The Scarlet Thread (44 page)

The old man was not overfriendly at first. But Mike O'Halloran had a way with him. He wasn't Irish for nothing, as his father used to say about himself. He could be good company, and the old doctor offered him a cup of tea and started talking. A lot about his grandson. Mike had to pry him away from the subject of how well the boy played cricket and rugger, and how he was passing everything at school. Drummond was nice about the daughter, in a noncommittal way. He was far more enthusiastic about his son-in-law.

“Of course, I would've preferred an Englishman—no offense meant by that, you understand; it was only natural to hope she'd settle down with someone here. But I must say she's lucky. Very lucky. He's a damned good chap. Loves her, marvelous with the boy too. Even changed his name to Lawrence. That's my daughter's name. Said it made them more of a family. Always makes me feel welcome. Even wanted me to live with them in France. Not that I would, mind you. Too hot for me. Can't stand that sort of heat.…”

He'd come out to the front door with O'Halloran, shaken hands and apologized for jabbering, as he put it. “Old man's disease, talking too much. Not the one people think you mean, though,” and he'd chuckled at his own joke.

And now Mike O'Halloran knew where to find them. Falconi, alias Lawrence, had opened a casino. The doctor seemed rather proud of it. He'd filled in a lot of details, seeing that his listener was interested. Time to go home. Time to write up his report and pick up a fat check. He bought English cashmere for his wife and a lot of souvenirs for his children.

“Darling,” Angela asked anxiously, “are you sure this is wise?” Steven put his arm around her.

“I'm sure,” he said.

They were preparing for a gala night early in the new season at the casino. He was planning to show a higher profile this time. It worried her, and she said so.

“Why don't you care now? Last year you made such a point about being incognito.”

He made her sit on his knee. “You're getting to be quite a weight,” he said. “You know, I'm really excited about this baby already.”

“Don't change the subject,” Angela said. “Why are you taking a chance, Steven? As for shaving off your beard, you must be crazy!”

She's got to know sometime
, he decided.
It's old news now. I can soften it, make it less shocking
. He said gently, “Clara can't hurt us now. Her father's dead. The family's business has been divided up. I've talked to my brother, and we don't have to worry anymore.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked.

“Because it all happened while we were in Morocco. Her father got it wrong. People didn't like what he was planning to do to us.”

She said, “So they killed him?”

He nodded. “Don't think about it. It's got nothing to do with us.”

Angela said, “What's happened to her?”

“Nothing. She's gone on a long vacation. It was made clear to her. No trouble. She understood.” He held her close to him. “I didn't tell you,” he said, “because I knew you wouldn't like it. You were just three months pregnant. I'm not glad about it, I assure you. It's not part of me anymore. I made my choice at Christmas, and I'm never going back, not even in my mind. We have our life here, our son, and the new little one. And let me tell you something, my darling—I'm going to make it up to you for having the boy all on your own last time. You're going to be a princess with this baby.”

Angela let him hold her. No danger, no need to hide anymore. But at a price.
I can't think about it
, she said to herself.
I don't know and I don't want to know any more than he's told me. Of course that's easy enough to say, while we're like this and I feel how much he needs me. It's when I'm alone, or wake at night, that it's going to be difficult
.

She said, “I wish I could have it at home.”

“No way.” He was adamant. “You'll go to the hospital, you'll have the best doctors, the best attention. We're not taking any chances. Now you should go and take your rest. And don't worry about a thing. Promise me?”

“I promise,” Angela told him. He held on to her for a moment longer.

“I love you very much,” he said. “Now go on, put your feet up. I'll wake you when I get back.”

She slept in spite of herself, longer than she meant to. Nature was making it easy to keep her promise to him—not to worry, not to think.

When she woke, it was late in the afternoon, and the telephone beside her bed was ringing. She answered it sleepily. It was a call from England.

