11 Harrowhouse (41 page)

“No. But they always do what they want to do most.”

“As in Bora Bora?”

She nodded. “You've already carried your coals.”

She meant it. He realized that, gave her a brief reassuring kiss, and sat up to think. It came to him that if they got married it would be the most costly wedding of all time, and, by some standards, probably the most foolish. He decided to keep it light, told her, “Maybe those French lawyers hired a telepath to do a number on your mind?”

She wasn't amused, didn't think so, said so.

“What about the money?”

She was waiting for that. She grinned. “Fuck the money.”

Which made Chesser think of Massey. “We'll talk about it,” he said.

“No.”

“You're being impetuous.”

“I don't want to analyze it.”

“I'm trying to look after your interests.”

She waited a moment for emphasis. “Mine?”

Her inflection hurt, hitting in him where he was most vulnerable. For another moment he stopped loving her. He looked at her and started again.

“Don't you want to?” she asked.

I do, he swore to himself, but said nothing.

She asked, measuring each word, “Will you marry me?”

“No,” was his answer.

She left him there, picked up her book, and ran barefoot down the slope, and he watched the stream of her nutmeg hair and wanted very much to run after her, but he remained as though it were impossible for him to move. Soon she was only the speck of yellow that was the dress she was wearing, far down the mountainside, far away and going.

He told himself he'd done the right thing, the practical thing, for them. And she'd been wrong, her insinuation that he placed some ulterior importance upon her money. It was just that he wasn't going to allow her to chuck it all for something as unnecessary as marriage. Things were fine as they were. They were the same as married. What difference would a legal piece of paper make? Certainly not worth hundreds of millions.

To confirm his stand he imagined the changes their being married would cause. The main thing was he'd have to be completely responsible and, hell, he didn't have anything, not even any direction. Less now than before. When he'd been with The System at least he was going nowhere.

He stood, flexed some of the tension-tightness from his shoulders, glanced up questioningly at the unquestionable sky, and went down the slope to find her, thinking as he went how susceptible he was to suggestion, because his hands felt burning hot.

She told him she was pregnant, not from error but on purpose.

He suspected she was lying.

She also told him that he shouldn't let her condition influence how he felt about marrying her. She'd have the child anyway. Maybe.

He thought she was using emotional blackmail.

The doctor confirmed she wasn't.

That same afternoon they went to the town hall and located the official whose duties included marrying. A dour man with a paunch and a pate and an anonymous wear-and-wear gray suit. Behind an indestructible public desk. He exchanged his wire-rimmed glasses for a different pair in order to examine Maren and Chesser with greater disinterest. He considered their passports dubiously, removed a triplicate form from a drawer, and began asking questions in such a dry, unemotional manner that it could well have been the paper speaking.

The unreality Maren and Chesser felt from just being there was heightened.

Finally, all the spaces contained information, and the official, a Mr. Saltzman, according to the impressed plastic plate on the desk, reviewed the form carefully before turning it over to them for signatures. As soon as they'd signed, Saltzman demanded fifty francs. Chesser produced a hundred note, the smallest he had. Saltzman fumbled in a drawer for the fifty change, so much and so obviously that Chesser told him to keep it as a gratuity, causing Saltzman's thin lips to turn a smile on and off.

They'd both expected more of a ceremony, but it didn't matter. They were officially married, they believed, and were about to seal it with a nervous kiss when Saltzman told them to return Friday next.

Why?

Because medieval Swiss law required that banns be posted for three full days. In case anyone had any objections to the marriage and wanted to ban it.

Saltzman dismissed them with a look over his glasses, brought some documents before him and pretended busy.

Maren and Chesser went home, having taken only half the leap.

CHAPTER 29

O
N THE
afternoon of the fourth day of Massey's seclusion Lady Bolding was concerned enough to take drastic action.

Numerous times during the previous forty-eight hours she'd knocked on Massey's bedroom door and called loudly in to him. He didn't respond, and now she thought it was quite possible that he was unconscious, or even dead.

She summoned a locksmith from Cannes, who arrived toting a black bag much like a doctor's. With professional intensity he examined the lock on Massey's bedroom door and pronounced his diagnosis.
“C'est impossible,”
he said, his breath strong with the garlic and wine he'd had for breakfast and lunch.

He went on to explain that the lock was a very complicated magnetic type imported from the United States. He tapped upon the face of the door with his knuckles and suggested making an opening.

Lady Bolding agreed.

The locksmith used a rotating saw to slice out a circular chunk of the door. He reached in and released the bolting mechanism.

It was like opening a tomb. Stale air poured out. Vaguely discernible in the half light was Massey, nude on the bed, partially bound by twists of sheets and half buried beneath several punished pillows.

He appeared lifeless.

Lady Bolding hesitated, apprehensive. She went in and clicked on the bedside light.

A closed-mouth grunt from Massey.

She saw he was grizzly with a four-day beard, and his eyes were bloodshot, sunk, and raw-looking from no sleep. She knew he hadn't eaten in days.

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“No.”

“You appear ill.”

“Get out,” he said, but weakly.

That ingratitude chafed Lady Bolding. For a moment she was tempted to strike back, but was quickly reminded of the equity she had in Massey and the future favors she expected from him.

She drew open the drapes of the nearest window. An oblong of sunlight slashed across the bed and Massey. He winced.

With sympathetic encouragement she pulled him up.

He resisted, grumbled obscene protests.

She tried to put his arm over her shoulder to support him, but he shook her off and walked into the bathroom, into the shower stall and turned on only the cold.

He dried and she made him sit in a chair while the bed linens were changed and the room thoroughly aired.

He tried to remember that he was one of the world's most powerful men.

She persuaded him back into the bed, propped him up with plumped pillows and, desite his whining refusals, induced him to drink all of a large mug of beef consomme that she'd laced with three sodium nebutals.

