Bolt

EIGHTEEN

I had plenty of time and thought I might as well make sure. I dawdled invisibly around while John Smith bought his oil filter at a garage and caught his bus, and I followed the bus unobtrusively to Widderlawn.
John Smith descended and walked to Carleton Avenue where at number 44, a well-tended council semi-detached, he let himself in with a latchkey.
Satisfied on all counts, I drove back to London and found Litsi coming out of the library as I entered the hall.
‘I saw you coming,’ he said lazily. The library windows looked out to the street. ‘I’m delighted you’re back.’ He had been watching for me, I thought.
‘It wasn’t a trap,’ I said.
‘So I see.’
I smiled suddenly and he said, ‘A purring cat, if ever I saw one.’
I nodded towards the library. ‘Let’s go in there, and I’ll tell you.’
I carried the bag with clothes in and the big envelope into the long panelled room with its grille-fronted bookshelves, its persian rugs, its net and red velvet curtains. A nobly proportioned room, it was chiefly used for entertaining callers not intimate enough to be invited upstairs, and to me had the lifeless air of expensive waiting-rooms.
Litsi looked down at my feet. ‘Are you squelching?’ he asked disbelievingly.
‘Mm.’ I put down the bag and the envelope and peeled off my left shoe, into which one of the icepacks had leaked.
To his discriminating horror, I pulled the one intact bag out of my sock and emptied the contents onto a convenient potted plant. The second bag, having emptied itself, followed the first into the waste paper basket. I pulled off my drenched sock, left it folded on top of my bag, and replaced my wet shoe.
‘I suppose,’ Litsi said, ‘all that started out as mobile refrigeration.’
‘Quite right.’
‘I’d have kept a sprain warm,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Cold is quicker.’
I took the envelope over to where a pair of armchairs stood, one on each side of a table with a lamp on it: switched on the lamp, sat in a chair. Litsi, following, took the other armchair. The library itself was perpetually dark, needing lights almost always, the grey afternoon on that day giving up the contest in the folds of cream net at the street end of the room.
‘Mr Smith,’ I said, ‘can speak for himself.’
I put the small recorder on the table, rewound the cassette, and started it going. Litsi, the distinguished looking gent, listened with wry fascination to the way he’d been set up, and towards the end his eyebrows started climbing, a sign with him which meant a degree of not understanding.
I showed him the paper John Smith had signed, and while he watched drew a circle with my pen round the head of Nanterre in the photograph.
‘Mr Smith did live where he wrote,’ I said. ‘I did follow him home, to make sure.’
‘But,’ Litsi said surprised, ‘if you followed him anyway, why did you give him the last hundred and fifty?’
‘Oh … mm … it saved me having to discover his name from the neighbours.’ Litsi looked sceptical. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘he deserved it.’
‘What are you going to do with these things?’ he asked, waving a hand.
‘With a bit of luck,’ I said, ‘this.’ And I told him.
Grateful for the lift, I went up three floors to the bamboo room to stow away my gear, to shower and change, to put on dry strapping and decide on no more ice.
The palatial room was beginning to feel like home, I thought. Beatrice seemed to have given up plans for active invasion, though leaving me in no doubt about the strength of her feelings; and as my affection for the room grew, so did my understanding of her pique.
She wasn’t in the sitting room when I went down for the evening; only Danielle and the princess, with Litsi pouring their drinks.
I bowed slightly to the princess, as it was the first time I’d seen her that day, and kissed Danielle on the cheek.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked neutrally.
‘Fishing.’
‘Did you catch anything?’
‘Sharkbait,’ I said.
She looked at me swiftly, laughingly, in the eyes, the old loving Danielle there and gone in a flash. I took the glass into which Litsi had poured a scant ounce of scotch and tried to stifle regret: and Beatrice walked into the room with round dazed eyes and stood vaguely in the centre as if not sure what to do next.
Litsi began to mix her drink the way she liked it: he’d have made a good king but an even better barman, I thought, liking him. Beatrice went across to the sofa where the princess was sitting and took the place beside her as if her knees had given way.
‘There we are, Beatrice,’ Litsi said with good humour, setting the red drink down on the low table in front of her. ‘Dash of Worcestershire, twist of lemon.’
Beatrice looked at the drink unseeingly.
‘Casilia,’ she said, as if the words were hurting her throat, ‘I have been such a fool.’
‘My dear Beatrice …’ the princess said.
Beatrice without warning started to cry, not silently but with ‘Ohs’ of distress that were close to groans.
The princess looked uncomfortable, and it was Litsi who came to Beatrice’s aid with a large white handkerchief and comforting noises.
‘Tell us what’s troubling you,’ he said, ‘and surely we can help you.’
