The Scarlet Thread (23 page)

Monte Carlo. She'd seen movies featuring the casino, where Hollywood heroes broke the bank. She'd read about the gala evenings and the celebrities. Lady Docker had become a national figure to the British, starved of glamour by the war and the mean years of austerity after it. Millionaires were rare and enviable creatures; their wives, draped in diamonds and mink, were even more so. Monte Carlo was the dream setting for a fantasy world, presided over by a prince who had married a beautiful American film star.

It was beautiful; more beautiful than Angela had imagined, with its backdrop of blue, its cloud-wreathed mountains and the sugar-candy palace perched on a rock overlooking the sea.

She parked the car and walked. There were huge yachts, oceangoing by their size and tonnage, moored in the harbor, their pennants flapping in a stiff breeze. The shops were opulent, discreet, and they boasted the great names in French haute couture, the jewelers of world renown—Van Cleef & Arpels, Boucheron, Cartier. She passed the glittering windows, pausing now and then to admire without wanting to possess. When she reached the splendid wedding-cake facade of the casino itself, she was amazed to see that its doors were open and people were hurrying inside. Middle-aged Frenchwomen, most of them housewives with shopping baskets on their arms, were slipping in for a morning session in the Petit Salon, where the stakes were a few francs. And there were men too, ordinarily, even poorly dressed, driven by the same demon that possessed the rich who would come later in the day—greed and hope.

She had read somewhere that for some unfortunates, it was the thrill of losing that impelled them. She wished Steven had chosen another business, something that wasn't tainted by human weakness and venality. Impulse made her turn and go into a very large and expensive-looking hotel. There were no street cafés open where she was, and the harbor was a long walk down. She was tired and rather cold. It was a very handsome hotel, and a polite receptionist directed her to the cocktail bar. It was empty; she almost turned back. Then the barman smiled at her.

“Madame?”

She said, “Would it be possible to order some coffee?”

“Coffee is served in the lounge, madame,” he said.

“Thank you.” She didn't know where the lounge was. She felt conspicuous and silly for having come in. Then there was a movement, and she saw that she wasn't alone after all. A woman was sitting at a table in a corner, playing patience. She had silvery hair under the soft overhead light. Angela sat down. The barman came to her table.

She said, “Gin and tonic,” because it was the first thing she could think of. He brought it with a dish of olives and cheese straws. The bill was tucked underneath. The drink was iced and made her shiver. She drank half of it and decided to go. She put down a five-franc note and got up. She didn't want to wait for change. As she left the table, the woman packed away her playing cards and turned around to signal the barman. Angela saw her fully in the light and just managed not to catch her breath. It was a travesty of a face. The left eye was covered with a patch; the nose was spread unnaturally, and there was a deep indentation where the right cheekbone should have been. Obviously she had suffered a terrible accident and had undergone extensive plastic surgery.

Her good eye was dark and large, with a penetrating stare that raked Angela from head to foot. The woman raised her hand and snapped her fingers imperiously, diamonds flashing. The barman hurried over. He carried a bumper of champagne. Angela kept her head down, avoiding the poor woman. How terrible if people stared.

It was really quite sharp outside. She should have brought her coat. She walked very briskly down to where the car was parked and drove back faster than she meant to. Maxton would have gone by now. She wanted to get back to the warmth and coziness of their hotel, to find Steven waiting for her. She couldn't get the woman's broken face out of her mind.

“Mr. Lawrence?” Ralph Maxton was little changed. The nose seemed more prominent, the hair looked thinner at the temples, but otherwise he was the same. They shook hands briefly.

Steven said, “What can I get you? A drink? Some coffee?”

Maxton shook his head. “Nothing, thanks.” He considered the tall, bearded American closely. The name Lawrence meant nothing to him. Only the desperate situation he was in had made him agree to the appointment with a stranger out of nowhere. Lawrence. A stranger and yet not quite … He leaned forward. “I have the feeling that we've met before,” he said lightly. “And of course I'm curious to know how you heard about me.”

