The Deadly Embrace (30 page)

“I don’t understand why so many men in this war are tormented by the thought of their women back home enjoying another man,” said Sullivan. “It’s the giving and taking of pleasure, that’s all. Why don’t you and I enjoy some?”

“You’re a pig, Mr. Sullivan,” said Liza as she struggled to free herself from his arms.

He was far too strong for her, keeping her locked in his embrace as they continued to move around the floor, slowly weaving through the crowd.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice becoming shrill with anger.

“I hope you’re not going to cause an ugly scene in front of the King of England,” said Des Sullivan, “rattle-skulled idiot that he is.”

Raising her pointed heel, Liza brought it down hard on the instep of his ankle. She knew the pain had to be excruciating, but all it accomplished was to pull the corners of his mouth down as he continued to dance.

“You’ll regret that, you bitch,” Sullivan whispered hoarsely in her ear.

He was staring down at her with almost palpable hatred. Still trapped in his arms, she involuntarily trembled. A few moments later, Charlie came lurching toward them. From the look on his face, Liza could see that he knew what was happening. He tapped Sullivan hard on the back.

“My turn, Des,” he said.

Sullivan gave him a venomous look before slowly releasing her. For a second, Liza thought he was going to strike the bigger man, but as they stood confronting one another, the King swayed past in the smoky haze, his simpering dance partner gowned in bright-orange silk. Charlie’s fists were still clenched as the King smiled benevolently over at them.

Sullivan nodded, as if deciding there would be a better time to settle accounts. Walking away, he disappeared into the crowd. Like a crusading knight with his newly rescued damsel, Charlie opened his arms wide, and Liza stepped into his bearlike hold again.

“Des was always a bastard,” he said, carefully leading her across the floor.

When the waltz ended, there were tears in his eyes.

“He and Joss...” he began and stopped. “God … she let him have her, too. Goddamn Des. Why? Why?”

“Charlie, you can’t be responsible for the way another person leads her life,” she said gently.

Taking his big calloused hand in hers, Liza led him back to their small table near the terrace. As she slowly sipped her tea, a waiter brought him a new whiskey. Every few minutes, she would stand up to survey the gathering, hoping to see Nicholas’s corn-colored hair towering over the shorter guests as he came searching for her.

“Please don’t,” she said as Charlie ordered still another drink. Taking his hand, she turned him around to face her. “I’m asking you not to drink anymore tonight.”

“Already too late, old girl,” he replied sadly, his eyes almost vacant. “I’m at the promised land.”

As it had the night before, the orchestra struck up “Auld Lang Syne,” signaling that the formal part of the evening’s entertainment was coming to an end. Charlie sat through the song with maudlin tears streaming down his face. When the dirge ended, he got up from their table without a word and started reeling across the floor.

“Charlie, come back,” Liza called out as he disappeared through one of the blackout curtains covering the doors to the terrace.

She quickly glanced about for someone to help bring him back, but most of the guests were already heading toward the entrance doors. The few partygoers who remained behind were as helplessly drunk as Charlie.

Liza rushed after him through the blackout curtains. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she looked both left and right. The flagstone walk was deserted, and the only sound she heard came from the tree branches swaying in the wind above her. A moment later, she heard the tinkle of broken glass.

Running to the edge of the terrace, she gazed out into the night. In the dimness, Liza could see a hint of movement on the stone staircase that led down to the formal gardens. She started running toward it.

“Charlie,” she called out once more.

The shadowy figure slowed to a stop, appearing to lean against the stone balustrade for support. Reaching the staircase and following it down, she was relieved to see that it was indeed Charlie. He was still crying.

“She’s here,” he moaned in a strange, almost incoherent voice.

“Who is here?” asked Liza.

“Joss,” he said.

“Joss is dead, Charlie. She is dead.”

“No,” he shouted madly, whipping his head back and forth. “Pale she is … dreadful in the night.”

Liza felt his boozy breath on her cheek as she grabbed him by the arms and began to turn him around on the staircase.

“What are you talking about, Charlie?” she said, attempting to steer him back up the steps.

