The Color Of Night (41 page)

“Oh… Ms. Paille. Lenor. I don’t think you told me your first name.” Carrington Knight paused, his voice inquisitive. “Are you on a speakerphone, Ms. Paille? It sounds like it.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m sorting papers.” She and Strand were sitting on the paint buckets, cups of coffee in front of them on the scaffolding table. “Listen, I need to ask you if you’ve got any news on a possible time for showing the drawings to the first client.”

“Oh, indeed. You’re in luck, Ms. Paille. You’re in luck.”

“Really? What do you mean?”

“Mr. Schrade will be here tomorrow.”

Mara flashed her eyes at Strand.

“The fact is, your suggestion that I contact Mr. Schrade was overlapping another item that I had in the works for him.”

“You already knew he was coming tomorrow when I spoke with you?”

“No, no, no. Well, I had contacted him about coming to see another set of drawings, but I had not yet heard from him. I had no idea when he was coming. That’s why I really couldn’t say anything to you yesterday. He called after you left.”

“Did you tell him about the Cao drawings?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, he had called about the other pieces, and since you had just left, I didn’t want to be overeager. Besides, I hadn’t yet actually examined your drawings. I do have a responsibility, Ms. Paille. I have to be judicious.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“Nevertheless,” Knight said, “I have, since then, examined your collection, and they are stunning. Mr. Cao is either a very knowledgeable man or a very lucky one—not being a collector—to have come upon these beauties.”

“Well, it’s about their documentation that I’m calling.”

A slight hesitation on Knight’s end of the line indicated startled suspicion. “Yes?”

“I’m afraid I can’t bring them round today. I have other obligations that have come in the way.”

“But you have the documentation?”

“Oh, certainly. It’s right here. I’ll try to get it to you as quickly as possible tomorrow, before Mr. Schrade arrives. What time is your appointment with him?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Then why don’t I come around at nine o’clock?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed. Nine o’clock would be perfect.”

While Mara went to Soho to get the material needed for Strand’s disguise, he began calling the three hotels where Schrade was likely to stay. As it was absolutely essential that Schrade not know of any inquiries about his arrival, Strand tried to think of a pretense for calling innocuous enough that an eager desk clerk would not think it worth mentioning to Schrade upon his arrival. The problem was that Schrade’s generosity at these hotels, a result of his wanting to be treated with an almost sybaritic attentiveness, meant that everyone from the doorman to the manager strained themselves mightily to accommodate, and even anticipate, his every wish. If Strand were to pretend to be a business acquaintance wanting to confirm Schrade’s arrival, the desk clerk, wishing to be of service to Schrade as he was checking in, would very likely mention it. If Strand called anonymously to confirm the arrival, the clerk would likely report that as well. He could think of no reason so trivial that an eager-to-please clerk would not mention it.

So Strand decided to try a completely different direction. He began calling the hotels, introducing himself as Dr. Morris, and asking if Wolfram Schrade had checked in yet. When he finally located a reservation for Schrade, at Claridge’s, the closest of the three hotels to Carlos Place, he explained to the registration clerk that he was a cardiac specialist and his secretary, who was out of the office owing to illness, had apparently confused Mr. Schrade’s appointment. Therefore Dr. Morris himself was calling to confirm whether Mr. Schrade had arrived from Berlin.

Mr. Schrade was not there yet, the clerk said, but he did have reservations, and there was a note about an afternoon arrival. Did Dr. Morris want to leave a message?

No, thank you, that was really all he needed to know to clear up the discrepancy. Oh, by the way, Mr. Schrade’s appointment with him was, of course, a medical matter and, as such, was of the utmost confidentiality. He would not want it known by the hotel staff that he was consulting Dr. Morris.

The clerk understood perfectly.

Dr. Morris thought he would. Might he have the clerk’s name?

The clerk gave it, the changing tone in his voice making it obvious that he knew he was being put on notice.

Dr. Morris thanked him politely. He very much appreciated the clerk’s understanding.

