The Players (26 page)

The sanitarium operated by Dr. Clifton Ruick was located outside Dunstable, about thirty miles from London. Set back from the road behind a tall cypress hedge, it looked like an innocent country estate. It had, in fact, once been precisely that. Dr. Ruick had bought the house and grounds from a young peer who could not keep up the taxes. The doctor had converted it to a private hospital where his wealthy patients could be treated for mental problems in a genteel atmosphere.

In Eric Teal’s room the television set remained tuned to Wimbledon all day Friday. It was the women’s semi-finals and selected doubles action. There were no surprises in the matches, and the tension built for Saturday’s meeting between Tim Barrett and Alan Doughty. None of this interested Eric in the least. He watched the screen only because they might swing to the press section and he could catch a glimpse of the man he hated, Mike Wilder.

Time was growing short, but Eric was nearly ready. Since he had been brought here three days ago, Eric had been a model patient. He saw at once that active resistance was useless. For all its rural charm, Dr. Ruick’s little hospital was quite secure, with multiple locks and white-coated attendants who looked as though they could handle themselves.

So Eric had seen to it that his behavior was exemplary. Meanwhile, he used every opportunity to study the layout of the hospital and plan his escape. At night he would tuck the sleeping pill given him by the nurse under his tongue and only pretend to swallow it. He needed a clear, sharp mind to do what he had to do. Last night he got the last thing he needed—a roll of adhesive tape from the nurse’s cart.

In his supervised strolls about the house and grounds Eric had seen that all the entrances were closely watched or double-locked day and night All, that is, except one—the back door into the kitchen where the staff came and went. That was his way out.

The best time would be in the very early morning, when a minimum of staff was on duty, and when watchfulness would be relaxed. As a part of his plan, Eric had gotten to know the night orderly, a muscular man named Hargreaves. To gain the man’s confidence Eric pretended an interest in football and listened in feigned fascination as Hargreaves recounted the exploits of his beloved Manchester United.

Friday night Eric hid the sleeping pill as usual, said goodnight to the nurse, and lay back to wait.

The hours crawled by. To fill the time Eric went over his plan. He would not go to Wilder’s hotel this time—too many people there, too much activity on the day of Wimbledon finals. There was a much better place. A place where there would be only one witness.

Four o’clock. It was time to move. Eric got out of bed and dressed in the dark. He picked up the aluminum water bottle from the bedside table and hefted it. Not satisfied, he took the bottle to the sink and filled it with water. Now it was heavy enough.

He jammed the stopper firmly into the bottle, and grasped it by the neck. Then he stepped to one side of the door and moaned softly. Nothing but silence from outside the locked door. He moaned again, louder. Footsteps this time, coming to a stop just outside. Eric groaned, ending in a convincing gasp of pain.

The lock clicked, the door opened, and Hargreaves stepped into the room. A pool of light spilled in behind him from the hallway.

“ ‘Ere, now, what seems to be the—”

Eric hit him at the base of the skull with the filled water bottle. Hargreaves grunted and went to his knees. He toppled forward, his face smacking the hardwood floor.

Eric grasped the fallen man under the arms and hauled him over to the bed, lifting him onto it in sections. He stripped off the orderly’s white jacket and laid it aside. He used the adhesive tape to bind Hargreaves’s hands and feet and to gag his mouth. Eric put on the jacket and slipped out of the room.

He did not expect to be seen on the way out, but if he was, the white jacket would make him look from a distance like a member of the staff.

Eric descended to the ground floor and paused there in the hall. The only sound in the old house was the deep ticking of a grandfather clock.

Walking carefully, Eric went past the visiting rooms and the game room, through the deserted dining area, and into the kitchen. He looked along the counter until he spied a thick wooden cutting board. In a drawer below this he found an array of knives. He tried several for feel, finally selecting a heavy French chopping knife with a nine-inch blade of carbon steel.

Tucking the knife carefully into his belt, Eric crossed to the door at the rear of the kitchen. He shot back the bolt of the single lock, opened the door, and stepped outside. He ran across the dark lawn to the small lot where the staff parked their cars. He chose a Triumph Stag driven by the young doctor on night emergency call. Knowing automobiles as he did, it took Eric only seconds to reach under the dash panel and reconnect a pair of wires there, bypassing the ignition lock.

He belted himself into the driver’s seat and drove out of the hospital grounds, heading south toward London. As soon as possible he would change cars to throw off any pursuit. It would never do to be caught now.

Off to the east the sky turned pink as dawn approached. This was going to be a beautiful day.

The buzz of the electric alarm clock in Paula Teal’s bedroom died almost as soon as it began. Paula groaned and reached out her hand. It came to rest on the bare back of Mike Wilder.

