Sailing to Capri (17 page)

“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting.

“And you are beautiful tonight,” he replied, adding that he was sorry.

“Sorry for the compliment? Or for being late?”

“Your choice,” he said wearily. After a couple of nights with little or no sleep he was in no mood for verbal battles.

To his surprise, Daisy smiled. “Just testing,” she said. “I promised myself I’d go easy on you tonight.”

Montana was surprised again to see her blush. There was something endearing about Daisy despite her snippiness. He’d heard the story of her marriage from Bob and understood why she was perpetually on the defensive with men. He couldn’t blame her but thought it was about time to put all that behind her and just get on with things.

“Come on in and let me get you a drink,” she said in the low sweet voice that pleased him, walking him into the vast living area. Through the wall of windows was a view of the treetops, hazy in the glimpse of a half-moon and with a dazzle of red taillights in the street below.

Four large paintings hung on the wall, though none were by artists Montana knew. Ice tinkled against the glass as Daisy handed him his usual bourbon. “I wanted to ask you about Rosalia,” he said.

“The woman who wanted a normal life with a husband who came home nights, and a family,” she said. “I think I’ve found her.” She told him about the letters from Spain.

“So why didn’t you call me with this information right away?” he asked, irate.

She shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that important. Besides, it’s prying into Bob’s personal life and after all she can hardly be a suspect. She loved him.”

“So don’t you think Bob would remember her in his will?”

“I suppose he might, but you can’t seriously believe Rosalia came back for some sort of revenge. That she
killed
Bob? After all,
she
was the one who left
him.
”

“We don’t know that for sure. We have only Bob’s side of the story. Who knows what really goes down between a man and a woman except the two of them? I don’t see a motive for murder, but then I haven’t spoken to Rosalia yet. I’ve no idea what she’s like, or what she’s capable of.”

“But you found Davis Farrell. He called yesterday to accept my invitation. I liked him. He was the only one who talked about Bob.”

“Farrell can be charming, especially with women. We found him selling insurance to Hispanic immigrants in Queens.”

“Oh.”

Daisy seemed so surprised that Montana smiled. “Come on, let’s get some dinner.”

The dog watched sad-eyed as the elevator doors began to close behind them and Montana promised a walk as soon as they got back.

Montana tucked Daisy’s arm in his as they walked to the bottom of misty Park Lane where they got lucky and found a taxi. The wind had blown stands of her hair across her face, and he hooked them gently back with his finger. Her hair felt silken, heavy, as he ran his hand over it. She gave him a nervous sideways glance and they sat in silence until the taxi deposited them at the restaurant. Daisy’s hand was cold as he took it to help her out.

“Cold hands, warm heart,” she said flippantly, though he could tell she immediately wished she hadn’t. “Actually, it’s my feet that are always cold,” she added, making him laugh as she again looked dismayed.

“What you need is some spicy Indian food to get your blood flowing again. Come on, baby, let’s eat.”

It had been so long since any man had called Daisy “baby”
that she practically melted. “I want
rogan josh
and
keema naan,”
she said hungrily.

“And tandoori chicken and lamb masala …”

“All that!” she agreed as they took a corner table.

“Wine?” Montana asked.

“Beer. Kingfisher.” She was an expert.

He gave the waiter their order, then reached for her hand again across the table. “Let’s not fight,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” she said, but she looked apprehensive as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

The hand that had been so cold just minutes ago now surged with the heat of the blood rushing through Daisy’s veins. She said, “Do you really think you should be doing that? I mean, kissing my hand?”

“The kiss was by way of apology. And now I want to talk business.”

“Of course,” she said, disappointed.

“So far we have four acceptances,” Montana said briskly. “The ex-wife, the ex-mistress, the ex-friend, and the ex-partner. We’re still missing the ex-scientist and the ex-lover.”

“All those exes.” Daisy picked gloomily at the tandoori chicken. “Why on earth did Bob have to dredge them all up anyway? Why not just leave well enough alone?”

“You know the reason. Whether Bob’s suspicions are valid or not is up to us to find out.”

The waiter brought the
keema naan,
a flatbread stuffed with spicy ground lamb, and Montana put some on her plate. “I’m off to Munich tomorrow,” he said. “I have a lead on Marius
Dopplemann. He puzzles me, though. It seems one day he simply quit his very important job on some top-secret project, packed his bag, and was never heard from again. The FBI claims to know nothing, and so does every other official body I’ve contacted. I’m drawing a blank, and now I’m wondering what Bob knew that I don’t, and why the hell he didn’t tell me.”

“Bob always loved to play games.”

“I need to see those letters he wrote to Rosalia. Why don’t I come back with you after dinner and take a look at them?”

Daisy sighed, but said okay. Montana smiled at her. “So? What did you buy for the cruise?”

“Did you really have someone following me?”

“You didn’t notice the woman in the store going through the racks next to you? Or the man at the next table in the restaurant? He was right behind you when you arrived home.”

Daisy was shocked. “I never knew stuff like this really happened!”

“That’s what I’m paid for. Remember, I have to be careful with you, you’re Bob’s prize possession.”

“He never owned me, you know,” she said angrily.

Montana wondered if she would ever lose that defensive reflex. “And I doubt anyone ever will,” he said softly.

“I asked Bordelaise to come on the cruise.”