Locating a restaurant where Schrade might dine posed a different kind of problem. While one tended not to deviate from a long-trusted hotel, a restaurant was another matter. A person at the reservation desk of a restaurant would be unlikely to report an inquiry, but finding the right restaurant was problematic. Schrade might decide to dine at a new restaurant on a whim. He might dine in the hotel. He might dine with someone else at a restaurant of their choice. The possibilities were endless.

In addition to all that, Strand was working from his memory of a dining routine Schrade had kept four years earlier. Things changed, restaurants came in and out of vogue. Happily, middle-aged men had a great fondness for routine, and Schrade had a penchant for allowing himself the very best of everything. It was not unreasonable that Strand might indeed be able to track down Schrade’s dinner reservations.

He was not quickly rewarded. His question to the reservations desk at each of the six restaurants he remembered as Schrade’s favorites—“Just calling to see if Mr. Schrade has made his reservations yet”—was answered in the negative.

He checked with the concierge at the three hotels he had just called and asked them the names of the three restaurants currently considered the finest in the city. All three of them named the same two, and each named one that the other two didn’t. That gave Strand only three more restaurants to call, since of the five named two were on Strand’s original list. He hit on the second call.

Wolfram Schrade had reservations for two at eight-thirty that evening at Ma Micheline, a trendy and expensive French restaurant near Park Lane. He would surely be driven. Strand called back and made reservations for one at the same hour. Schrade’s reservation for two was interesting.

Strand looked at his watch. He had one other thing to do before Mara returned. He went down to the entry hall closet and retrieved the paper sack with the pistol he had gotten from Hodge. He took the pistol and went up to the bathroom in one of the empty bedrooms and turned on the faucet in the bathtub. The lever that closed the drain in the tub was above the faucet, so he wouldn’t have to reach into the water to drain it.

When the tub was full, Strand turned off the water and stepped back. He removed the clip from the pistol, looked at it, and then slowly pushed it back into the handle. He raised his hand, extended his arm, and then, taking special note of the tension in the trigger, slowly squeezed it and fired into the water.

The slap was not as loud as he had expected, the recoil nonexistent. It took a moment before he located the small plastic pellet at the bottom, ruptured. The clear saxitoxin was dispersed into the clear water. He reached down and flipped the drain toggle.

After removing the clip from the handle, he smelled the end of the barrel. Very little odor from the firing mechanism. If people gathered around the slumping Schrade, there would be no suspicious whiff of cordite in the air.

When the water had drained out of the tub, the ruptured pellet was stuck in the drain. Using a tissue, he picked it up and examined it closely. Then he put the tissue and pellet into the toilet and flushed it.

He left the pistol and clip in his coat pocket and hung the coat in the closet with his other clothes. He walked to the windows and looked out at the rain. This time the next day it would be done. He was tempted to imagine what it would be like for him and Mara after it was all over, but he knew better than to indulge himself in bright hopes. It was too easy to slip into an unjustified optimism, deceiving oneself into believing that the nearest evil was the only evil between oneself and happiness. There was even more of an inclination to do that with an evil like Schrade’s, because it so thoroughly dominated the present moment to the exclusion of all others that it was tempting to discount the more subtle demons waiting their turn behind him.

The rain was falling steadily again, running down Chesterfield Hill toward the gutters of Mayfair, on its way to the storm sewers and the Thames.

Strand’s thoughts drifted away, distracted by the random pace of the rain as it alternately surged and slacked. He lost track of time until he saw a black cab pull up and stop in front of the town house. The driver got out with an umbrella and opened the back door for Mara, holding the umbrella for her as she gathered up her things.

