11 Harrowhouse (18 page)

“You've got to be joking.”

“I'm not.”

“Steal The System's inventory?”

“At least the bulk of it.”

“Why?”

“We can get to all that once you've agreed.”

“What makes you think it can be done?”

“Because no one has tried it and failed.”

“That's peculiar logic.”

“Perhaps. But I believe you can do it.”

Chesser wondered why he was flattered. He shrugged self-consciously. “Hell, I don't know anything about stealing.”

“A point in your favor.”

“Why not hire a professional?”

“That would be entirely wrong. A professional would tend to overcomplicate the project. Surely he'd be less knowledgeable than you are about the subject, the place, and the people. You'll do much better.”

Not really enough answer, thought Chesser, but nodded as though it were. “You actually have some sort of plan?”

“No.”

“You must have given it some thought.”

“It just occurred to me,” lied Massey.

“Just now, out here in the sun?”

“Yes.”

That amused Chesser.

“I'll pay you fifteen million,” stated Massey, as though making a verbal contract.

“Just for the attempt?”

“No. You must be successful.”

Chesser shook his head, definitely no.

“Why not?”

“I just saw myself behind bars. I'd make a lousy prisoner. I'm too fond of certain things.”

“You wouldn't have to worry about the police. The System's own methods guarantee it. The police are a pipeline for public information—the newspapers and all that. The last thing The System wants is everyone knowing how it operates, what its purposes are. Especially in regard to the inventory. The System would keep the police out of it.”

“Maybe. But what about the heavies that work for The System? Like that guy Toland.”

Massey nodded. “There are risks. In anything the risk tends to be in ratio to the stakes. There's much at stake in this.”

“Twenty million carats.”

“Even more than that,” said Massey.

Chesser had to admit to himself that the idea was appealing. Fifteen million for him and no more diamonds for Meecham to sit on. Chesser wouldn't have a money worry for the rest of his life. A man with fifteen million has a way of becoming a man with thirty million, et cetera. Meecham would have all the worries. The idea of stealing the inventory was absurd, of course, but it was a pleasant fantasy.

While these were Chesser's thoughts, Massey observed him closely, as though translating every nuance of Chesser's expressions. It was one of Massey's negotiating skills, something he'd developed over the years—the ability to read a man's fine print. He tried not to be misled by his own projections, to measure as accurately as possible how much his business opponent really wanted to agree. A crucial advantage. He'd seldom been wrong. He was quite certain he wasn't wrong now with Chesser. “Consider it a firm offer at fifteen million,” said Massey, “plus expenses.”

“I'll think about it,” said Chesser, not really believing he would.

“Good,” said Massey, resuming his position. He closed his eyes. “Give it some serious thought.”

That night at dinner Chesser was on and he was good. He led the conversation just enough beyond risque to make it more diverting for everyone. He traded stories with Massey, and, according to reaction, came out ahead. Lady Bolding seemed genuinely amused and contributed a few suggestive remarks of her own, while Maren, not to be outdone, told the truth about being a schoolgirl in a Swedish classroom so cold during winter that she and other pupils learned under blankets, and, once, when she was placed next to a young man she particularly fancied, the teacher had inquired about all the activity beneath the covers, and the young man had innocently replied that he was merely sharpening his pencil.

Following dinner, Massey suggested they view a film.

Lady Bolding was for bridge.

Massey capitulated.

They played in the library, men versus women, for a dollar a point. After the first hand, it was obvious that Massey took his game seriously, so Chesser respected that and limited his verbal cleverness to when the cards were being dealt and sorted. They played four rubbers and totaled. The men were ahead by two thousand three hundred and twelve dollars.

“Make it an even two thousand,” said Massey.

Chesser hadn't expected, didn't expect, to get paid. It was only a game, like his perpetual backgammon match with Maren. However, Massey expected payment and said so.

“All right,” agreed Maren. “Lady Bolding will pay you and I'll pay Chesser.”

“No, no,” Massey told her. “You pay me and she'll pay him. Otherwise neither of us will ever see the money.

“I'll give you a check in the morning,” Maren told Massey.

“And I'll do the same,” Lady Bolding promised Chesser.

It was then half past eleven. Massey said he was still in the mood for a film, but Lady Bolding's pretext was letter-writing and Maren did a yawn. Massey didn't wait for Chesser's excuse, merely said one good night to all, and headed for his exclusive late show.

As soon as Maren and Chesser were up in their room, Maren undressed with a carelessness Chesser knew from experience signified she was either passionate or tired. She discarded her clothes just anywhere, as though she would never wear them again. She didn't remove her shoes and crossed the large room three times causing Chesser to appreciate her movements and believe they were really for his benefit.

Then she flicked both shoes off with little kicks, sending them spinning awkwardly to the carpet. She sprawled gracefully on the bed, and Chesser thought it was significant she hadn't taken time to remove her eyelashes, which, with her eyes closed as they were, lay thick and full on the skin above her cheeks.

He undressed quickly, turned out all lights in that room, and partially closed the door to the adjoining room to create a kinder, softer illumination. He lay down on the bed, full length, close, next to her.

He gave her mouth a beginning kiss that she received with compliance but contributed to only slightly. Chesser took that to be a suggestion that she was in a taking mood. He was willing, was about to start, when she asked, “What did you do today?”

“Got some sun, swam a bit, talked with Massey.”

“I had a jumper. Tall, beautiful beast. A dappled gray named Dover Mist.”

Chesser moved only his hand, not abruptly, down to verify her want. Before it reached destination, her fingers intercepted, brought his hand up to one of her breasts. “Just hold me,” she said.

She kissed him reassuringly near his mouth and they lay like that, very still, for a long while.

