The Scarlet Thread (50 page)

He said aloud, “I've told you all I'm going to tell you. When I don't trust a man, he doesn't work for me. Anything else?”

“No,” Maxton said evenly, and turned away. His walk was nonchalant, hands thrust into his pockets, insolence in every line of the tall, angular body.

He opened the door and looked back. “You know, Steven, you remind me of those gentlemen in Las Vegas who let my poor friend drown himself for a couple of thousand dollars. What a bloody fool I was to think you were any different!” He closed the door quietly behind him.

That evening, Maxton was lying on his bed, his shoes kicked off, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He'd made the gesture, salvaged something of his self-respect. Falconi had winced at that parting shot. It helped, but only a little. He'd forced himself to be practical, reminding himself of those hungry days after he'd left Monte Carlo—the dwindling money, the borrowing, the move to cheaper hotels, which ended in a single room in a mean boardinghouse. He got out his bank statements and calculated. He had enough to keep him comfortably on the coast for at least six months, while he looked for a job.

But six months could pass very quickly; inertia was always at his elbow, urging him to wait in times of trouble for something to turn up. He wasn't going to risk it again. Italy, he'd said to Mike O'Halloran. There were rich resorts on the Italian Riviera, fine casinos. Italy meant losing touch with Angela, though. Out of sight, out of mind. He'd been so sure that he would be in place, ready to step forward when the inevitable happened and there was a second crisis between her and Falconi. A repeat of the near miss at Christmas. But the cards had run against him. Falconi had found an opportunity to get rid of him. In Maxton's view, he'd been waiting for an excuse ever since that little bastard Charlie had put in a bad word after Hugh Drummond died. He owed the kid for that. He didn't even think of him as Angela's son. To Maxton he was an enemy, a clone of his father.

He was sunk in bitter thoughts when he heard the telephone ring. It was that ubiquitous friendly American. He almost cut him off with a curt excuse.

“Come on over, Ralph,” he heard him say. “I think I've got a proposition for you. Can you make it right away?” But he sounded different, not friendly, not so hail-fellow-well-met. He was cool and businesslike. Maxton considered for a moment. Why not? What did he have to lose when the alternative was an evening spent alone in fruitless longing for someone who was now even further out of reach.

He said, “I guess there's no harm in a drink and a chat. I'll be along in half an hour.” Then he tried to probe: “What kind of proposition is it?”

O'Halloran answered, “See you in half an hour,” and hung up.

In spite of the air-conditioning, the room was hot and smoky. As soon as he opened the door and saw O'Halloran sitting there with his feet on the coffee table, Maxton knew everything had changed. The American
was
different. No tie, crumpled shirt, cigarette butts and a half-empty bottle of Scotch, a glass on the floor beside him. At first he thought,
He's drunk
, and could have kicked himself for bothering to come. But he wasn't. He had simply shed a skin. “Come on in, pal. Take a glass and help yourself. Found another job yet?”

“No.” Maxton was cautious. He didn't take a drink. “I haven't looked. It's early yet. I'm not rushing anything.”

“You see much of that bastard Falconi?” It was delivered straight, like a blow. Maxton prided himself on taking the unexpected in his stride. He managed very well, considering. “Sorry,” he said. “Who did you say?”

Mike shook his head at him. He had shrewd eyes and a mouth that could set like a trap. Not the same man at all. He'd put on a very convincing act, Mr. Mike O'Halloran.

“Cut the crap, Ralph,” he said. “I know who he is, the same as you. As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. You're not the only one he's screwed up. And you're not the only one who hates his guts. It's my guess you've got the balls to do something about it. How would you like to earn yourself half a million dollars?”

Half a million dollars. Maxton didn't try to sleep that night after he left O'Halloran. He took his car and drove along the coast road, all the way past Juan-les-Pins, past the casino at Antibes in the palace where his great-uncle had dallied in the palmy days before the Russian Revolution; on through Nice itself, still pulsing with life in the restaurants and bars. He drove through Beaulieu and the little fishing village of Villefranche and up onto the Moyenne Corniche above Monte Carlo. When he stopped the car, there was a magical view of Monaco itself: the yachts in the harbor, all lit up, the pleasure palaces of the rich, the casino complex in all its extravagant glory. The sea was like black satin, streaked by moonlight. A light breeze fanned his face as he stood by the side of the car, looking at the mirage that had been his life. Half a million. Five hundred thousand dollars. For the life of Steven Falconi.

