The Assassin (7 page)

‘You made me hit you,' Elizabeth said slowly. ‘And I'm not in between lovers. There was only one. Years ago.' She got up and went out of the bedroom, Keller following. She saw her reflection in the mirror as she passed; she looked dishevelled, her hair hanging down over her shoulders. She tried to push it back, feeling for the combs that held it up on her head.

‘Leave it alone,' she heard him say. ‘It looks pretty like that.'

‘What are you doing to do?' She should have gone to her room as he said and locked the door. She should have pretended, lied, acted as if she were injured by what had happened between them. But Elizabeth couldn't. She was too honest with herself to try to fool him. She had ended up willing; if he had come back and taken her in his arms at that moment she would have welcomed it.

‘I'm going to get something to eat,' Keller said ‘You don't have to bother about me.'

‘I'll make us both something,' she said. ‘If you're going to stay here, you might as well be comfortable. And I might as well make you welcome. Whatever this whole business is, we're mixed up in it whether we like it or not. I'll get some eggs and some coffee.'

He didn't answer her. He went into the room they had left and started taking his shaving kit and pyjamas out of the bag. With any luck he wouldn't need them. With any real luck somebody would call and he'd be out of that apartment and away from the girl that same day. He didn't like what he had done to her; it was a bad sign, a sign that he wasn't in command of himself. He didn't like the look on her face, or his own irritation when she tried to put her yellow hair up. The whole thing was a crazy ball-up, and he threw his clothes out of the case and swore. He wouldn't go near her again. That was the first thing. He'd keep well away, away from the scent and the accidental contact in case it ignited that sexual spark again. And anyway he didn't want to mess around with her. He had a woman, a woman who loved him and was waiting in Beirut. To earn his fifty thousand dollars he needed to keep clear of all involvements.

In the kitchen Elizabeth closed the door and leaned against it. Her arms were throbbing; there were marks on the skin which would turn into bruises. He had a body like a tank; crushing, unassailable. She thought suddenly of Peter Mathews and the memory was blurred and sloppy, like the man himself, with his pettish ephemeral desire. He had lied her into bed, and lied himself out of it when he had got his own way. She had never understood why her friends wanted the casual affair, or plunged in and out of marriage like divers at a swimming gala. Once was enough for her. She had only to think of it to feel the disillusionment and the hurt all over again. Keller had promised not to touch her again and she believed that he would keep his promise.

She began to make eggs and boil coffee; her hands were steadier now. She brushed the hair back as it fell against her cheek. Later, after they had eaten, she would pin it up again.

King made his rendezvous in Paris. He felt he had earned a few days' rest before he went on to do his legitimate business in Germany. He booked in at the Ritz Hotel in Paris, and enjoyed an excellent dinner and early night. He believed in the refreshing powers of sleep; when he was tired or travelling he napped whenever an opportunity came along. Next day he amused himself going round the antique shops in the Quartier Lebrun, bought a handsome eighteenth-century
boulle bureau plat
and spent the morning arranging for its shipment to his Frankfurt office. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, a fine example of French craftsmanship which he had decided to possess on impulse. For this reason he was sending it to Germany instead of to his New York apartment. It would be easy to move it from Frankfurt. In the evening he took a taxi to an address in the street one block down from the Rue St Honoré. He got out at a splendid nineteenth-century house with an imposing front door, and rang the night bell. He was shown into a large hall, decorated in Empire blue, with several pieces of fine Louis-Philippe furniture and a magnificent crystal chandelier. His hat and coat were taken from him by a maid. He presented his card, and agreed to wait for a moment. When the maid came back she was followed by a woman in her middle fifties, elegantly dressed in a black couture cocktail dress, surrounded by an aura of ‘Joy'.

‘Good evening, Monsieur King. I have a room ready for you. Would you like to come through and see some of the young ladies?'