Her father's physician was calling. He told her as gently as he could that Hugh Drummond had died of a heart attack. Mrs. P. had found him in his chair after lunch and thought he was asleep. It had been a peaceful and painless death.

“I should have gone to the funeral, Ralph!”

“No, you shouldn't,” Maxton said. “You nearly lost that baby. Steven was quite right, Angela. Your father wouldn't have wanted you taking any risks. The only reason I've remained behind is to make sure you stay in bed and do what you're told.”

The pains had begun within hours of that telephone call. She had become so upset at the suggestion of being moved into the local hospital that the doctor left her at home overnight in the hope that the spasms would stop with medication. Any sign of bleeding, he told Steven, and she was to be rushed in immediately.

He had sat up with her while she slept under sedation, watching over her till she woke in the morning.

“It's all right,” she'd murmured to him. “The pains have stopped.… Oh, poor Dad …” And she'd cried out her grief in Steven's arms.

No question of traveling, the doctor had insisted. No emotional upset. At less than seven months, she'd lose the child. Maxton had volunteered to stay with her. Steven had agreed, provided he moved into the villa.

“I don't trust her not to get up, or do something crazy like trying to fly out at the last minute,” he'd told Maxton. “Janine couldn't stop her, but you could. It's just because he died so suddenly, sitting up in a chair.… If she'd had any warning, she wouldn't be taking it so hard.”

“She wouldn't risk the baby,” Maxton had reassured him. “She'd never do anything so irresponsible.”

He hated Steven so much, he wondered how he managed to conceal it. He didn't understand the fear for her and the child that made Steven sound harsh.

“You watch over her,” he'd told Maxton. “The doctor's visiting every day. I'll be bringing Charlie back with me. I'll get everything settled over there. She's not to be worried with goddamned wills or what happens to the house or Mrs. P. I've told her. She's got to leave it to me and just take care of herself and the baby.”

After he'd left for the airport, Maxton went upstairs to Angela's room. He'd brought flowers and a translation of a new French novel from the English bookshop in Cannes.

Sitting up in bed, she looked white and wan. He had never been encouraged to be demonstrative. He had never before wanted to put his arms around a woman and just comfort her. He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed himself to hold her hand.

“You've got to be good,” he told her. “Otherwise I'll ring up old Martineau and tell him you're doing the twist round the bedroom, and he'll whisk you off to his hospital in no time!”

She smiled at that. “I can't even do that when I'm not pregnant,” she said.

“Nor can I,” he admitted. It was the latest dance craze sweeping Europe from America. “The osteopaths are making a fortune out of slipped disks,” he said.

“Thanks for the flowers.” Angela picked up the novel. “And for this. I ought to be able to read it in French by now. It's said to be a very good book.…” She wiped at a tear that had slipped down her cheek.

“I can't stop doing this,” she said. “I feel so awful not being there.… And I've stopped you from going too. He was so fond of you, Ralph.”

“I was very fond of him. You wouldn't try not to cry, would you, Angela? Just for me?”

“All right. I don't want to upset you too. You know, it's funny, I wasn't all that close to him. Or to my mother. But when she died, I missed her dreadfully.”

“I'm not surprised,” he said. “Being left with a child and having to cope on your own. It must have been bloody awful for you.”

She didn't say anything for a moment. She let him go on holding her hand. She thought,
He's so kind, just like my brother Jack would have been if he hadn't been killed
.

“Now why don't I get Janine to put the old bouquet into water and see about some tea for you?” he suggested. “And I've brought some cards. We could play gin rummy if you like. I could do with winning a few quid.”

He used to let Hugh Drummond win when they played cards. She said, “I don't really feel like playing anything. Let's have tea together instead.”

His smile could be charming; it quite transformed his face. “Let's,” he agreed. “That would be very nice.”

O'Halloran had been airborne on his way to Italy when the massacre took place. His wife had raised hell about his taking off on such short notice. The flowers hadn't won her over. He had called on the telephone, but the lines were full of static, and by the time he was in London she was missing him and asking when he'd be home. He hoped she would like the cashmere sweaters he'd bought her, in three different colors.