He felt more helpless than ever.

She sat on the bed's edge and massaged his fingers and felt them go gradually limp as sleep took over.

By then it was late afternoon.

Lady Bolding ordered tea served outside at the table beneath the arbor, where she sat alone to indulge mostly in thoughts of Maren, while studying the sexual shapes suggested by the leafy intermissions above her.

After tea, she put on fresh make-up, changed into a white sharkskin pants suit, tied her hair back with a true-blue, baby silk ribbon, and was driven to Nice to make the next flight to Paris.

Massey slept until the next noon. He opened his eyes upon Lady Bolding, and it was as though she'd been watching over him all the while. She smiled.

He was unsteady on his feet but felt considerably improved. He looked into a mirror and wondered if he was up out of it enough to shave and decided he was on the edge now, not yet surely balanced, and it was questionable whether he'd emerge or fall back. The black word was still there to contend with, he realized.

He splashed his face with double handfuls of cold water and returned to the bedroom. Lady Bolding held a bright silk robe ready for him and led him out onto an upper terrace, where a breakfast was waiting for him in the sunshine.

Hot, strong black coffee, perfect eggs, crunching toast, tiny country strawberries coated with powdered sugar, and more hot, strong black coffee to dissolve some of the black word.

I'm recovering, Massey told himself, not entirely trusting that impression.

“I flew to Paris last night,” said Lady Bolding.

Massey concealed his disappointment that she hadn't been so vigilant as he'd thought.

“For us,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I went recruiting,” she smiled. “And I believe you'll agree I did exceptionally well this time.”

She directed his attention to the area below.

There, nude in the sun, were two young girls, contemporary creatures with slender bodies, pleasingly firm as a result of their energies. Very pretty young girls not yet twenty. An authentic blonde with fresh, virtuous features, and a brunette more evidently suggesting experience.

The sight of them inspired Massey to alter the focus of his thoughts. They were to his taste, the physically fortunate sort of girls who unconsciously struck a desirable pose when in any position and, therefore, were all the more provocative in motion.

Lady Bolding excused herself to go down to them.

Massey ordered a servant to fetch his electric razor. And while he was buzzing the gray stubble from his neck and face, he watched Lady Bolding approach the two girls, saw them move apart to welcome her between them. She said nothing, made no request, but the girls immediately brought themselves into contact with her, one on each side, sharing her, their cheeks resting on the planes of her shoulders. In that manner they were facing one another across Lady Bolding's breasts, while hands glided.

Without interrupting their attentions, Lady Bolding arched her neck back to look up above and observe Massey upside-down. He appeared interested.

That was Friday.

By Monday, Massey felt restored. The black word death had been erased. It was as though he had extracted some youthful essence from the weekend of erotic performances, for he now felt even more vigorous than before.

His enormous anger, which had attacked his potency, was hardly diminished. However, now he had control over it and was able to focus it even more directly on those who had provoked it.

Chesser.

And Chesser's Maren.

They would suffer, he vowed, pay for what he'd endured. He confided that to Lady Bolding, believing the perversity of it would appeal to her.

“Let's go to Venice,” she said, pretending indifference, hoping to distract him. “I always do well for us in Venice.”

“Perhaps later this month,” he told her.

“You've given up on the diamonds?”

“By no means.”

“Only they know where the diamonds are,” she contended.

“What would you have me do?”

“I've only your interest in mind.”

“You think I should let them live?”

“No. At least, not both of them.”

A nod from Massey, indicating his understanding, if not necessarily compliance.

Lady Bolding was inclined to remind Massey of her recent and long-term loyalties, how much she'd done for him. However, she knew better than suggest he owed her this favor. A man as wealthy and powerful as Massey never owed anyone.

Still, she had to try. “I'll persuade Maren to tell where the diamonds are,” she said. “It won't be a problem, I assure you. She'll want to tell me.”

Lady Bolding had given much thought to her strategy. Her imagination had simplified it. Chesser would be dead. Maren would be grieving. She, Lady Bolding, would console. Tenderly, she would comfort Maren, soothe and sympathize. They would be alone, away together, some place remote, some ideal neutral sanctuary. She would nourish Maren back to feeling. Gentleness would work its art. Lady Bolding's tender heart would become Lady Bolding's tender hands would become Lady Bolding's tender body. But it all depended upon Massey's cooperation.

He agreed, without meaning it. Just that morning he'd received word about The System's investigation of Marylebone, Ltd., as well as Coglin's snooping visit to the Upland Bank. All The System had to do was uncover the fact that the common denominator between the two was Massey. He doubted that would happen, but being that close to incrimination made Massey uneasy.

His intention had always been to have Chesser and Maren killed after they'd served. Whether the robbery was successful or not. They were the only outsiders who could really connect him with it, and as long as they remained alive there was the possibility of his being annoyingly implicated.

He reasoned that neither Chesser nor Maren was the sort who could remain in hiding very long. Boredom would get to them, force them out and back into the milieu. Especially Maren with her penchant for the audacious. Massey had alerted his people everywhere. The moment Chesser and Maren emerged, he'd know about it. After that it would be simply a matter of capturing them and persuading them, painfully if necessary, to reveal what they'd done with those twenty million carats. He was sure they would cooperate. They'd tell, each to save the other.

Then would come the killing. Of both.

CHAPTER 30

T
HE MARRIAGE
banns were literally posted on a glass-enclosed notice board just outside the entrance of the Gstaad town hall. Chesser and Maren first went to see it together. They held hands and made light remarks, to take the edge off. Several other times each went alone to be more contemplative about it.

Chesser read the fine print:

Anyone possessing knowledge of any just reason why the above applicants should not be joined in wedlock must present evidence to the town clerk before midnight (date).