There were a dozen girls in the green-painted saloon some were dark, others blonde, three were red-headed. All were fashionably dressed in costumes ranging from Puccitype evening trouser suits to severe cocktail black. King made an inspection. They looked up at him and smiled. A girl with a pointed gamine little face and a curly black head, ruffled and trimmed into clever disarrangement, caught and held his look. He indicated her, and at a sign from the proprietress she stood up and came forward. She had a beautiful figure, with large breasts and a neat waist. King imagined her naked. It was as if his mind were read.

‘Go through there, and Monsieur will follow.' She turned to King, her even teeth displayed in a professional smile. ‘You wish to see her undressed,' she said. ‘I can promise you, she won't disappoint you. Her name is Marcelle. She is a charming girl, very amusing, very cultivated. Please, Monsieur King.' She held out her hand, gesturing towards a side door like a duchess showing the way to royalty.

‘No,' King said. ‘I don't wish to embarrass the young lady. I think she will be a perfect companion. I will go up to the room first, and then if you will send her in about half an hour …'

‘As you wish,' she smiled again, inclining her head a little. ‘Come with me. The other gentleman is waiting for you.'

The room was furnished With the same luxury as the rest of the house; the bed was a draped couch, and from the look of it, probably genuine First Empire, with a comfortable mattress. A table with drinks, ice and three glasses was placed under a yellow lamp. A bottle of champagne was in a separate bucket at the side. The room was warm and scented; there were fresh flowers in the vases. A man was sitting waiting for King. He had already poured himself a large gin-and-Dubonnet, and he had been reading
Paris Match
. A faint blue haze of Gauloise cigarette smoke hung over him like a halo in the lamplight. He was older than King, fat and coarse, with a shadowed chin and deep-set black eyes, with heavy rings under them. He looked like a meat porter from Les Halles in his Sunday suit.

His name was Druet; it was not the name he had been born with, but that was long forgotten. He didn't stand up when King came in; he put down the magazine slowly, and looked up slowly. He was more important than King. There wasn't a man in Europe for whom Druet had to get out of his chair.

‘Good evening,' he said. He spoke with a thick Marseilles accent. ‘Get yourself something to drink and let's not waste time. You should have reported yesterday.'

‘I was tired,' King explained. He wondered whether his expedition to the Quartier Lebrun was known. He had met Druet several times before, and he knew what to expect. He disliked Druet, because he was a vulgarian with the manners of a brute; but he was brilliant in his own line, and for that King respected him. He decided to begin as he intended to go on after the interview with Druet. He opened the champagne.

‘Well,' Druet said, ‘get on with it. From the time you left the Lebanon.'

‘I chose the man. He'll do exactly what we want. I saw him shoot and he's first class. I arranged for Cameron's niece to take him through when I was well clear and I heard from my contact in Beirut that they had gone together. I got someone to check with the airline in New York and they were crossed off the passenger list as arrivals. So that part is going according to schedule.'

‘Where is the man now?' Druet asked.

‘In the room booked for him, waiting. I intend to make contact with him when I get back. By telephone.'

Druet lit a cigarette; he had a hoarse nicotine cough.

‘Everything's going well from the other side. Casey has accepted Cameron's official support for his candidature; it should fit in perfectly.' He used long words with the pedantry of the self-educated.

‘There will be a big reaction to this killing,' King said. ‘I predict the biggest public outcry since the assassination of Jack Kennedy. Bigger than Bobbie, bigger than Martin Luther King. This deal will tie up the racial and religious vote into one screaming knot. And this time the public won't be fobbed off with any Warren report; they'll want to know who and why, and why and why again.'

‘A two-part question …' Druet coughed up smoke, ‘to which you'll have supplied both sets of answers—if you've done your job properly.' He didn't like Eddi King; the type irritated him. He resented King's expensive clothes, his well-barbered face, his self-confidence. Druet knew that his only asset was his own brain; he was fat and ugly and he used fear on his subordinates the way a man like King used personal charm. He needled him deliberately.

‘I always do my job,' King said. ‘When have I ever failed?' He didn't show anger. He just asked the question, knowing how Druet would have to answer.

