The Scarlet Thread (49 page)

“Yes, yes,” Steven said. “I remember. I remember you. I'm so sorry. Sit down, please.”

“Thank you. Do you have any champagne? I could do with a glass.”

“I'll get some,” he said. Pauline Duvalier. The night he'd slammed out of their suite, leaving Clara alone. The elegant older woman who'd picked him up in the bar when he was getting drunk, trying to come to terms with himself and the nightmare of Clara's jealousy. They had gone up to her suite, and he'd made love to her. For a few hours he'd forgotten his anger and despair. He remembered it only too well.

Maxton kept a supply of drinks for hospitality. Steven opened a bottle of champagne. He poured a glass and gave it to her. Her hand trembled a little. She had lost an eye. Her face was a travesty.

He sat beside her. “What happened to you?”

She sipped the drink. “A robbery,” she said. “That's what they called it in the newspapers. But the police had a different idea. I never saw anyone. I was knocked out and beaten. Only my face, Monsieur Falconi. I think he took a gold watch and some trinkets. To make it look like theft. They even asked me if I'd had any dealings with the underworld. It happened exactly a week after I spent the night with you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”

“It was because of that, wasn't it? Who could have done it, Monsieur Falconi? Who had me beaten almost to death?”

He covered his face with his hands. There was a long silence. Then he raised his head and looked at her. He reached out and took her hand and held it. “I know who did it,” he said at last. “God forgive me. I told her, and this is what she did.”

“Told whom?” Pauline Duvalier asked him. He was gripping her so hard it hurt.

“My wife Clara. I told her I'd been with someone else. She'd been accusing me, driving me crazy. She must have found out who it was. Oh, God, what can I say to you? What can I do?”

“Is she the woman whose husband was shot in New York at their wedding? It said she was your widow. Are you hiding from her, Monsieur Falconi?”

He said, “Yes, madame, I am. I have a wife and a family. You saw my wife with me tonight.”

“A blond woman, very pretty,” Pauline Duvalier said. She held out the empty glass. “I live on this,” she said. “Do you know this is the first time I've left the Hôtel de Paris since I came out of the hospital? I live there all year round. Everyone knows me; they don't look at my face anymore. The surgeons did their best, but there wasn't much left for them to work on.”

Steven said, “You were beautiful. I remember that well. Tell me, what can I do? Is there anything, anything at all I can do for you?”

She smiled. It was a painful sight. “Nothing. You've been kind. I appreciate that. You have a manager here; I saw him. An Englishman?”

“Yes. Ralph Maxton. Do you know him?”

“By sight. He comes to the Hôtel de Paris; he has a woman he brings there. That's how I found you. He talked about you, Monsieur Falconi, and the woman said your name out loud. Perhaps you should speak to him about it?”

“Thank you. I will.”

“I must go now,” she said. She drew the tulle down over her face.

Steven helped her to her feet. “I would like it very much if you'd come here again,” he said. “As my special guest. I'd like you to meet my wife. We would look after you.”

“Thank you, but I don't think so. I'm happy enough. I just wanted to be sure of why it happened, that's all.”

“I'll take you to your car,” he said. People paused as they walked through the entrance hall. The woman with the veil intrigued them. He waited with her till the car and driver came to the front steps.

“Good night, Monsieur Lawrence,” she said. She held out her hand, and Steven brought it to his lips and kissed it.

“I want you to know one thing,” he said. “If I'd known, I'd have killed her.”

He closed the car door and stood on the steps, watching till it had driven out of sight.

Two days after the gala, Maxton went to the Carlton for drinks, in response to an invitation from the genial American.

O'Halloran clapped him on the back. “Great you could spare the time.”

“Nice of you to ask me.”

“Least I could do after the great time I had!” O'Halloran had certainly been lucky. He'd never played roulette in his life, but it hadn't taken him long to calculate the odds, and by the end of the evening he'd come away twenty thousand francs ahead.

Maxton looked edgy, Mike decided. Nothing ruffled the exterior, but there was tension underneath. The laugh was an ugly cawing sound, with nothing humorous about it. “Well, you sure had a big success the other night! All that publicity about the Persian princess—what's her name?”

