The Assassin (22 page)

‘Okay,' she whispered, looking up, trying to see him in the dark. ‘I'll try.'

‘You better do more than try,' King said. ‘You better succeed, unless you want to risk Huntley throwing you out. She could have said anything against you last night.' He reached out and switched on the light. ‘It's seven-forty-five,' he said. ‘Get up and get out of here. Go to her room by eight o'clock, Dallas, and, remember, everything depends on you now. You get her out of the house and down to that pool while I see Huntley!'

‘I'll do it, Eddi,' she said. ‘Why should she screw up my chances—I've worked hard to get settled With you rooting for me, I'll make it. I know that.' She got up, paused at the door and smiled at him. The body and the technique were superb, he thought, but even in that light the face was fraying round the edges.

‘We can still have fun together,' she said softly. ‘I'll be good to you, Eddi.'

He went under the shower and made his plans, calmly and with his usual attention to the smallest detail. Dallas would get the girl down to the pool; he wouldn't go near Huntley, that was the last thing he intended doing. He would follow the two women down after a short interval, and then join them. In the water he would be able to deal with Elizabeth Cameron.

Elizabeth was awake when Dallas came into her room. She hadn't been able to sleep through the few hours that were left of the night. A murder was going to be committed, one of those grim political killings that had suddenly stained the great American nation with innocent blood; that was horrifying enough. The life of one cheap huckster. That was how her uncle had described the assassination of a human being, however contemptible, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. Except tell Peter Mathews what was being planned. And if she did that Keller was immediately involved. If they investigated Cameron's and King's conspiracy they must uncover the man she loved. If she did nothing, and she could get to Keller first, help him to get out of the country, then she could tell Mathews what her uncle was going to do. There wasn't any doubt in Elizabeth's mind. Everything her uncle said was true about the consequences of Jackson's being elected. But killing him was not the way to stop it. Using violence was the the easy solution, but the wrong one. Whatever Jackson was, coming down to his level was not the way to beat him, or the forces which he represented. She had forgotten about Dallas; when the woman came in, smiling in her usual ingratiating way, she noticed suddenly that she looked haggard and as if she had been crying. ‘Hello,' Elizabeth said. ‘Come in; I'm just having my coffee. Join me?'

‘No thanks, honey.' Dallas kept the hatred out of her eyes, she made her voice sweeter than normal. She sat on the edge of the bed while Elizabeth poured coffee from her breakfast tray, and ate a piece of toast. Women never came down for breakfast at Freemont. It was Huntley's directive that women should keep out of the way until he'd had time to get up himself and organise his day.

‘I'll get another cup,' Elizabeth said. She realised what that intrusion last night must have meant to the unhappy woman. She picked up the telephone to ring down. ‘It doesn't work,' she said. ‘Must be a fault somewhere. I'll report it when I go downstairs.'

‘I'm sorry to bust in on you,' Dallas said, ‘but I want to talk to you, Elizabeth. I've got to talk to you about last night.'

‘I'm sorry.' She reached out on an impulse and touched the older woman's hand. ‘I'm so terribly sorry I disturbed you and Huntley, Dallas, but I had to do it, I just had to. Please believe me.'

‘Oh, sure.' There was nothing in Dallas' eyes or face to suggest that she didn't accept the apology. Sure, she said, in her silent conversation with herself, sure you had to; you just had to stop him laying me, and getting all cosy again, because you want the money for yourself. And you're so sorry, aren't you, honey? … ‘Sure I believe you,' Dallas said. ‘But I'm in trouble. I'm in real trouble and I thought …' She hesitated, acting the part for an Academy Award. ‘I hoped maybe you'd be able to help—you wouldn't mind, would you, Elizabeth, letting me talk to you about it?'

‘Of course I wouldn't.' Elizabeth had never felt more sorry for her. Living under the whims of a man like Huntley was bad enough; suffering the snubs and humiliations which he inflicted on her without thinking had made Dallas into the cringing travesty of a rich man's mistress. Elizabeth actually took hold of her hand and held it. ‘I'll do anything I can to help you,' she said. ‘I know my uncle; if you need a friend, Dallas, I'm right with you.'

