then you're both being very silly,” she said.

“Maybe, but we love you too much to share you,” he whispered. She was angry, and he didn't want the day to be spoiled for her. He regretted saying that about Maxton. He shouldn't have brought Charlie into it. For all her gentleness, Angela could be surprisingly firm with their son. Much firmer than he was, he thought. But then why not spoil him? He was a son to be proud of—so handsome and sure of himself. And he was certain to do well on his exams. He was talking about going to college. That was something, Steven exulted. Oxford or Cambridge—the best there was. He talked about the prospect with such enthusiasm that he refused to listen when Angela suggested that perhaps Charlie wasn't exceptional. There were other universities, prestigious enough for most young men. “Not for my boy,” was all he said, and that was that.

“What a charming party … what a beautiful baby …” The compliments flowed like the champagne. It was all so different this time, Angela thought, so different from that other christening, in the village church. Her parents there, the few friends gathered at the house for tea. And dear Jim Hulbert, the good man they'd hoped would marry her one day. He'd left the practice long ago. She'd heard he'd married a widow and set up practice in the Midlands. She could hardly remember what he looked like.

“Are you happy?” Steven asked her. “It's been such a good day, hasn't it? She never even cried when the priest baptized her.”

“I'm very happy,” Angela answered. “I just wish Mum and Dad had been here with us.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “How my father and mother would love to see her. My mother is crazy about my brother's kids. But I'll send pictures.”

The barman at the Hôtel de Paris couldn't believe it. The manager couldn't believe it either. Madame Duvalier was going to the gala at the Casino Poliakoff. Going out for the first time in all these years. The manager was so concerned he went to see her.

“Madame,” he said gently, “do you think it's wise? It's a big occasion, crowds of people. Won't it be too much for you?”

“Don't worry,” she said. “I'll hide my face. Oh, don't be embarrassed—I know that's not what you meant.… You're a good friend. You've taken good care of me. I shall need a car and a driver.”

“That'll be arranged. I was thinking, wouldn't you like someone to escort you? Someone to look after you for the evening?”

She laughed. “You're not suggesting some boy, are you? I used to pick my own men. Maybe I wouldn't be like this if I hadn't.”

He didn't know what she meant by that. She could be very eccentric at times. “One of the staff would be glad to go with you,” he said.

“No, thank you. I can order my own drinks and take myself home when I get bored. It's good of you to think of it. It should be an interesting evening. Won't you join me in a glass of champagne?”

He excused himself. He thought she was insane to contemplate such an excursion after twelve years of seclusion. Cover her face. How?

When he had gone, Pauline Duvalier picked up her glass. He
was
a good friend and not just because she was a permanent source of income. The hotel didn't need her that much. He was kind, protective. She appreciated that; he'd be surprised how much she did, when he learned after her death what she had left him and Eugène and the staff who looked after her.