The Scarlet Thread (52 page)

“Oh, I don't think so,” he said. “I'm the one who's made a mess of it. But you'll forgive me, won't you? We'll go on being friends?”

“You know we will. This isn't why you're leaving, is it? Please—”

“No. Nothing to do with it. Can I ask you just one question before I go?” She nodded. “Are you really happy? I've wondered sometimes.”

“I'm happy,” she said. “He's the only man I've ever loved or ever will. From the moment I met him, Ralph. There'll never be anyone else for me but Steven.”

He got up, and she rose with him. “That's clear enough,” he said. “I hope he knows just how lucky he is. Goodbye, Angela.”

She said, “Goodbye, Ralph. Keep in touch, won't you? And look after yourself.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. He didn't touch her; he didn't respond. His skin was quite cold. “Throw the poor dog a bone,” he said, and he laughed his high-pitched, mirthless laugh as he turned and walked away.

“Ralphie.” Madeleine's voice was plaintive. “I
can't
get away this evening.”

He said into the telephone, “I've got to see you. Make an excuse—think of something. Just get down and meet me.… No, darling, there won't be time for bed. This is money. Lots of money for both of us.” There was a pause; he knew her so well. Death and disaster wouldn't motivate her; she'd only risk her rich protector if more money was in prospect.

“All right, I'll manage somehow. He's such a pig about letting me go out without him. Where shall I meet you?”

“The bar at Eden Roc,” he said.

She gave a delighted giggle. “Ooh, Ralphie, you must be feeling very rich.”

“Seven-thirty,” he said, and rang off. He had an hour to spare. His bags were already packed; the ticket from Nice to Paris on the early-morning plane was in his pocket. He had spent the afternoon saying goodbye to the staff at the casino before he traveled up to the villa at Valbonne. He had gone out of his way to present a cheerful picture, praising Steven, saying how sorry he was to leave them and the old place, but he'd had such an outstanding offer. He managed to avoid saying where it came from. Poaching wasn't popular, so no one pressed him. He was especially friendly to his successor, Louis, making jokes and offering tips on how to deal with certain clients. They had waved him goodbye in an atmosphere of good wishes and goodwill. The impression was important. A disgruntled ex-employee would certainly come under suspicion.

He looked around his apartment. He'd lived there on the Croisette since Steven had put him in charge. He felt no twinge of nostalgia for the place. Just rented rooms, like all the other rented rooms he'd lived in for so much of his life. He sent his baggage down to his car. That could wait at the airport till he sent someone for it. He closed up the apartment and left the keys with the concierge. The rent was paid till the end of the year. He said he was going away but might be back from time to time. He gave her extra money to keep an eye on the place. Driving off through the heavy traffic of Cannes, he headed up the coast road to the beautiful Eden Roc hotel.

He had to wait for Madeleine. He bought himself a glass of Pernod. It raised the barman's eyebrows; it wasn't a drink his customers usually ordered. The bitter, cloudy drink burned on his tongue.

“Oh, darling Ralphie, I'm so sorry.” She came hurrying up to him, bestowing a light kiss on his cheek as he greeted her. She was looking especially attractive. Beautifully, expensively dressed, with some new jewelry. People were admiring her. Wondering what she was doing with such an ugly man, he thought, savaging himself. For money, of course. What else had he to offer? “Now tell me, what's this about our being rich?” she questioned. She looked at the glass of Pernod and made a charming little grimace. “Only workmen drink that filthy stuff!”

“I've got very common tastes,” he said. “That's why I'm so fond of you. You want champagne, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “Don't be nasty, Ralph.” She knew him in this mood. He could be cruel, insulting. Sometimes she put up with it, sometimes she didn't. She was used to being ill used by men. And Ralph could be very generous and rather sweet. “Now tell me—what's happened? I'm so curious, I'm dying!”

He sipped his Pernod. He tantalized her, keeping her waiting. So greedy. Licking her lips already at the idea of money. “I've had a bit of luck,” he said at last.

She jumped in eagerly. “Gambling? You've won a lot?”