“Ashraff,” Ralph supplied. They were drinking whiskey. Champagne would have been sour in his stomach that evening. The American was right. The gala had been a smash. His reward had been a summons to Steven's office and the bald statement that after the summer, he wouldn't be working there anymore. He kept going over the conversation in his mind, absently saying inconsequential things while O'Halloran talked on about himself.

Steven's words resounded in his head. “You've done very good work, but you're through here. I'm not firing you; I'm telling you to look someplace else. And I'll give you a reference that'll make it easy.”

He had been shocked. Had Steven discovered his true feelings for Angela? Or was it something else? After a pause he'd said, “Is there any reason, or aren't I to know?”

Steven had looked at him. “When I hire staff, I expect one thing: loyalty. You don't have any.” He turned away with a gesture of contempt.

“That's a sweeping accusation,” Maxton had said. “I think you owe me more than that.”

“You're owed nothing. You were on the skids when I employed you. I'm calling it quits.” Steven hadn't turned around. Maxton walked out of the office.

Nobody knew. He'd gone back to work as if nothing had happened. He hadn't seen Falconi since.

O'Halloran leaned forward and tapped him on the knee. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he jumped.

“What's wrong? What's eating you? Come on—maybe I can help.”

“I've lost my job.” Maxton said it before he could stop and consider the consequences of making it public knowledge. But O'Halloran was an outsider. He was a fly-by-night friend, gone in a few days. He had to tell someone.

O'Halloran looked surprised. “Jesus,” he said. “I guess you weren't expecting it. Any reason, if you don't mind me asking?”

“No reason I know of; certainly not the one I was given.” There were two red spots on Maxton's cheeks, like dabs of paint. He was naturally pale and sallow, and it made him look ill.

“I'm sorry,” O'Halloran said. “It sounds like you've been given a real bum deal.”

“I think that's a fair comment,” Maxton said. “You were rather impressed by my boss, weren't you? But you only shook hands, of course.”

“I'm not so impressed now,” was the answer. “What kind of a shit is he, to treat you like that?”

“A very special kind,” Maxton said slowly. “I built that place up single-handed. He knew nothing about running a casino. He didn't know anyone on the coast, whom to employ, how to get the press interested—nothing! All he had was money. I did the donkey work, Mike. And now he thinks he's got it in the bag, and he kicks me out. With a good reference, of course.” His eyes were bright with rage.

O'Halloran watched him closely. The man could be nasty, he decided, very nasty, if you crossed him. He decided to press a little further. “Listen, Ralph—don't take this wrong.… I made a bit of money thanks to you. If you need anything, I'd be only too happy …”

“Thanks,” Maxton said. He wasn't grateful, Mike realized that. There wasn't room in him for anything like gratitude; he was brimming over with his rage. “I don't need money immediately; he always paid well.”

O'Halloran decided to make sure. “You'll get another job?”

“Oh, yes, I'll have to eventually. I have expensive tastes. I don't have the piggy-bank mentality. I'll go to another place. I could try Italy.”

Mike let a silence grow between them. Finally, he said, “What a bastard! Listen, why don't we have some dinner? I'm doing nothing tonight; I'd really like it. You know, I just might be able to think of something for you. I've got a few contacts. Unless you've got some girl waiting …”

Maxton shook his head. “My girl's busy tonight.”
My whore is being kicked around by her rich boyfriend. And the woman I love is sitting down to dinner with that self-righteous crook
. “I'm free,” he said. “And just because I've been so boring, dinner's on me.”

In the Paris apartment, Clara answered the telephone. She sounded impatient. “What the hell have you been doing? You haven't called me in a week!”

“If you want me to foul it up, then I'll rush,” Mike said. He was bolder over the telephone than face-to-face. “I've made contact with this guy Maxton, and I think luck's running our way.”

“Why? What's changed?”

“He's just been fired, and he's sore as hell about it. I spent this evening telling him what a crap deal he's been handed.”

“Will he do it?” Clara demanded. “Where's your goddamned instinct you bragged about? I'm not interested in grievances—I want someone who'll take on the contract!”