“She’s not dead. Oh God … Joss,” he cried, collapsing to his knees.

Liza was bending down to help him regain his feet when she felt a sharp, jagged pain in the back of her head, and the sky tilted above her. As she fought to keep her balance, the distant walls of the castle seemed to be shifting. The ground was sliding back and forth between her feet. She was falling forward into a pool of darkness. It had no bottom.

CHAPTER 28

It was well past midnight when the telephone started ringing in the narrow hallway of Taggart’s apartment. Dozing in the darkness, he listened to the rumble of far-off thunder and waited for the nightly wail of the London air-raid sirens that would signal the next Luftwaffe attack.

As the ringing continued, Taggart realized the thunder was coming from the northwest, and concluded it was nothing more than a storm front sweeping down from the Hebrides. When it became obvious the caller wasn’t going to hang up, he wearily got out of bed and went to the hallway, grabbing the telephone earpiece from its wall cradle.

“Yeah,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“This is Corliss,” said a male voice at the other end of the line.

“Corliss?” repeated Taggart.

“Corliss Drummond,” said the old inspector.

“Your first name is Corliss?” asked Taggart.

There was a pause.

“I have some news,” said Drummond. “If you are interested.”

“Shoot,” said Taggart.

“It’s probable that whoever murdered our Mr. Griffin paid a physical price for it,” he said. “Griffin had commando training at the beginning of the war. Based on his defensive wounds, our pathologist believes he probably inflicted physical injuries on the person who killed him.”

“Very good … Anything else?” asked Taggart.

“About those scraps of paper you found,” he said. “It appears that one section included a portion of the Ainsley family crest.”

“What is that?” asked Taggart.

“The Ainsleys are one of the oldest families in England. The current ancestral heir is Lord Nicholas Ainsley. He is a Battle of Britain RAF hero.”

“I know who he is,” said Taggart. “Helen Bellayne is spending the weekend at his country house right now. And Lieutenant Marantz as well.”

Taggart suddenly remembered Liza telling him that Lord Ainsley had a silver key to the Royal Natatorium. He tried to recall whether anyone had reported a connection between him and J.P. Barnes.

“I need a telephone number for Ainsley’s country house immediately,” said Taggart.

“I assumed you might,” said Drummond. “Here it is.”

Taggart wrote down the exchange.

“Where is this house?” he asked.

“It’s called Rawcliff. In the Sussex Downs—about seventy miles southeast of London, and right on the coast,” he said. “It’s a little more than a house, Sam. In fact...”

“Do you know how to get there, Corliss?” interrupted Taggart.

“Yes,” said Drummond. “Everyone does. It’s a national landmark.”

“Can you meet me in about twenty minutes at our MP barracks on Tunnicliff Road?”

“I’ll be there,” said the old man, hanging up.

Taggart immediately dialed the number Drummond had given him. It was busy. He waited a minute and tried again. It rang several times before a voice responded, “Rawcliff.”

“I need to speak to one of your weekend guests … Lieutenant Elizabeth Marantz,” he said.

“We have more than a hundred guests at this time, sir, but if you leave your name and trunk exchange, I will give her the message as quickly as possible,” said the pompous voice.

“I need to speak to her now,” Taggart demanded. “This is General Ernest Manigault speaking, and it is vitally important that I speak to her right away.”

“Sir, we have only one telephone line. Surely you must understand that I cannot allow the telephone to be occupied for the length of time necessary to locate Lieutenant Marantz. In fact, sir, Field Marshal Nemes is waiting to use it right now.”

“It is urgent that I speak to her,” said Taggart. “Please give her the message to call me right away.”

“I assure you that I will do my best under the circumstances,” came back the voice, clearly perturbed. “Is that all, sir?”

“One more thing,” he said. “You have another guest staying there, named Helen Bellayne. Please give her the same message. And tell her that I’m on my way with the goddamn cavalry.”

“‘With the goddamn cavalry.” he repeated. “Yes, sir, I will tell her.”

The next call Taggart placed was to the MP barracks on Tunnicliff Road. It took the sergeant who answered several minutes to find the duty officer. The man was yawning when he picked up the phone.