“I approached the casino at Monte Carlo,” Steven said coolly. “Someone had a forwarding address.”

“A recommendation?” Maxton inquired. “From a mutual friend? I must admit I can't think whom we have in common among our acquaintances?” He ended the sentence as a question.

Steven had anticipated the situation, but decided to play it by ear. The pale eyes were very shrewd; he wasn't a man to ask that sort of question without expecting an answer.

“You have a good memory, Mr. Maxton,” Steven said. “I came to the casino with some friends. A long time ago. But before we go any further, there're a few questions I want to ask you. Why did you leave the casino?”

“We had a disagreement,” he said. “The management and I decided to part.”

“What sort of disagreement?”

Maxton looked into the shrewd face opposite him and decided not to waste time telling lies.

“I started gambling,” he said. “I hadn't turned a card or touched a chip in ten years, and then one day I gave a friend some money and told him to play the wheel for me. We got away with it a few times, and then they called me in and said I was sacked. I'd broken the sacred house rule. After ten years I was out. No compensation, nothing.”

“Did you make money?”

Maxton gave the short, high-pitched laugh that Steven remembered.

“Good Lord, no. I always lost. It wasn't that. It was the principle. I saw their point, but I thought they might have been a little more generous than they were. I'd given them good service.”

“I'm sure. So how long has it been?”

“A year.” He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of Gitanes. Matches followed. He inhaled and sighed with pleasure.

The cheapest cigarettes and no lighter. It must have been a very long year, Steven judged.

As if Maxton had read his mind, he said, “I couldn't get work anywhere else, of course. Word gets around. I was blackballed. So I did this and that and hung around. I've got used to living here, and I've made some good friends. But …” He spread his hands in resignation. “Even their largess started to run out. Not that I blame them. So I was naturally intrigued to get your call.”

He talked a lot, Steven noted, but it was a good cover. He was shrewd and intelligent. He wouldn't have lasted ten years with the casino if he hadn't been valuable to them. But for the one weakness.

“I thought I'd chance it.” Steven decided to take the initiative. “I remembered meeting you when I came to Monte Carlo. You were doing PR, you said. I made a few inquiries before I called.”

“The answers weren't
too
bad, I hope?”

“They told me what I needed to know about you. You were available. So I decided to talk to you about a proposition.”

Ralph Maxton stubbed out his cigarette. The movement showed that the edge of his shirt sleeve was frayed.

“Mr. Lawrence,” he said. “Before you tell me about this—er—proposition, there's something I must make clear to you. I inherited quite a sum of money when I was twenty-one. I also enjoyed gambling. I enjoyed it so much that it was becoming an embarrassment to my family. They suggested I go to America. My mother had connections in Boston, and there was some talk about banking and business. I didn't pay much attention to work, but I thought America would be fun. I had a pal I'd teamed up with in New York, a Canadian. Such a nice chap. We ended in Las Vegas. He got in so deep, I even went to the gentlemen concerned and actually pleaded with them to let him off. It wasn't a lot of money, actually—his last couple of thousand dollars. They were Italian-American gentlemen. I'd dropped twenty thousand English pounds at their grubby little tables, but they wouldn't even listen. My Canadian friend took a train to the coast one night and walked into the sea. Sorry,” he said, producing the cigarettes again, “I'm being long-winded. But I don't and won't touch anything or anyone connected with people like them. Although I'm sure you're not!”

“You needn't trouble yourself on that score,” Steven said firmly. “I have the same feeling about the gangster element as you do about your old employers. I want to open a casino here. I want to finance it and run it, but I need a front man, and I need someone who can hire the right staff and get it organized.”

“It sounds extremely interesting. Not particularly easy, though. Between the principality, Nice and Cannes, they've got the big-time gambling tied up along the coast. With one exception.” Maxton paused. The slightly mocking pose was cast off abruptly. “Antibes is a possibility. It's near Juan-les-Pins. There are fine hotels, lots of rich clients. Grand villas, but no casino. The girls and boys go into Cannes, which isn't that far away, or they come here. You might think about Antibes. Are you planning to build? That's millions, I warn you. And the French will make life as hellish as possible. They hate foreigners coming in.”