‘Never so far,' the Frenchman said, ‘but there's always the first time. Have you laid the trail properly? Left the clues where our friends can find them?'

‘Huntley Cameron's niece brought our man in from Beirut. Sure, she'll implicate me, but I'll be gone by then. And Cameron himself is involved up to here.' He brought his hand up level with his eyebrows. ‘He's financed the whole operation. I told you, it's all going to work out perfectly.'

‘It better had,' Druet heaved himself up from the chair and poured gin into his glass; the Dubonnet was only a splash. ‘A liberal of Casey's stature could put our progress back in the whole North American continent by a hundred years. One point. You will be implicated by the Cameron girl but you will be gone—one of the conspirators who got away ahead of the law and is probably hiding in South America, right?' King nodded. ‘But what arrangements have you made for security in the Lebanon? Your killer comes from there. How can you be sure there's no lead left to connect him with us?'

‘The man never saw me; it was all arranged through a third person who doesn't know me either; everything was fixed by our people in Beirut. They won't leave any pointers.' He hesitated, remembering something. ‘But there was a woman. The man asked for money to be paid to her and for a passport. The arranger spoke of her. Between them they might know something.'

‘I'll send instructions to dispose of them,' Druet said. ‘We don't want any loose ends. I'm going now. You want to stay on?'

‘I've arranged to spend the evening,' King answered. ‘I leave for Frankfurt at the end of the week.'

Druet finished his drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which made King wince because it left a smear on his cuff, and opened the door.

‘Good luck,' he said. ‘Just be sure your man doesn't miss.'

‘He won't,' King said. ‘Not the way I have it planned. It'll be the TV feature of the year.'

Five minutes after Druet had gone out there was a knock on the door. The pretty girl from the salon downstairs came into the room and smiled at him. She wore a négligé trimmed with emu feathers, and as she crossed the floor towards him, King saw that she was naked underneath it.

‘Good evening, monsieur.'

‘Good evening,' King said. ‘Will you join me in a glass of champagne?'

That first night Elizabeth didn't sleep. Keller went to his room first, and as hers was adjoining she could hear him moving about, taking a bath, and then the creak of the mattress as he turned. They had eaten together, and because of what had happened between them there was a silence which became a strain. Even when he helped bring the plates through to the kitchen he moved very carefully so as not to touch her, even by accident. Elizabeth undressed slowly, and then began to unpack. The Lebanon seemed so unreal it might have been a place visited a year or more ago. There was a smell about the dresses she took out of the case, a mixture of her own scent and the smell of the wardrobes in the Beirut hotel. Twenty-four hours earlier she had been there, getting ready for the plane journey with the man she had glimpsed for a moment outside the hotel doors. Now he was next door in her apartment and the marks his hands had made were on her arms. She went into the kitchen and began to make coffee.

‘Did you sleep well?'

Keller slid down on to the banquette opposite to her. ‘Very well. The bed was very comfortable.'

‘Would you like bacon and waffles for breakfast? I'm going to make some.'

‘I've never tried them. What are waffles?' He found himself talking quite naturally. All the hostility which had quivered between them on the flight was gone. He could notice how pretty she was because it didn't give her any victory over him. The victory was his, won in the brief, explosive struggle. He also thought she looked as if, unlike himself, she hadn't slept.

‘They're difficult to describe. Try some, see if you like them. They're very American.' She watched him eating; he didn't pretend with the waffles. He shook his head and pushed them to the side of his plate. ‘Too American for me,' he said. He poured out more coffee for her and lit two cigarettes.

‘What are you going to do?' Elizabeth asked.

‘Wait here,' he said. ‘Read your books, eat your food, and wait for someone to phone or come for me.'

‘Have you ever met my uncle?'

‘No. I don't even know who he is. You keep on talking as if I should know, but I don't.'

‘It's so odd,' she said, ‘you not even knowing about him.'

‘Is he so important?'

‘Yes, very important. Even in the Lebanon you'd have heard of Huntley Cameron.'