“What time is it?” she said sleepily.

“Six o’clock.”

“It’s barely dawn.”

“Sorry. I tried to catch the clock before it woke you. Go on back to sleep and I’ll tiptoe out.”

“Do you often get up at dawn?”

“Hardly ever, but this is the last day of Wimbledon, and I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve been neglecting my work.”

Paula slipped an arm around him and massaged his chest. “Playing hooky’s been fun, though, hasn’t it?”

He answered with a wicked laugh.

“And now you’re going to leave me, are you?”

“Just for a few hours. I want to get today’s column off early. Then I thought I’d go out to Wimbledon and soak up some just-before-the-battle atmosphere. I’ll come back here to pick you up at noon.”

“It’s silly for you to drive all the way back here. I’ll come meet you at Wimbledon.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Now get out of here and let a girl get some sleep.”

Mike leaned over and kissed her. It began as a light, friendly kiss, but her enthusiastic response quickly turned it into something else.

“Hey, enough of that,” he said. “I’ll get no work done this way.”

“Lord, you’re dedicated.”

“Go to sleep.” He dressed quickly and went out, blowing her a kiss from the bedroom door.

Paula stretched luxuriously and rolled over to the side of the bed that was still warm from Mike’s body. Never had she felt so utterly content in mind and body. All the emotions she had kept locked in for so long had been released by Mike Wilder.

Then last night he had made the whole thing perfect. After making love they had sat together in bed, propped up with pillows behind them, Mike smoking and Paula drinking tea.

“Ever think of working in New York?” he had asked, a little too casually.

After a moment Paula had said, “No, actually, I hadn’t. Why?”

“I was talking to the home office yesterday, and it seems Worldwide may be bringing out a new magazine. Light side of the news—features and interviews, that sort of thing. They’re looking for an associate editor—somebody experienced but with a fresh outlook. I mentioned you to the boss, and he didn’t say no.”

“Mike, I–I don’t know what to say.”

“No hurry,” he had said. “Think it over. I’ve got some vacation coming, so I’ll be hanging around here for a week or so after Wimbledon. If you’re interested, we could fly back together and you can talk to the people in charge.”

Interested!
It was a dream come true. Not only would it be wonderful for her career, in New York she could be near Mike. Paula dozed happily for another hour or so, dreaming of the future, before she got up and took her shower.

She was drying her hair when she heard a faint sound from the other room. She snapped off the dryer to be sure. Yes, someone was out in the hall, tapping softly at the door. She belted on a robe and walked out to the sitting room.

“Who is it?” she called.

No answer, just the continued tapping. Paula opened the door.

“Hello, Paula.”

“Eric! What do you want here?”

Eric, still wearing the white orderly’s jacket, pushed his way into the room. He closed and locked the door behind him. “You know who I want to see, Paula.”

“No. I don’t know what you mean.”

“I want your lover. The American.”

Paula pulled the robe tighter and moved toward the door. “I want you out of here, Eric, right now. Or I’ll call the police.”

Eric’s hand dived to his belt and came up gripping the heavy knife. “Get away from the door, Paula. Sit down and be quiet, or I’ll hurt you.”

Unable to keep her eyes off the knife, Paula backed away and sat down stiffly in a chair.

“What time is he coming for you?” Eric snapped.

“No one is coming for me.”

“Don’t lie to me. Wilder has to be at Wimbledon every day. He wouldn’t go to the finals without you.”

Paula shook her head, terror rising in her throat.

Eric glanced at a wall clock. “Play starts at two this afternoon. It’s just past eight now. We may have a long wait until he gets here, you and I. But that’s all right, isn’t it, Paula? We can find things to talk about.”

He smiled—a loose, off-center smile. Hatred smoldered in his eyes. He sat on the sofa, keeping the knife pointed at Paula’s heart.

Mike finished writing his column in a little more than an hour. He read it over and decided it was the best he’d done in two weeks in London. Remarkable what a fulfilling sex life could do for a man.

He slipped the typed pages into an envelope and sent it off by messenger. Then he changed clothes and went downstairs to have breakfast.

J. J. Kaiser and Geneva Sundstrum were sitting close together at a table near the door when Mike entered the hotel’s restaurant. J. J. waved at him, and Mike walked over to say hello.

“How’s it going, J. J.?”

“Great, Mike. Just great.”

“Glad to hear it. You must have signed up Yuri Zenger.”

“Nah, but who needs him. You’ll never guess who called me last night wanting to sign a contract.”

“You’re right, I’ll never guess.”

“Tina Gottschalk.”

“No kidding.”

“I know what you’re thinking. She’s no Miss America, but right now I’d almost kiss her. If she’d let me.”