The week had made her edgy. She was sleeping badly, mentally abusing O'Halloran for wasting time, for not getting on with it. “I've got someone,” she heard him say. “Wait, before you start bawling me out. Just get ready with the half-million dollars.”

She swore in Italian. “Maxton? You don't even know—”

“Not Maxton,” he interrupted. “Me, Clara. I've got it all figured out. Just trust me.” He hung up.

He waited for the phone to ring again. It didn't. He could imagine that bloodthirsty temper erupting. He grinned to himself. She could yell at him, but there wasn't much else she could do. There was no one else she could trust to commit three cold-blooded murders. She'd taken him on, and they'd ended up as partners.

And she'd pay. He sat back, sipping Scotch, thinking how he could cash in the agency, take his wife and his kids and buy a place in Mexico. Live in comfort for the rest of their lives. They'd taken a cheap holiday down there some years ago and loved the place. The sun, the easygoing tempo. It was cheap too. They could live it up, have anything they wanted. He could work when he felt like it. Half a million dollars.

He'd thought about it carefully, testing his nerve. He'd shot men, and on two occasions women, during his time in the Department. He knew what it felt like to pull a trigger, see them arch up and then fall. He'd smelled blood and the death stink of human excrement. This could be a lot easier. He was a very good shot. He'd taken a sighting on Falconi that night at the gala. A matter of psychology, they were taught during their training. You aim at the targets without really seeing them. They could be cardboard cutouts, dummies set up on the range. You dehumanize them, and from then on it's easy. Because you've dehumanized yourself. Falconi wouldn't keep him awake at night. As for the blond wife, she was a target, not a breathing woman. He couldn't have described her face, but the part of him that needed to identify her could have picked her out of any crowd.

He could smell the ones who'd kill, because he recognized them. It was a brotherhood that went deeper than any uniform or any oath sworn to uphold the law.

Maxton had gone home, obviously feeling worse after Mike had finished being sympathetic. And Mike had made a judgment: Maxton would knock off Steven Falconi for nothing. That was the irony of it.

Steven was in his office. He spent every night at the casino, greeting guests, watching them play; keeping an eye on his staff. He had already seen Maxton briefly that evening, had spoken equally briefly about something concerned with the casino. He wasn't expecting him to come to the office late at night.

“Can I see you for a moment?”

“Sure. Come on in. Anything wrong downstairs?”

“Nothing. You're making a lot of money as usual.”

Steven didn't rise. He knew that mocking tone, the supercilious twist of the thin mouth. “So what brings you up here?” he asked.

Maxton had a habit of standing with both hands in his pockets. He said, “I've been thinking about our conversation the other day. Wouldn't it save a lot of trouble if I just resigned?”

Steven hesitated. It sounded like a dignified way out for them both. No explanations to Angela. That was something he'd dreaded. And put off. The act of a gentleman. He didn't know why he thought of it like that. He saw the cold and bitter hatred lurking in Ralph Maxton's pale eyes. “Who are you getting off the hook, Ralph? Me or yourself?”

“Me,” was the answer. “One should never remind someone of what they've said in anger. Some pompous ass said that to me one day. I thought it was rubbish at the time. You told me you didn't owe me anything. Not even a proper explanation for throwing me out. So don't fool yourself I'm thinking of you. It suits me to go early. Then I don't owe you anything either. And it makes it easier to say goodbye to your wife. Unless you've told her what you wouldn't tell me—why I'm being fired.”

Steven looked at him. He'd trusted Maxton, welcomed him into his family, paid him beyond the claims of generosity for what he did, considered him a friend. And Maxton had been snooping behind his back. It was a chilling thought that only a few months ago, his revelation of the name Falconi could have been fatal to Steven. How had he discovered it? Now, luckily, it didn't really matter. A chance word had been spoken, and no enemy had heard. He had been tempted to face Maxton with the truth. But that was to admit it, to involve Pauline Duvalier. He couldn't risk that. She had suffered enough. He thought,
My son was right. He hates me; he hoped to find something he could use against me. Because he loves Angela
…