Beatrice wailed ‘Oh’ again with her open mouth twisted into an agonised circle, and pressed Litsi’s handkerchief hard to her eyes.
‘Do try to pull yourself together, Beatrice, dear,’ the princess said with a touch of astringency. ‘We can’t help you until we know what’s the matter.’
Beatrice’s faintly theatrical paroxysm abated, leaving a real distress showing. The overbid for sympathy might have misfired, but the need for it existed.
‘I can’t help it,’ she said, drying her eyes and blotting her mascara carefully, laying the folded edge of handkerchief flat over her lower eyelid and blinking her top lashes onto it, leaving tiny black streaks. No one in extremis, I thought, wiped their eyes so methodically.
‘I’ve been such a fool,’ she said.
‘In what way, dear?’ asked the princess, giving the unmistakable impression that she already thought her sister-in-law a fool in most ways most of the time.
‘I… I’ve been talking to Henri Nanterre,’ Beatrice said.
‘When?’ Litsi asked swiftly.
‘Just now. Upstairs, in my room.’
Both he and I looked at the recording telephone which had remained silent. Neither Litsi nor I had lifted a receiver at the right time after all.
‘You telephoned him?’ Litsi said.
‘Yes, of course.’ Beatrice began to recover such wits as she had. ‘Well, I mean …’
‘What did he say,’ Litsi asked, not pursuing it, ‘that has so upset you?’
‘I … I … He was so charming when he came to see me in Palm Beach, but I’ve been wrong … terribly wrong.’
‘What did he say just now?’ Litsi asked again.
‘He said …’ She looked at him a shade wildly, ‘that he’d thought Roland would crack when you were nearly killed … he asked me why he hadn’t. But I … I didn’t know you’d been nearly killed. I said I hadn’t heard anything about it, and I was sure Roland and Casilia hadn’t, and he was furiously angry, shouting …’ She shook her head. ‘I had to hold the telephone away from my ear … he was hurting me.’
The princess was looking astounded and distressed.
‘Litsi! What happened? You never said …’
‘Henri boasted,’ Beatrice said miserably, ‘that he organised an accident for Litsi that would have brilliantly succeeded, except that this … this …’ She didn’t know what to call me, and contented herself in pointing, ‘he saved Litsi’s life.’ Beatrice gulped. ‘I never thought … never ever … that he would do anything so frightful … that he would really harm anyone. And he said … he said … he thought Roland and Casilia wouldn’t have wanted any more horses killed, and how had she reacted about her horse called Col… and when I told him I didn’t know anything about it, he flew into a rage … He asked if Roland knew and I said I didn’t know … he was shouting down the telephone… he was totally furious … he said he’d never thought that they would hold out so long … he said it was all taking too long and he would step up the pressure.’
Beatrice’s shock was deep.
’He said the jockey was always in his way, blocking him, bringing in guards and recording telephones; so he would get rid of the jockey first. Then after that, Danielle would lose her beauty … and then no one would stop Roland signing. He said,’ she added, her eyes round and dry again,‘I was to tell Roland what he’d threatened. I was to say he had telephoned here and I’d happened to answer.’
The princess, aghast but straight-backed, said,‘I won’t let you tell Roland anything, Beatrice.’
’Henri put the telephone down,’ Beatrice said,‘and I sat there thinking he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t possibly spoil Danielle’s face … she’s my niece as well as Roland’s … I wouldn’t want that, not for all the money in the world … I tried to make myself believe it was just a threat, but he did chase after her that evening, and he did kill the horses; he boasted of it … and I didn’t want to believe he had tried to kill Litsi … to kill! … it wasn’t possible … but he sounded so vicious … I wouldn’t have believed he could be like that.’ She turned imploringly to the princess.‘I may have been foolish, but I’m not wicked, Casilia.’
I listened to the outpouring with profound disturbance. I didn’t want her late-flowering remorse tangling the carefully-laid lines. I would much have preferred her purposefulness to remain strong and intact.
’Did you ring him back?’ I asked.
Beatrice didn’t like talking to me, and didn’t answer until Litsi asked her the same question.
’I did,’ she said passionately, asking for absolution,‘but he’d already gone.’
’Already?’ Litsi asked.
Beatrice said in a much smaller voice,‘He’d said I couldn’t reach him again at that number. He wasn’t there half the time in any event. I mean …’
‘How many times have you talked to him?’ Litsi asked mildly.‘And at what time of day?’
Beatrice hesitated but answered,‘Today and yesterday, at about six, and Thursday morning, and …’ she tried to remember,‘it must have been Wednesday evening at six, and Monday twice, after I’d found out …’ Her voice trailed away, the admission, half out, suddenly alarming her.