“That must be a helluva contract,” Mike laughed.

“It shocked the pants off me. Gottschalk tried out the Gilfillan rackets I gave her, and damned if she doesn’t think they’re the greatest thing in tennis since fuzzy balls. Starting at Forest Hills she’ll use our stuff exclusively. Since she’s going in the women’s finals here today, we can’t have worse than number two.”

“Nice going,” Mike said.

“He’s a genius,” Geneva said.

“Baloney,” said J. J. “I’m a lucky slob.”

Mike congratulated them both and went off to find a table, leaving the little man and the big blonde gazing happily into each other’s eyes.

• • •

By ten o’clock Mike was out at Wimbledon. He stopped first at the Players’ Tea Room. The usual background chatter had a desperate quality today. There was a new note of stridency in the voices. This was the last chance. Tournament players who had failed to sign up the stars scrambled for second-line players. Agents who hadn’t made deals tried to explain to their clients. Players who had priced themselves too high offered to go for less.

Mike left the uproar of the tea room and walked down to the relative quiet of Centre Court. The stands were just beginning to fill up. Paula was not yet in the box he had reserved for her, but it was still early.

Down at the end of the court where the trophies and the checks would be awarded, the reporters had an impromptu press conference going with Tim Barrett’s mother and father and Alan Doughty’s wife Hazel. Mike walked over to listen.

There was not much going on worth writing about. Jack Barrett begged off on all questions about how he thought Tim would do today. “You’ll have to talk to my son,” he said. “Tim’s the player. I’m just here to enjoy the match.” Mrs. Barrett smiled and agreed with her husband.

Hazel Doughty told them she was very proud of her husband. She was happy that the English people had taken Alan to their hearts. She knew he would do his best this afternoon.

Mike saw the flicker of anxiety that she tried to hide. His thoughts returned to opening day when Hazel told him of her worry that something was troubling Alan. He wondered if she ever found out what it was.

Mike prowled around the grounds, watched the doubles players warm up, ate a dish of strawberries, and wondered why Paula wasn’t there yet. Maybe she was held up in traffic. He should have picked her up.

When Tim Barrett and Alan Doughty came out to warm up for their match on Centre Court, Paula still had not arrived. Mike decided he might as well go on up to the press enclosure. He could see Paula’s box from there, and when she came in he would go down and join her.

Both players looked in fine condition as they stroked the ball easily back and forth. The crowd stirred in anticipation of the battle to come. The warmup ended and they spun a racket for serve. Tim Barrett won and was given fresh balls from the green refrigerator behind the umpire’s chair. The match was on.

At that moment an usher walked up to Mike’s seat. “Excuse me, Mr. Wilder,” he said, “there’s a gentleman downstairs who wishes to speak to you.”

“What’s the matter, doesn’t he know I’m working?”

“He said it was urgent.”

Immediately Paula came to Mike’s mind. An accident? He said, “Who is the man?”

“Sir Oliver Teal.”

It took Mike a moment to shift mental gears. What could the father of Paula’s ex-husband want with him? He left his seat and followed the man down under the stands.

Sir Oliver was standing just inside the entrance. He waited until the usher had gone before he spoke.

“I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate occurrence.”

“Yes?”

“First I should apologize to you for not being candid when you came to my house and asked about my son. You see, the story we told you—”

“Never mind that,” Mike cut in. “I knew he was there. What’s happened?”

“Last Tuesday Eric showed signs of violence, and we found it necessary to have him taken to a sanitarium operated by a doctor friend. Early this morning Eric overpowered an orderly and escaped. Knowing the threats he has made against you, I came here to warn you.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“Eric has committed no crime.”

“But he’s dangerous.”

“That’s only an assumption.”

“It’s a pretty damn good one. His former wife was supposed to meet me here this afternoon. She hasn’t shown up.”

“Eric wouldn’t harm the woman. I’m sure of it.”

“You’ve been wrong about him before, remember?”

Mike considered and immediately rejected calling the police himself. The old man was right; Eric had committed no crime. In the time it would take to convince somebody Paula was in danger he could be there himself. He started out of the grandstand at a run.

“Where are you going?” Sir Oliver called after him.

“To Paula’s place to see if she’s all right.”

“Why don’t you telephone?”

“If Eric’s there I don’t want to alert him.”

“Let me come along. If my son
is
there I may be able to help.”

Mike had no time to argue. “Come along, then.”

Showing surprising agility for a man his age, Sir Oliver loped along behind Mike to where the Ford was parked. They jumped inside and Mike snapped the engine to life.

• • •

In Centre Court a spatter of applause went up as Tim Barrett held his first serve. Outside the sound was lost in the squeal of rubber as the little car swerved out of the parking lot and headed for the city.