While they ate the sandwiches that Mara had brought back with her, she laid out on the scaffolding table the items she had purchased for his disguise. She explained why she had bought each item: the three styles of mustaches were of a certain kind of bristle; the wigs were actual human hair, specially woven to more accurately approximate the real thing. This wig could be custom colored, grayed at the temples, or streaked—she had a kit of colors—all colorfast. This adhesive would withstand rain; that adhesive did not require a special solvent to remove. This face latex would remain pliable and would withstand the rain. That face latex was less comfortable, but it had a more accurate color scale and could be shaded. A prosthesis for the mouth changed the shape of his jaw. This sheet of padding could be cut to fit and worn under his clothes to change the shape of his shoulders or to thicken his chest.

“I thought maybe comfort was a big factor,” she said after explaining the pros and cons of each item and the possibilities in which each might be used to best effect. As always, she was thorough, never doing anything by halves. “You don’t want to have to think about it, about something going wrong. You put it on, it stays on. The better stuff takes longer to apply.”

She was trying to cover up her anxiety by being well informed and businesslike. Again, thorough, she turned a natural tendency to her advantage.

“I found him,” Strand said.

Mara stopped talking, her eyes remaining on the plastic packet of latex she was holding in her lap. “Where?”

“Claridge’s.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything, still looking at the packet, her fingers kneading it.

“How long will it take to do this?” he asked, gesturing at the items scattered on the table.

“I don’t know. A couple of hours.”

“Schrade has reservations at a restaurant at eight-thirty. It’s a place near his hotel. I’d like to be ready by six o’clock at the very latest.”

Mara nodded again.

“If I don’t get a chance at him tonight, I won’t be coming back here. I’ll have to get ready for another chance in the morning, on his way to Carrington’s.”

“You’ll call me tonight.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“If I don’t hear from you, what about tomorrow morning?”

“You’re going to have to go to Carrington’s tomorrow morning no matter what happens, whether I get Schrade tonight or in the morning. Be there at nine o’clock as you agreed, with the documentation you promised. The timing won’t be crucial because Schrade will never make his appointment. Still, it’s important that you show up.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Two reasons. When this is all over, after the investigation into Schrade’s death begins, they’re going to question Carrington, because that’s where Schrade was going when he was killed. They’ll be looking for a setup, something out of the ordinary, something unusual. It won’t be so much of a red flag if you simply show up for your appointment as arranged, an everyday occurrence for Carrington. But if you make an appointment and don’t show up for it, it’s going to stand out. He’s going to make note of it.”

He wadded up a napkin and tossed it into a paper bag. “And, just as important, you’ve got to get those drawings out of there.”

“Okay.” Mara was still kneading the face latex.

“I won’t leave you hanging,” Strand said. “I’ll keep you informed. But don’t panic if you don’t hear from me. I’m not going to be in any danger. I’ll probably just be in a position that won’t allow me to communicate.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Clean up this place.”

“Anything that can identify us.”

“That’s right. Don’t worry about the mess. Just put anything that might point to us into plastic bags. We’ll get rid of them later. After I leave here this afternoon just get ready to go, and stay ready. I might call you from somewhere and tell you to meet me in another country. Be flexible. Don’t be surprised at any message from me. Whatever I ask of you will have to do with maintaining our anonymity, not with any dire circumstances. Don’t worry about that.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t use the Jaguar again. Take a cab to Carrington’s in the morning.”

“Right.”

“If you don’t hear from me at all, leave London. Go back to Bellagio, get a room at the same hotel, and wait for me. Watch your e-mail. That’s how I’ll get in touch with you.”

“Fine.”

He looked at her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it.”

“I’m comfortable with this. How about you?”

“Yes, it’s good. It’s clear. I’m okay with it.”

They were lying to each other. They both knew it. Neither of them knew how to deal with it any other way.

It took Mara nearly three hours to make Strand into someone else. Monitoring the process in a hand mirror, he watched as his features disappeared one by one until, slowly, a stranger’s face emerged and he no longer recognized himself. It was oddly like being invisible. He watched the man in the mirror as though he were seeing him on a small movie screen. The sensations he felt in his own body did not belong to the man he saw. His thoughts did not belong to the man he saw. There was nothing in that man’s eyes that Strand recognized, and there was nothing in that man’s eyes that he could read.