He lit a cigarette. He'd tried to take it as a joke at first. But the American wasn't amused. He'd gone on talking, overriding Maxton when he protested. There'd been an option, of course. All he had to do was turn around and walk out. He didn't have to listen to the proposition when it became a matter of murder. He didn't have to pour himself a drink and stay. But he had done so. And O'Halloran had known he would. The man had judged him and come up with an answer Maxton would not have thought possible. He was prepared to listen.

He remembered saying: “Why so much money? It's a fortune. You could hire someone in Marseilles for a few thousand francs.”

And then O'Halloran had known he was ready to talk business. No criminal connection. Nothing that could lead back to his client. A clean killing, the payoff, and a ticket on the next plane leaving Nice. The gangsters in Marseilles, the Mafia in Nice, would be obvious suspects in any crime connected with gambling.

And then the next questions, drawing him further in.

“Who's paying for this?”

“A client,” O'Halloran had said. “Who is none of your business. You want time to think about it?”

Maxton had tested him—or perhaps himself. “How do you know I won't tell the police?”

The American had grinned. It was a sneer he didn't try to hide. “You won't even think about it; you've made your mind up already, pal. I'll call you at home tomorrow. Don't try contacting me; I'm checking out right now.”

Maxton had one last try. “If I say no?”

“No sweat,” O'Halloran said. “Someone else'll do the job and collect the dough.” He'd got up and opened the door for Maxton.

A fortune. Enough money to start all over again. To change his way of life. A house in England, a stable future. Angela would need him. She would turn to him, as she had done before. He was in the best of all positions. The faithful friend, ready to comfort and protect after a tragedy. All he had to do was nerve himself to just one desperate act, and he would scoop the pool. He would be truly happy. Conscience wouldn't be a problem. He had never had one. He prided himself on regretting nothing except when it turned out badly for himself. If he did what was needed, it wouldn't haunt him. He'd break the bank and walk away for the only time in his life, and without a backward glance. He threw his cigarette over the side of the road, into the abyss below. Starting the engine, he drove very carefully back down the dangerous road to the safety of the coast.

Angela and Steven were eating breakfast out on the terrace. They were waiting for Charlie to join them, and they talked about the success of the gala.

“It was great!” Steven exclaimed. “Full house, some big spenders. “We're home, sweetheart, home and dried, as your father used to say.”

“He did, didn't he. It sounds so funny when you repeat his expressions. I often think how kind you were to him. He was really fond of you.”

“I liked him a lot,” Steven said gently. “Is Anna coming down?”

“It's too early.” Angela smiled at him. “The doting father will have to wait till she's had her bath and is ready to go out in the pram. I'd better go and call Charlie; he's overslept again. I'm afraid we'll miss him when he goes back to school.” He was leaving the next morning.

“We will,” he confirmed. “But he'll be back with us for good in a few weeks. I'll have to talk with him about his future.” He paused. “Angela …”

“Yes?” She was on her feet, ready to run up and wake their son.

“Ralph's given notice,” he said. “He's leaving.”

She came and sat down again. “Oh, no! Why? When did this happen?”

He didn't lie to her. “I've known he was going for a while. He told me last night he didn't want to see the season out.”

“But didn't you try and persuade him?” she asked.

He hesitated for a moment. Then he looked up at her. “No, I didn't. I think it's best he goes.”

“Steven, it's not because of all that nonsense Charlie started? Don't tell me you really took any notice.…” She looked distressed.

He said quickly, “No, darling. Maybe he was a bit soft on you—so what? It was nothing like that, I promise. I guess for some reason he's gone sour on me. We haven't been getting along for some time; he wants out. So you see, it's better this way.”