“Not gambling. I never did win, actually. Not as often as I lost. No, my sweet, someone has died and left me a fortune. What do you think of that?”

“I think it's wonderful,” she said. She laid her hand on his upper thigh. “How much?”

It amused him to watch her face. “Half a million dollars,” he said. “You're catching flies, sweetheart; you'd better close your mouth.” The hand on his leg began to grip. He pushed it aside. “Not in public,” he chided her. “You're not in one of your old haunts now.” She'd started in the red-light district in Marseilles. A very superior type of brothel, where the girls were able to come and go. Madeleine had formed an association with one of the clients and gone. Her career took off after that.

She ignored him. He was trying to hurt her, to goad her. Something had upset him. She smiled, showing her lovely white teeth, and wet her lips at the same time. “I'm so happy for you,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?”

He summoned the barman. “Another of those. And champagne for Mademoiselle.… I'm going to spend it. I'm going to book myself into a nice cruise, where I might play a little bridge or poker if I get bored. I shall spend the winter in the Caribbean. I've always wanted to go there. I may even buy myself a permanent house on the coast here when I've got sick of traveling. I just wondered whether you'd like to come along.”

“Ralph! Oh, darling, you really mean it?”

“Why not? We've always got on. We have fun when we're together. And at least you won't have to be a punching bag for that Persian boyfriend of yours.” She looked down and then shrugged. “What do you say, then?” he demanded.

She looked startled. “You mean you want me to make up my mind now. This minute?”

“No. But in, say, the next ten, while we finish our drinks.”

“Why such a hurry?” she asked, her eyes suddenly narrowing. “You're telling me the truth? You haven't stolen it? Somebody died?”

“Somebody died,” he assured her. “But I'm leaving for Paris tonight. Either you come with me, or you don't come at all.”

She hesitated. But not for long. He could be sweet. He was a very active lover. And straight. The Persian got too enthused by his fantasies. She was becoming scared that one day he would carry them too far. “To hell with the pig!” she declared. “I've decided. I'm coming with you, Ralphie. You know, I think I'm a bit in love with you.”

“Madeleine,” he mocked, “you love me as much as I love you. For as long as the money lasts. Now you get your things together and meet me at the airport for the eleven o'clock flight.
Au revoir
, my sweet.”

She turned at the little flight of steps leading out of the bar and blew him a kiss. It was a charming gesture. He paid the bill and left.

The waiter muttered under his breath. English pig. Hadn't even left a tip.

Clara was early. She'd arranged to meet O'Halloran at Beaulieu. There was an unobtrusive little fish restaurant with a bar. She ordered a drink. She felt conspicuous in her smart clothes. She was irritable at being kept waiting and on edge. When he hurried through with an excuse about the traffic, she snapped at him. “Where the hell have you been? You're late!”

Even though he'd slept with her, felt a transitory dominance because of that relationship, she could still overawe him. “I'm sorry,” he said, and sat down.

She said, without preliminaries, “Well? Is it tonight?”

He looked at her. “It's tonight,” he answered.

She felt short of breath suddenly. After a moment she controlled the rush of excitement. It had left a deep flush on her pale face. “Tell me,” she demanded. “I want to know everything!”

He had made up his mind not to give too many details. She was quite capable of getting herself there to watch. “Maxton gets him on his way to the casino,” he said, lowering his voice.

“And then you go to the villa,” she breathed, “and you get
her
and that son.” He hadn't mentioned that there was a baby girl. He had a gut feeling that she might ask for that too.

“With the same gun that shot the husband,” he went on. “The maid told me the staff go off duty at nine. After dinner. There won't be any witnesses. Just the shots and the sound of a car driving off. I'll make it sound real panicky—squealing tires, the works.”

She smiled slightly, savoring it. “You're Maxton,” she said. “You've just killed the husband. You have a fight with the wife; the son interferes. You go haywire and shoot them both.”