“Lieutenant Darlow,” he said.

“This is General Ernest Manigault,” Taggart lied again. “I need a squad of MPs armed with light infantry weapons to be ready and deployed when I arrive there in fifteen minutes. And requisition two trucks for us. Have you got that, Lieutenant Darlow?”

“Yes, sir,” he barked back. “They’ll be ready, sir.”

Taggart went to his room and threw on his uniform. Before leaving, he grabbed his .45-caliber Colt pistol from under the pillow and jammed it into the pocket of his topcoat. Back in the hallway, he was about to pick up the phone to call General Manigault when it began ringing again.

It was General Manigault.

“Sam, this is Ernie,” he said. “All hell is breaking loose over at MI5. Apparently, one of their code analysts took off with several important ULTRA intercepts that were supposed to go back in the vault before he signed out for the weekend.”

“What is his name?” asked Taggart.

“Charles Wainwright,” said Manigault.

“I know him,” said Sam, “and I think I know where he is. Something’s up, General. I think we’re close to solving those murders. I just hope it isn’t too late.”

Taggart took several minutes to fill him in on the third murder, and the possible connection to both ULTRA and the invasion plans.

“If the Germans get hold of those intercepts, they’ll have a brand-new encryption code in twenty-four hours,” said Manigault. “And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if the invasion plan is compromised.”

“I’ll do my best, General,” said Taggart.

CHAPTER 29

L
iza lay beneath the infinite weight of a black basalt mountain, breathing very weakly, as her mind continued to struggle against the oppressive mass above her. It was impossible to raise her arms. The black mountain encased her like a granite tomb. She thought she could hear someone humming an ancient requiem to her from the summit of the mountain.

She was fearful that if she opened her eyes and actually saw the impervious black mass entombing her she would lose her mind forever. Then she heard the voice chanting to her again and recognized the melody. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes.

She lay in the four-poster bed in her room that overlooked the garden. It was dark outside the windows. She slowly turned her head to the side. Helen Bellayne was sitting at the desk across the room. She was playing Solitaire and quietly humming “Barbara Allen.”

“Helen,” said Liza, the word coming out like a dying croak.

Helen Bellayne dropped the cards and went to the mahogany dresser. After pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the tray, she came to the side of the bed, gently lifted Liza’s head, and helped her sip it.

“What time is it?” whispered Liza.

“A little after two,” said Helen.

She went back to the dresser and returned with a bottle of aspirin. Liza swallowed two of them with the rest of the water.

“How did I get here?”

“One of the servants found you on the stone staircase leading down to the garden. He thought you had fallen … or were possibly...”

“I didn’t fall,” she said. “And I wasn’t drunk. Someone attacked me.”

“There is a fair-sized lump on the back of your head,” said Helen. “I wasn’t sure how...”

“Where is Charlie Wainwright?” Liza asked.

“I have no idea.”

“He was with me.”

“You were alone when they found you,” said Helen, stroking her hand.

“Please ask someone to find him,” said Liza. “It’s very important.”

Helen stood up and went to the other side of the bed. A tasseled rope hung from a small round hole in the ceiling. Grasping the tasseled end, she pulled on it. There was no sound.

“What is that?” Liza asked.

“A bell rope,” said Helen. “It’s a signal to the servants.”

Within a minute, someone knocked lightly on the door. Helen opened it.

“Yes, madam?” asked one of the floor maids.

“Please go to Captain Wainwright’s room immediately,” Helen ordered. “He is staying in the suite next to Lord Ainsley. If he is asleep, wake him. Tell him to come here right away.”

Liza thought she heard the sound of thunder. A few seconds later, a long sliver of lightning divided the black sky through the casement window. Feeling nauseous, she closed her eyes and drifted off again. She came awake to the muffled sound of more voices at the door. Helen came back to her.

“Charles is not there,” she said. “Apparently, he left a note saying that he had to return to London immediately.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Liza. “He was too drunk to write anything.”

“The butler said his luggage was gone … all of his personal things as well.”

“What about his briefcase?” she demanded.