For a moment Dallas was shaken. It seemed so genuine; there were even tears in the girl's eyes. But it couldn't be; she was just a clever bitch, playing for first prize in the money stakes. Eddi King had said she was an enemy; he must know. ‘Look,' she said, ‘I can't talk here. Come down to the pool with me. We can be private there. We can have a swim and I can tell you what it's all about—please, honey, come on down as soon as you've finished your breakfast?'

‘I have finished,' Elizabeth said. ‘I could do with a swim; I didn't sleep well last night. I guess you didn't either. Poor Dallas. Don't worry, whatever it is, we'll think of something.'

‘I'll come back in five minutes,' Dallas said. She wasn't leaving anything to chance. ‘We can go to the pool together.'

The pool was open-air; Huntley disliked swimming indoors, and he solved the problem by having the pool heated to a temperature of 82° and surrounding it with a fifteen-foot dry wall. A heating system operated within the area from a generator built into the foundations, so that the atmosphere was mild in winter, and an electrically operated glass roof in two sections could slide over the pool area to protect it from rain. There were the usual changing rooms, a bar, an elaborate barbecue, and his latest addition—a sauna bath, with a small separate pool of ice-cold water. The sun was shining, and within the sheltered, artificially warmed patio it was hot enough to lie out in a swimming suit. Elizabeth and Dallas had walked down together, and when they reached the patio Dallas still hadn't pieced together a story which justified the drama with which she had invested the morning swim. She decided to play for time. ‘Let's swim first,' she said. Then we can have something hot, like coffee and rum or something, and we can talk. I'll go order it now.' She went into the bar and picked up the house telephone. When Huntley visited the pool there was a barman on duty; otherwise guests phoned through for what they wanted if it wasn't available and it was sent down from the castle.

‘Two large Jamaican coffees,' Dallas ordered. ‘In about ten minutes. And bring some cookies, okay? Thanks.' She called to Elizabeth, who was stretched out on a canvas chaise-longue.

‘I'm going to get changed, honey. Coffee's coming.'

As Elizabeth got up the telephone buzzed in the bar; she went over and picked it up. It was the guard on duty at the front gate. ‘Sorry to disturb you. Miss Cameron. There's a man here says he's a friend of yours. A Mr Peter Mathews. Is it all right if he comes through? Will you authorise entry?' Elizabeth put a hand over the mouthpiece for a second. Pete Mathews. Of course, Leary wanted a report. In the few seconds she controlled a panic impulse to refuse him entry, to tell the guard she'd never heard of him, to do anything to stall the questions which she couldn't answer. Not before seeing Keller. But that wasn't the way. That wouldn't gain anything. She had better see him, find out what he wanted. But not there, not with Dallas listening.

‘Miss Cameron? You still there?' The man's voice came through the mouthpiece on a louder note; she spoke back quickly.

‘Yes, I'm here. I know Mr Mathews. You can let him in, and ask him to wait in the front courtyard. I'll be right over.' She put the phone down, and as she did so, Dallas came out of the changing cubicle. She had heard the phone ring, and struggled into her bathing suit in a panic, thinking that it might be Huntley. ‘A friend of mine's come down,' Elizabeth explained. That was the man on the gate.'

‘Oh.' Dallas made it bright and casual. It wasn't Huntley, that was all she cared about. ‘Anyone I know?'

‘I don't think so,' Elizabeth said. ‘Peter Mathews; he was a boy friend of mine a long time ago. But you'll like him. He's very amusing; I'll bring him down here. And don't worry,' she said gently. ‘We'll have our talk a little later.'

‘Hurry back,' Dallas said. It didn't matter where Elizabeth went so long as she kept out of Huntley's way and left Eddi King time to find out the score on Dallas' behalf. ‘Hey,' she called out, ‘I left my cap behind, can I borrow yours? My hair gets in such a mess …' She went back to the pool; Elizabeth's suit and cap were rolled up beside the chair. She picked up the swimming cap; it was a plain white helmet, not pretty, with plastic flowers like her own cap, which she had forgotten in the rush. It had a broad black stripe running down the middle and at least it would keep her hair properly dry. She pulled it on, tucked her hair tightly underneath and dived into the steaming water.