He nodded. “So, haywire I drive myself over that hundred-foot drop afterward.” They had talked it over and over, planning the details. The talkative Janine, with her compulsive curiosity, had given them the motive, the motive that would explain three murders and a suicide—Maxton's love for his employer's wife. She hadn't confined her spiteful gossip to the American who'd stayed in the village, painting bad pictures. Everyone knew about it. The café owners, the couple who ran the patisserie, the old grocery woman.

Maxton had been dismissed from his job, and the cycle of revenge and ultimate despair was set in motion. It would fit into the pattern of crime that the French had made their own. The crime of passion.

“All neat and tidy,” O'Halloran said.

“When will I know?” she demanded.

He calculated quickly. “Around eleven o'clock. I'll go back to my hotel and call you from there. Don't worry. It'll work out exactly like we planned it. You just relax.”

She gathered her bag, her cigarettes and lighter. “You do it, Mike,” she said softly. “You do it for me.”

And for the money
, he said to himself,
and for the chance to get out from under you, before it's too late
. “Consider it done,” he said.

Ralph Maxton drove up toward Valbonne. He knew every twist and turn of the road, he'd driven it so often. Taking Angela there for the first time to see the villa he'd rented for them: she was shaken after a bad flight over from England. Dinner every Friday night. Thinking to himself,
By God, you've fallen on your feet at last. He needs you, and she likes you. All you've got to do is be your witty self, my friend, give him what he wants with Great-uncle Oleg's white elephant on the seafront and make up amusing stories for the dinner table
.

It hadn't stayed like that, unfortunately. He'd gone there too often, allowed himself to indulge in the ultimate folly: falling in love. He'd even enjoyed playing piquet with her old father. The trickster tricked, he murmured, watching the empty road ahead. But in the end, it led to riches. Considerable riches. Enough to make a very different dream come true. Not the original one, of course.

“There'll never be anyone else for me but Steven.” The kind little kiss on the cheek. “Keep in touch … look after yourself.” She wouldn't be sitting with him in the candlelight. Madeleine would. He deserved Madeleine. They deserved each other.

He pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and checked his watch. Steven left home at the same time every night, arriving at the casino at nine-thirty sharp. A very punctual man, our mafioso. Never late for an appointment. He'd be on time for this one, though he didn't know it. Unless he'd brought Angela with him. Maxton hadn't warned his American about that. He'd made sure that evening. “I won't be coming tonight.” He didn't have to worry about stopping the car and finding her sitting next to Steven Falconi, saying, “Oh, Ralph, have you had an accident?” He looked at his watch again. The hands had hardly moved.

He shook his wrist, thinking,
It must have stopped. I've been here God knows how long
.

They'd go to the Caribbean for the winter, he and Madeleine. She'd drive him wild with the tricks she'd learned since she was a little whore at age sixteen. They'd dine and dance to steel bands in the lovely warm evenings. They'd have the best suites in the best hotels. He'd wear her like a lucky charm, showing the world what a delicious woman he could get for himself. But he'd forgotten about the cruise.

Where would they go to? The Far East? Hong Kong? He'd often thought of going there. The Chinese were mad gamblers. He might even make some money. It had a marvelous racetrack. Madeleine would love it. He would take her shopping. He'd heard that you could get a suit made up in a day. As good as Savile Row. Well, not quite as good, perhaps. People exaggerated. His father had ordered him a suit from his own tailor when he was eighteen. His father had all his suits made there. His grandfather too. They said the suits lasted for thirty years if you kept your shape. They wouldn't be able to guarantee that in Hong Kong. What a bloody idiot to think he could settle in some pretty English village, with a wife and possibly a child of his own. He must have been out of his tiny mind.

He could see headlights rounding a corner high above. Falconi, due in a few more minutes. He switched on the engine and eased the gear into place. The big Peugeot glided past him, with only Steven in the front, behind the wheel. Maxton pulled into a little side road, not more than a track, that would bring him out onto the main road ahead of the car, with time to swing half around and block the way. The Smith & Wesson, fully loaded, was on the car seat beside him. All he had to do was get out and fire through the window at close range. It was a thousand to one against another car following in that isolated place.