“I'd thought of buying,” Steven said. “If I could find suitable premises.”

“Need to be pretty big,” Maxton remarked. “And central. That cuts out the old-fashioned Edwardian monstrosities inland. You've got to site it where it can be seen every day. Have you looked yourself?”

“Not yet. As it turns out, I'm going on to Cannes from here with my wife. Day after tomorrow.”

“Good opportunity for you to see what's on the market.”

“Why don't you come over to Cannes and help me see what's available?”

“I'd be delighted. Does that mean I'm hired?”

“I guess so, if you're happy about it,” Steven said. “Five hundred dollars to start. If we find something, we'll talk terms then. I pay in advance.”

“I am glad to hear it. My friends'll be even gladder. I can pay some of them back. Thank you, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Steven,” he insisted. “After you've paid your friends back, get some new clothes. We'll be at the Carlton. Call me there.” He stood up.

Maxton's attitude was cool. He was broke, but he showed neither servility nor respect. Steven had never met this type before. He supposed it was peculiar to the English. He didn't like it. But he needed the man. To start with. He held out his hand. It was the families' custom to confirm a deal by clasping hands. Maxton looked surprised for a moment. When he did shake hands, his grip was firm.

Steven said, “I'll make out the check. Or would cash be easier?”

“Cash would be
much
easier. Thank you so much.” He took the money Steven proffered and walked to the door. “See you in Cannes,” he said.

The acrid smell of Maxton's strong, cheap tobacco pervaded the room. Steven opened the window to clear it away. He wondered suddenly whether he would ever see the man again. A gambler, a sponger; he'd sunk low in the last year. Only that curious arrogance had been untouched by the vicissitudes he'd experienced. Hunger had apparently been one of them: his shabby suit hung on him like a sack. He might take the money and disappear. But Steven knew he wouldn't. Whatever he was, or had become, Ralph Maxton was a man who kept his word.

He'd booked the best suite in the Carlton at Cannes as a surprise for Angela. There was no casino at Antibes, Maxton had said. If he could find a building, get a foothold … Maxton knew people. Knowing the right sort of people had been his job in Monaco. Steven's mind was racing ahead, seeing possibilities, excitement rising as it used to when he was planning an expansion of the family interests. He thought of his father and his mother and his brother. He suffered a pang of homesickness, of loneliness for them all, that made him groan aloud. They had stood back-to-back with him when he'd asked. Never mind his father's anger. That was only just. They had been loyal to him. He only wished he could repay them. One day maybe. If this project took off and was a great success, they'd have reason to be proud of him again. To forgive his rejection of the only way of life they knew. To understand that there were other ways to gain respect and maintain honor.

When Angela returned, he took her in his arms and made love as if they had come together after a long separation. And in the evening they sat in the little restaurant that overlooked the sea. He told her briefly about Ralph Maxton.

“You'll see him in a day or two. I'm not saying any more, or it'll spoil my surprise. But it looks good, my darling. Everything's going right for us. We're going to have a wonderful life together. You and me and Charlie.” He leaned across and kissed her. Outside the window, the hungry cats were waiting patiently.

“This is my wife, Angela,” Steven said. “Ralph Maxton.”

“How do you do?” He shook Angela's hand and gave a tiny bow. An English lady: very pretty, poised but rather shy. She gave him a charming smile.

“Have a seat,” Steven said. “You'll have a drink, Ralph?”

“Thank you. That would be welcome.”

They had entered the second-floor suite, overlooking the Croisette. “Come and meet my wife,” was the invitation. Maxton recognized Angela's type as soon as she walked into the sitting room. What the hell, he said to himself while they were introduced, was she doing with someone like Lawrence?

“We've had a busy morning,” Steven announced. “But I think we've found what we want, haven't we?”

“I think so,” Maxton agreed. “Provided we can get the owner to sell it.”