He told her, “I did the right thing.”

“That's good,” she said, detached.

“I never would have gotten anywhere with The System anyway.”

She made a short agreeing sound. No further response from her, not a movement nor a word.

After a while he said, “Massey offered me a deal today.”

“We rode through an orchard. Little green apples just coming out.”

“You didn't even hear what I said.”

“Uh huh. You should have been with us today. We jumped everything except the clouds. Brooks, bushes, and everything.” She was delighting in the memory. “I'd like to buy Dover Mist. I wonder if Massey would sell him. Ask him for me. I don't care how much he wants. I want Dover Mist.”

“You're not listening to me,” said Chesser sharply.

She snuggled against him, perhaps her answer to his accusation.

Chesser's patience was running out. He separated from her but was still only a reach away. “Goddamn it, this is important, important to
me
. You just don't give a shit!”

“Shh,” she told him.

“I quit The System. Don't you understand? I'm out of a job.”

He gave her time to respond and when she didn't he sat up, his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to her. He heard her move and thought she was coming to him, to embrace him submissively, consolingly. But she had only turned onto her side in the opposite direction, and when he realized this he gave up, stood and went to the open window, looked out at the night. After a while the noises from outside separated themselves from the sound of Maren's breathing, which told him she had gone to sleep.

He put on slacks and a light knit sportshirt and shoved his feet into any pair of his shoes. He didn't try to be quiet, moved as though he were alone in the room. Found cigarettes and lighter on the side table and went out, closing the door surely with force enough to disturb her.

He went down to the main foyer, where he heard the voices and music of Massey's movie. He took care then to be silent with the multiple latches on the main door, neutralized their devices so he wouldn't be locked out. When he stepped outside he had the feeling alarms would sound—bells or a siren. He walked in any direction.

The night air was heavy, cool. There was a hazy ring around the moon. The night noises were louder, a cacophony of all the crawling, hopping, clinging creatures that were daytime cowards but giant brave at night. At least they sounded as though they were answering one another, thought Chesser, and continued on away from the house.

His eyes adjusted enough to the dark to avoid the shrubbery. He was sure of the well-kept expanse of lawn, so he walked full stride. He wondered where the hell he was going and his answer to himself was nowhere.

After a time he stopped and lighted a cigarette. It was then he sensed he wasn't alone. He turned to see a figure in white coming toward him, still about a hundred paces away. He could make out a short, white dress.

Immediately he thought: she's given in, she's come after me, she wasn't really asleep.

But it wasn't Maren.

It was Lady Bolding.

“I thought there was someone ahead of me,” she said. “I saw it was you when you lit your cigarette. Do you have another?”

She took one from his case, feeling for it. Their fingers touched. When he lighted it for her the flame illuminated the beauty of her face for him.

“I felt like taking a walk,” he explained, and glanced back to the house. Its few lighted windows told him he'd come farther than he realized.

“I walk nearly every night,” she said.

“As late as this?”

Chesser had never been alone with Lady Bolding and perhaps that was the primary reason for the unreality he felt. He noticed she was barefoot. The night air held her perfume.

“Were you headed in any particular direction?” she asked.

“Just away.”

“Shall we?”

They continued on together.

“To make the most of it,” she said, “you ought to take off your shoes.”

“Then I'll have to carry them. Less bother to wear them.”

“We could share the burden,” she suggested, “and carry one each.”

He stopped and took off his shoes.

“A better idea,” she said. “Leave them by that tree and we'll pick them up on the way back. Don't worry, I know the grounds well.”

As he walked on, the damp grass under his feet felt refreshing. He stopped again to roll up his trouser cuffs. She waited silently.

Then they were going down an incline. It was slippery. She took his hand. He wasn't sure if she took it for support or to guide him, but when they were again on level ground she didn't let go.

He was receptive to the unfamiliar shape and texture of her hand; the newness of it was pleasant. For one thing, her hand was not merely placed within his for his to do all the holding. She maintained a pressure equal to his, far from passive.

Chesser thought they should talk, to establish as quickly as possible some sort of coalition. “Tell me,” he said, “about you.”

“What, particularly?”

“The more revealing, unimportant things.”

“That's asking a lot.” She laughed lightly.

He sensed she wanted him to continue on that tack. “I already know the unspoken important things.”

“Such as?”

“You have a husband somewhere who works for the man you live with.” He expected such directness might provoke her.

It didn't.

“I don't really live with Massey,” she said, not defensively. “I have my own home in Dorset. I only stay here because I prefer to. It's pleasant, no other reason. I come and go as I please.”

Chesser thought that was a lie, but she sounded convincing. He asked about her husband.

“My husband is homosexual.”

Chesser nearly said something consoling. Instead he asked what he assumed was the obvious. “You discovered that after the wedding?”

“To the contrary. I've always known it. His name is Alexander. He's beautiful.” Her tone was both empathetic and reminiscent. “He's one of those delicate persons, born, unfortunately, two or three hundred years too late.”

Chesser asked what she meant by that.

“Alexander has to work to exist. It's unbearable for him. He's too sensitive to be competitive. Fortunately, Massey found a less distressing place for him. Have you ever been to the Middle East? Lebanon or Arabia?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

“I've heard things said about the Arabs,” said Chesser.

“From what Alexander writes, they're probably true.”

A sudden thought of Maren came to Chesser at that moment. He imagined her waking to find him gone. Would she be concerned? Probably not. His image of her tried to persuade him to return to the house, to her, but he countered it by telling himself she was still sleeping soundly, unaware of his absence.

“I told you a lie,” said Lady Bolding.

About Massey, thought Chesser.

“When I told you I was just out for a walk,” she said. “Actually, I had a destination.”