“Great. It’ll be good to have a friend along. And I’ll ask some other people Bob knew, plus a couple of my agents to keep watch on everyone. They’ll be part of the crew and it’s better you don’t know who they are because then you’ll always be looking.”

“Sounds like fun,” Daisy said bitterly.

Dinner over, they took a cab back to Park Lane where Daisy handed him the packet containing Rosalia’s letters.

“I didn’t read them,” she said. “It’s not right to read other people’s love letters.”

Montana nodded, then, remembering he’d promised Rats a walk, he took the dog down in the elevator and gave him a brisk trot around the damp park. Back upstairs again, he said good-bye to Daisy.

“I’ll call you,” he said. And then, again unable to resist her soft, vulnerable mouth, he kissed her lightly.

The last thing he saw as the elevator doors closed was Daisy standing there, a hand pressed to her lips where he’d kissed her. He hoped she wasn’t regretting it.

The most charming city in Germany is in the region of Bavaria, not too far from the snow-shrouded Austrian Alps, but today Munich was hidden under a heavy blanket of cloud that drizzled a thin, cold rain in nasty little squalls. No sooner did people put their umbrellas down than up they had to go again, causing men’s faces to frown and women’s hair to droop as they trudged miserably home through the evening rush. The weather also caused many to stop off at one of the hospitable terraced cafés where, safe from the rain behind plastic screens, they gratefully sipped a good München beer or a glass of wine or schnapps, putting off the moment when they would have to brave the weather again.

One of these men was Marius Dopplemann, aka Marcus Mann. Short, extremely thin, wrapped in an old beige raincoat
and with no hat to protect his thinning brown hair, he slipped into the nearest café. Instead of the more convivial terrace area, he headed for the bar inside and took a seat. Immediately his rimless eyeglasses steamed up. He took them off and polished them with a paper napkin. The lenses were very thick and without them you could see his eyes were the ice green of bottle glass and with about as much expression.

Putting the glasses back on his beaky nose, Dopplemann, aka Mann, ran his hands through his wispy wet hair and ordered a glass of red wine. “A Bordeaux,” he said in his hesitant, understated way, though in fact he knew exactly what he wanted. The bartender showed him the bottle and Dopplemann read the label carefully, then nodded his approval. It was not by any means a grand wine, just a pleasant red from a good wine-growing region, but it made him feel rich again just to order “a Bordeaux.”

He’d learned a lot about wine from Bob Hardwick when he worked in the United States. Ten years had passed since that first meeting. He’d been just a shy young geek, a greenhorn to a life of fast living. But he’d learned fast and learned quickly that he liked it. He liked good wine and interesting food and fast cars and one special woman. He’d not thought about that woman for a long time and did not intend to do so now. Instead he took a folded newspaper clipping from his inner pocket, smoothed it out on the marble counter, and read—one more time—the glowing obituary for Sir Robert Waldo Hardwick.

Sitting back, he took a contemplative sip of the wine, remembering the way things used to be, when he was a young man and was said to be a genius, though all he knew was he
was good at what he did. He was a scientist and an engineer and had a mind that knew no boundaries, something that enabled him to solve problem after problem and discover new methods in his research into space travel. “Ask Dopplemann” had become a byword joke in his circle, and a little insignificant man in every other aspect of his life, he’d basked in the sunshine of his peers’ approval.

Dopplemann’s name was not mentioned in Bob Hardwick’s obituary however, though many others in the worlds of business and science and the arts were. In a way he was glad nobody mentioned him anymore. He was a forgotten man, yesterday’s news, and that was exactly the way he liked it. He wanted no part of the past and had only a slender hold on the future. The present was what he dealt with, a day-to-day plod through a life that no longer held any promise.

Marcus Mann, formerly Marius Dopplemann and one of the best scientific brains in the world, now taught at a small private school in a suburb of Munich, attempting to drill the basic elements of science into indifferent young minds and facing defeat on a daily basis. It was not what he had envisioned from life, but with a terrible secret in his past, he was grateful for even this level of employment.

He folded the newspaper clipping and put it back in his pocket, sipping his wine and staring contemplatively into the patchy old mirror behind the bar. But it wasn’t himself he was seeing reflected there: it was Bob Hardwick. Bob’s wide, harsh face with its flinty blue eyes that could practically flay the skin off you when he was angry. As Dopplemann had good reason to know.

Finishing the drink, he paid his bill, counting out the coins scrupulously and adding exactly the right amount for the tip. Poor or not, he would never cheat on things like tips. He came from working-class roots and knew how much a tip meant. Turning up his coat collar, he pushed open the heavy engraved glass doors and stepped out to face the elements yet again.

He walked briskly to the station and was lucky enough to find a train about to leave. He leapt onboard just in time, almost knocking over Montana’s agent, who leapt on behind him. They clung perilously for a few moments, then Dopplemann regained his balance, apologized to the stranger, and made his way to a seat where he stared out of the window at the passing scenery, never once looking around him.

Montana’s agent took the seat behind, carefully keeping his gaze from meeting Dopplemann’s reflected in the window. Instead he scanned the evening paper. When the car reached the end of the line, he followed Dopplemann off. He watched him walk to the bicycle chained to the railings, unlock it, then cycle off in the rain. A second man, who was also unchaining his bike, said he knew where Dopplemann lived, and the agent quickly dialed Montana at his hotel in Munich and gave him the information.