’Found out what?’ Litsi asked without censure.
She said unhappily,‘The make and colour of Danielle’s car. He wanted to know … I had no idea,’ she suddenly wailed,‘that he meant to attack her. I couldn’t believe it, when he said on the telephone … when he told Litsi … saying that young women shouldn’t drive alone at night. Danielle,’ she said beseechingly, turning to her,‘I’d never cause harm to you, ever.’
’But on Thursday you told him Danielle and I were going to Bradbury races,’ Litsi commented.
’Yes, but he asked me to tell him things like that,’ Beatrice said fiercely.‘He wanted to know the least little thing, every time. He asked what was happening … he said as it was important to me for him to succeed, I should help him with details, any details, however tiny.’
I said, in Litsi’s unprovoking manner,‘To what extent was it important to you, Mrs Bunt?’
She was provoked all the same: glared at me and didn’t answer.
Litsi rephrased the question,‘Did Henri promise you … perhaps a nice present … if he succeeded?’
Beatrice looked uncertainly at the princess, whose gaze was on the hands on her lap, whose face was severe. No blandishments on earth would have induced her to spy comprehensively for her host’s, her brother’s enemy, and she was trying hard, I imagined, not to show open disgust.
To Litsi, Beatrice said, self-excusingly,‘I have the de Brescou trust fund, of course, but it’s expensive to keep one’s position in Palm Beach. My soirees, you know, just for fifty dear friends … nothing large … and my servants, just a married couple … are barely enough, and Henri said … Henri promised …’ She paused doubtfully.
’A million dollars?’ Litsi suggested.
’No, no,’ she protested,‘not so much. He said when the pistols were in production and when he’d made his first good arms deal, which would be in under a year, he thought, he would send a gift of two hundred and fifty thousand … and a hundred thousand each year afterwards for three years. Not so very much … but it would have made a useful difference to me, you see.’
A soirée for a hundred, I thought sardonically. A small rise in status among the comfortably rich. More than half a million dollars overall. One could see the difference with clarity.
‘I didn’t see any wrong in trying to persuade Roland,’ she said.‘When I came over here I was certain I could do it, and have Henri’s lovely money to spend afterwards.’
’Did he give you a written contract?’ I asked.
’No, of course not,’ she said, forgetting she was speaking to me,‘but he promised. He’s a gentleman.’
Even she, once she’d said it, could see that although Nan-terre was many things from an aristocrat to an entrepreneur, a gentleman he was not.
’He promised,’ she reiterated.
Beatrice seemed to be feeling better about things, as if full confession excused the sin.
I was anxious to know how much information she’d passed on before the dawn of realisation and the consequent change of heart: a lot of good plans had gone down the drain if she hadn’t relayed what we’d wanted.
’Mrs Bunt,’ I said diffidently,‘if Henri Nanterre told you he was going to get rid of the jockey, did he say how? Or perhaps when? Or where?’
’No, he didn’t,’ she said promptly, looking at me with disfavour.
’But did you perhaps tell him where I’d be going, and when, in the way you told him about Danielle and Litsi?’
She simply stared at me. Litsi, understanding what I wanted to know, said,‘Beatrice, if you’ve told Nanterre where Kit might be vulnerable, you must tell us now, seriously you must.’
She looked at him defensively.‘It’s because of him,’ she meant me,‘that Roland hasn’t agreed to Henri’s plans. Roland told me so. So did he.’ She jerked her head in my direction.‘He said it straight out at dinner … you heard him … that while he was here, Roland wouldn’t sign. He has so much power … you all do what he says … If he hadn’t been here, Henri said, it would all have been settled on the very first day, even before I got here. Everything’s his fault. It was he who drove Henri to do all those awful things. It’s because of him that I probably won’t get my money. So when Henri asked me if I could find out when and where the jockey would be alone … well… I said I would … and I was glad to!’
‘Aunt Beatrice!’ Danielle exclaimed.‘How could you?’
‘He has my room,’ Beatrice said explosively.‘My room!’
There was a small intense silence. Then I said mildly,‘If you’d tell us what you told Henri Nanterre, then I wouldn’t go there … wherever.’
’You must tell us,’ the princess said vehemently.‘If any harm comes to Kit because of you, Beatrice, you will never be received again either in this house or in the chateau.’
Beatrice looked stunned by this direst of threats.
’Moreover,’ Litsi said in a tone loaded with strength,‘you are not my sister, my sister-in-law or my aunt. I have no family feeling for you. You gave information which might have led to my death. If you’ve done the same regarding Kit, which it appears you have, and Nanterre succeeds in killing him, you’ll be guilty of conspiracy to murder, and I shall inform the police to that effect.’