Anxious about Clara, he called the hospital. “Severe shock” was all the diagnosis he could get out of them. Not surprising. The papers showed the carnage on the church steps; reporters dwelt on the bride in her blood-drenched clothes, being taken from the scene by ambulance.

If she didn't get over it, what the hell would happen to his agency? Then he quieted down. Clients were coming in all the time; money was coming in with them. If she ended up at a funny farm, he could just keep on going till someone came along and asked about her share in the business. But she was tough. He had to admit that. She wasn't out of the hospital a week before she asked for his report. In a way, he felt relieved. He couldn't have felt sorry for her—he shrugged off that idea. She wasn't the type to be pitied, though perhaps she could be admired for her sheer guts.

And now, O'Halloran was telling his wife he'd be flying to Paris, but this time it would be a short trip. And he'd bring back something really special for her.

She met him in the bar at the Crillon.
Christ!
he thought when he first saw her. Her face was so gaunt that all you could see were big black eyes like burnished jet. She was desperately thin, yet eye-catching in a scarlet suit. They shook hands. He said, “It's good to see you, Mrs. Falconi. And you look great.” He meant it.

She said, “Let's sit down, Mike, and have a drink. And it's Mrs. Salviatti. I did get married to him. Just barely.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn't thinking. I'll try and remember the new name. What can I get you?”

“Scotch,” Clara said. He didn't look as out of place as she'd expected. But of course she chose his suits. She'd picked Bruno's clothes for him too. Made him look less like a street-corner Romeo.… She put the memory of him away. It was odd the way he crept into her mind when she wasn't looking. She often woke up at night, thinking he was touching her. His spirit hadn't settled, as Aldo's had.

O'Halloran came to the table she'd taken. “They're bringing the drinks.”

Clara said, “Before we get down to my business, how's our business?”

She could be very disconcerting: rude one minute and then relaxed, almost pleasant. You never knew which way she was going to jump.

She didn't play around with the Scotch. She finished ahead of him and signaled the waiter. “Another,” she said.

“Me too,” he said. Then he unlocked his briefcase and handed her a folder. “I brought these to show you. Just a few figures on our take since you've been sick. And some names. One or two are pretty interesting.”

She read very quickly and took everything in. Her questions were always to the point. She repeated one of the names and cocked her sleek black head to one side. Her hair was like polished silk. A thick knot of it was twisted up at the back.
It must hang a long way down when the pins are removed
, Mike thought. She was smiling over the prominent U.S. senator with presidential ambitions who was among the clients of a prostitute with very special sadomasochistic talents. “A pillar of the church!” O'Halloran commented wryly. “I never trusted the son of a bitch, with all that holy yap.”

Clara closed the folder. “I guess his family will want to keep his name off that lady's list. Have we done anything about it yet?”

“I've put out a few feelers. But we've got to go easy. They play rough, and they've got friends who play rougher.”

“I know they have,” Clara said. “But not when they know there's a copy waiting to be mailed to every major newspaper. They'd be able to stop one or two but not half a dozen, in different states. We'll get to work on this. At last count, his father was worth around eighty million dollars.”

Their glasses were empty and he said, “Do you want to talk about the other business now, Mrs. Falconi?”

“Salviatti,” she reminded him. “If you can't remember my goddamned name, why don't you just call me Clara?”

“Okay.” He was taken by surprise. “Okay. Clara. Thanks.”

“We've got a lot to talk about,” she said. “I guess you'd better stay for dinner. I don't want to rush this. And I'm going to need you, Mike. I hope you're not planning to go back home for a while.”

After a pause he shook his head. “I left it open,” he said. “Till I knew what you wanted.”

He'd seen it coming. The same old warning signals were flashing, just as they did when she asked him to work for her. And again he switched them off.