She was a good swimmer; the exercise kept her figure in shape. Her family came from the Eastern seaboard; her father kept a small grocery store, and Dallas played on the beaches and learned to swim from the time she could walk. She turned on her back, easing along through the water in a backstroke; she saw a maid bring the coffee and go away again. She swam the length of the pool lying deep in the water. Then she turned over and began the strenuous butterfly stroke for the return length. And that was when King slipped out of the changing room where he had hidden as the maid rounded the path with the tray of coffee. He saw the half-submerged figure in the water, the distinctive Olympic style cap that Elizabeth Cameron always wore; the last time they had swum in that pool, before going to Beirut together, he had teased her about wearing it. Dallas wasn't there. This was lucky, but it wouldn't have mattered if she had been. She must be in a changing room; the two cups of laced coffee were untouched in the bar. He didn't dive into the pool; he slipped in off the edge on the opposite side to the swimmer, a little behind and out of sight. He came up behind her on a silent, powerful breast stroke. And then he leapt. He came down on her back, his legs gripping her middle, his weight plunging her under the surface. There mustn't be a struggle, because this would mean bruises; she swam too well to try to hold under water. He found the carotid artery on the side of her neck, and pressed hard with his thumb, not touching her throat. A second later the threshing body slackened; he opened his legs and floated away from her, watching the bubbles rise in a froth as the mouth, opening in unconsciousness, sucked in water and expelled air. He didn't wait to see her drown. Pressure on that artery knocked a man out for several minutes; a direct blow could kill. He climbed out and ran to where he had left his clothes. There was no sign of Dallas. He was having all the luck. Nobody need ever know he had been there at all. Elizabeth had been swimming when she drowned. He turned for a second look at the pool. There was nothing on the surface and the air bubbles had stopped bursting.

‘I'm sorry about dragging you away like this, Liz, but Schloss Freemont always did give me the hives. I guess I'm just a serf at heart.'

‘I'm glad to get away,' Elizabeth answered. Mathews had suggested a drive out immediately. He had been insistent in his charming way, and she had got a coat and come with him, realising that she too felt safer when they were outside the wall.

‘Leary wanted to know if you had any news,' he said. He was driving slowly, taking his time on the sunny morning drive back to the city. He had been thinking on his way down, and taking her back to his apartment and putting pressure on her seemed the last resort. First, he had to decide if she were working actively with Eddi King; if this was so, then Leary's expert interrogators were the right people to deal with her. If she were protecting the mysterious man for personal motives, then perhaps the soft approach was the wiser one. He had been angry in Leary's office; part of that anger was injured pride, he recognised that now. Elizabeth had found someone else; but not someone from their own milieu, a husband, a lover, he wouldn't have minded about that. But a stranger, capable of giving her what he, so obviously, had not; this had made him angry. If he took Elizabeth home and began trying to beat the information out of her it wouldn't be impersonal. And being impersonal was the prerequisite for this kind of questioning. If it came to that level, then it was better for someone else to do it. He glanced at her sideways; she seemed tired and nervous, smoking continuously.

‘Eddi King is there,' she said. ‘Staying the weekend. I have a feeling he's got my uncle mixed up in something.' She lit another cigarette and her hand was shaking.

Mathews noticed it; she was under a strain, and she wasn't good at hiding it. At that moment he would have staked his job that whatever she had hidden from Leary. Elizabeth was no professional. ‘Any idea what it could be?'

‘I don't know,' she went on slowly, trying to be careful, not to say too much. ‘But it must be political. They're always talking politics.'

‘What are King's politics?' Mathews said. ‘I mean what does he pretend they are?'

‘Very right wing,' she answered. ‘The absolute opposite of the Democrats. When you say pretend—you're pretty sure he's a traitor, aren't you?'

‘Absolutely certain.' Mathews did a racing change as he answered and for a moment the car gathered speed. It was a Jensen; he had always driven a fast, expensive foreign car. It was what he described as part of his charm.

‘He's working for the Reds,' he said. ‘That's the funny thing about this business, Liz. You get one lead, that meeting with Marcel Druet in Paris, for example, and then all of a sudden other bits and pieces start fitting into the one piece until you start to see a pattern. We've had quite a few extras to build up in the last couple of days.' Including the evidence about you, he said to himself, easing his foot off the accelerator, slowing down. He didn't want to get back too quickly. He wanted to draw her out more if he could.