Beatrice crumbled totally inside. It was all far more than she’d meant to involve herself in, and Litsi’s threat sounded like the heavy tread of an unthinkable future of penal reckoning.
Beatrice said to Litsi with a touch of sullenness,‘I told Henri where he keeps his car, while he’s here. This evening I told Henri that he’ll be fetching Danielle for the last time tomorrow … that he goes round to his car at one-thirty in the morning … Henri said that was excellent … but then he talked about you at Bradbury … and the horses dying … and he started shouting, and I realised … how he’d used me.’ Her face crumpled as if she would cry again but, perhaps sensing a universal lack of sympathy, she smothered the impulse and looked from one to the other of us, searching for pity.
Litsi was looking quietly triumphant, much as I was feeling myself. The princess however was shocked and wide-eyed.
‘That dark mews!’ she said, horrified.‘Kit, don’t go down there.’
‘No’ I assured her.‘I’ll park somewhere else.’ She relaxed, clearly satisfied by the simple solution, and Danielle looked at me broodingly, knowing I wouldn’t.
I winked at her.
She almost laughed.‘How can you?’ she said.‘How can you joke? Don’t say it, don’t say it … easily.’
The princess and Beatrice looked mystified but paid not much attention.
’Are you absolutely certain,’ I said to Beatrice,‘that you can’t get in touch with Nanterre again?’
’Yes, I am,’ she said uncertainly, and looked nervously at Litsi.‘But … but …’
’But what, Beatrice?’
’He’s going to telephone here this evening. He wanted me to tell Roland about your accident and about Col being shot, and then he would find out if Roland was ready to sign … and if not …’ She squirmed.‘I couldn’t let him hurt Danielle. I couldn’t!’
Her eyes seemed to focus on her untouched drink. She stretched out a scarlet-nailed much be-ringed hand and gave a good imitation of one fresh from the desert. The princess, hardly able to look at her sister-in-law, headed for the door, motioning with her hand for me to go with her.
I followed. She went into the dining room where dinner was laid and asked me to close the door, which I did.
She said, with intense worry,‘Nothing has changed, has it, because of what Beatrice has told us?’
‘No,’ I said, with a thankfulness she didn’t hear.
‘We can’t go on and on. We can’t risk Danielle’s face. You can’t risk that.’ The dilemma was dreadful, as Nanterre had meant.
‘No,’ I said,‘I can’t risk that. But give me until Tuesday. Don’t let Monsieur know of the threats until then. We have a plan. We have a lever, but we need a stronger one. We’ll get rid of Nanterre,’ I promised,‘if you’ll give us that time.’
‘You and Litsi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Litsi was the man who fell from the balcony,’ she said, wanting confirmation.
I nodded, and told her of the decoy message but not about finding the messenger.
’Dear heaven. Surely we must tell the police‘
’Wait until Tuesday,’ I begged.‘We will then, if we have to.’
She agreed easily enough because police enquiries could lead to publicity; and I hoped for John Smith Arnold Vincent Hodges’ sake that we wouldn’t have to drop him into hot water with his wife.
I asked the princess if I could have ten minutes’ private conversation with her husband that evening, and without more ado she whisked us both up in the lift and arranged it on the spot, saying it was a convenient time as he would not be coming down to dinner.
She saw me in and left us, and I took the red leather armchair as indicated by Roland.
’How can I help you?’ he said civilly, his head supported by the high-backed wheelchair.‘More guards? I have met Sammy,’ he smiled faintly.‘He’s amusing.’
’No, monsieur, not more guards. I wondered if I could go to see your lawyer, Gerald Greening, early tomorrow morning. Would you mind if I made an appointment?’
‘is this to do with Henri Nanterre?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Could you say why you want Gerald?’
I explained. He said wearily that he saw no prospect of success, but that I needn’t go to Gerald’s office, Gerald would come to the house. The world, I saw in amusement, was divided between those who went to lawyers’ offices, and those to whom lawyers came.
Roland said that if I would look up Gerald’s home number and get through to it, he would speak to Gerald himself, if he were in, and in a short time the appointment was made.
’He will come here on his way to his office,’ Roland said, handing me the receiver to replace.‘Eight-thirty. Give him breakfast.’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
He nodded a fraction.‘Goodnight, Kit.’
I went down to dinner, which took place in more silence than ever, and later, as he’d threatened, Nanterre telephoned.
When I heard his voice, I pressed the record button, but again not that for conference.
’I’ll talk to anyone but you,’ he said.
‘Then no one.’
He shouted,‘I want to talk to Casilia.’
‘No.’
‘I will talk to Roland.’
‘No.’
‘To Beatrice.’
‘No.’
‘You’ll regret it,’ he yelled, and crashed down the receiver.