“Yes,” Angela said. “I suppose it is. But it's sad, all the same. We were all so happy, and we worked so well together. What will you do now?”

“I'll give Louis a trial; he knows the running of the business. I'll find someone to do the PR by the end of the year. We've had so much coverage we don't need anyone for a while.”

“I expect he'll come and say goodbye,” Angela said. “I'm so sorry it had to end badly. There was something pathetic about him; I always felt it.”

“Who's pathetic, Mum?” Charlie stood there, smiling and looking cheerful. A good-looking young man, brimming with confidence in himself and his world.

“I was talking about Ralph,” she said. “He's leaving.”

“Good,” her son said. “And he's not pathetic. He just put that on to get round you. I'm starving. Any coffee left?” Charlie sat down and started eating breakfast.

“I'll go and see how Anna's doing,” Steven said, getting up. “Darling, why don't you drive down and I'll take you out to lunch today.”

Angela smiled up at him. “I'd love to. Where shall we go?”

“Leave it to me.” He bent and kissed her. “I'll surprise you.” He strode away.

Angela looked at her son. “Why do you hate Ralph?”

Charlie set down his coffee. “Because he hates my father,” he said calmly. “I haven't liked him smarming round you, either, and playing up to poor old Grandpa. It's all been part of the process.… But it's the way he looks at Dad. He never thought I noticed. I never liked him or trusted him. I'm glad he's going. Don't be too sorry for him, Mum. He's a nasty piece of work. Can I have another croissant?”

“I didn't realize you were so implacable,” his mother said. “You're very young still, Charlie. Don't judge too harshly.” She got up and left him.

He finished his breakfast. She was too softhearted for her own good. If you have an enemy, why treat him like a friend? It didn't make sense. He went off to pick up his tennis partner.

Steven found a charming little restaurant in the hills above Mougins. It was an old farmhouse, imaginatively converted, with tables set out on a terrace, shaded by olive trees, that had a commanding view of the valley. The food was simple but excellent; it was remote enough not to attract tourists. He was in a happy mood, holding her hand as they sat under an umbrella and ordered lunch. He looked at her, and his heart was full of contentment.

Life had been good to him, he thought. His wife, his son and his little daughter. The child was growing visibly, smiling, developing into a person in her own right. He had everything he could desire, and he owed it all to Angela. “You know something?” he said suddenly. “You're as good as you are pretty. And I mean good.”

She was embarrassed. “Don't be silly, darling. I'm not good at all.”

“I think so,” he said. “You've made sense of so many things for me. You've brought up a fine son too. And I've never known you to do or say a rotten thing to anyone. I wonder what I've done to deserve you.”

“I wonder.” She made light of it. “You're in a funny mood today.”

“Happy,” he corrected. “It's all come right for us, hasn't it?”

“It certainly has.”

“Maybe I shouldn't say that. In Sicily, you don't boast about good fortune. It makes the gods jealous.”

“We're not in Sicily,” she reminded him gently. “So we don't have to worry.”

He stroked her arm, catching her fingers, playing with the wedding ring. The same ring he'd been given by a frightened jeweler in Palermo all those years ago. “You're right,” he said. “We don't. Here comes our lunch. Maybe we might slip home for an hour or so afterward.…”

“Why not? The afternoons were always our best times.”

The villa, when they returned, was very quiet; it was the siesta hour. Charlie had gone off with his friends for the day. Janine and her mother were resting, as were the nurse and the baby. It was the hottest part of the day, even in the cool hills. The sun throbbed in the brazen sky about them. The air was still and heavy with heat. As they walked through the gardens, he said to her, “Remember the first time? When I took you into the hills? It was hot like this.”

“You talked about the gods,” she reminded him. “I poured some wine on the ground.”

“And we made love out there. Why don't we just walk and find a place …?”

There was shade beneath the olive trees; the earth was cushioned in soft grass.

Afterward, it was Steven who put it into words. “It wasn't the same, my darling: it was something new—different from any other time. Or any place.” She reached out and kissed him. “When will I ever get tired of making love to you? It's always different. It's always the best.”