The Secret Life of Violet Grant (34 page)

The guard doesn't answer. A clock ticks on the wall behind Violet, unnaturally loud in the overheated stillness of the room. She imagines a glass of water, tall and cool, on the table before them. She can almost picture herself lifting it up and drinking deep. Next to her, Lionel sits
back in his chair, his jacket slung behind him, his muscular body at perfect rest.

Lionel will handle this. Lionel knows what to do. Invincible Lionel.

Violet crosses her hands in her lap and allows a long breath. The gold ring squats on her finger, fat and reassuring. Faith: whatever that is. Faith in this, at least: that Lionel will find some way to release them from this guardhouse. That this room and this moment are not the ones she has to fear.

The door creaks open. The guard scrambles to his feet.

A slim blond man enters, dressed in a dark suit, flanked by a man in a police uniform with a thick band strangling his arm. He bites out a command to the guard, who falls back into his chair with a bang.

“Now then.” The blond man turns to the table and smiles. “Edward and Sylvia Brown, is it?” He speaks in perfect King's English.

“Yes, and I demand to know why my wife and I have been detained in this manner.” Lionel sets his fist on the table.

“Tush, tush. You Americans.” The blond man smiles. “The thing is, though, you remind me very much of a young man I knew at Oxford, when I studied there. A man named Richardson. Merton College.”

“Richardson?” Lionel screws up his face. “I knew a fellow named Richardson at school. Two of them. Common name, Richardson.”

“You come from Berlin, Mr. Brown?”

“We come from New York City.”

A patient smile. “I mean most recently. You were in Berlin? So states your passport.”

“Yes, yes. Seeing the sights. My wife and I are on our honeymoon.” Lionel reaches over to pat Violet's hand. “Tour of Europe, except it seems you've got plans of your own this summer. I was just about to take Sylvie to see the—”

“Now, see here,” says Jane, “if you're here to question Mr. Brown, why have I been stopped here with my son?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. . . .” The blond man's gaze drops to the
papers before him. “Oh, I do beg your pardon. Madame de Saint-Honoré, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. And I'll have you know—”

“Do you not think, madame, it's a precarious time for a French citizen to be touring about Germany?”

“I was in Berlin for the summer. My son was studying there. Anyway, one little French husband doesn't make you a citizen forever, does it? So what's this about?”

“Yes,” says Lionel, “either state your business or let us go, or I'll have the American consulate . . .”

The blond man waves his hand. “I shall be brief, then. My dear Madame de Saint-Honoré, I ask your pardon for the frank nature of this question, but I am afraid I must make the inquiry, for form's sake: When you murdered one Walter Grant, a British subject residing in Berlin, did you commit the act on your own initiative, or did you obtain the assistance of an accomplice?”

I
let James walk me to the door of the Imperial suite after a late dinner. “I don't even know your real name,” I said, with my hand on the very knob, my voice merry with wine.

“Nor will you.”

“You can't give me a hint?”

He angles his head thoughtfully. “My mother's mother was a Merriwether.”

“Merriwether.” I put on my deep voice. “
James
Merriwether.”

He laughed, nice and throaty. I watched his Adam's apple bob pleasantly up and down. A lovely rugged neck, a little ruddy in the golden-dim hallway lights. I could see it dodging assassins' knives and producing all the necessary lies.

“So that's it,” I said. “The trail ran cold somewhere around the Swiss border, and you never heard from Lionel Richardson or the others again.”

“Not a word. But at least we now know someone made it to Switzerland.”

“Do you think they survived?”

“I think Richardson was likely found out and killed, or he would have popped up again. As for the others, I can't say. There are ways to disappear, especially when Armageddon is breaking out. To be honest,
I don't particularly care at the moment.” James laid his scarred hand atop mine, on the knob.

I studied his warm fingers with my wine-blurred eyes.

Friday night. Friday afternoon in New York. What was Doctor Paul doing right now? Were he and Gogo going out tonight? Had they gone out last night, had they gone to his apartment? They were engaged now, and everyone knew what engaged meant these days. It gave you sanctity. It meant even virtuous Gogo was free to slink after dark into Doctor Paul's apartment as I had, to lie on the floor with him and stare at the bumpy ceiling. And Paul? Well, he'd been paid handsomely, hadn't he? No backing out now. Been paid a down payment of half a million dollars to take care of Gogo, to make her happy, to buy her a big oak-flanked colonial in the suburbs and fill her womb with the babies she craved. Maybe he'd already made dutiful love to her on that white bed of his. Taken her virginity carefully—
It's all right, sweetheart, I'm a doctor, you won't feel a thing
—and held her afterward while she wept with joy.

Well. Maybe not. But he would. Eventually. Lightfoot would hold him to it.

And it was fine, fine. Gogo gets her man, her man gets his money, Vivian keeps her job. A nice square deal for all concerned. Everyone goes home with a prize.

I said, “Don't get your hopes up, Mr. Merriwether,
James
Merriwether. I already told you I wasn't going to sleep with you.”

“I was hoping I'd contrived to impress you otherwise.”

I turned to face him. My back rested against the door; his hand still lay atop mine on the knob. “I'm afraid we American girls are a little harder to impress than that.”

James dropped Aunt Violet's suitcase from his opposite hand and laid his forearm against the door, next to my head. He kissed my neck, my mouth, forceful, confident, well versed, tasting like wine and
poires au
Grand Marnier
. His torso was large, blocking out the hallway light as I lay back against the silky paint of the door, going through the motions of
kissing and arching my back and enjoying myself thoroughly, until James stopped in his tracks and lifted his lips away.

“Open your eyes, Vivian.”

Opened. Reluctantly. James's eyes were black and far too close.

“You don't really want this, do you?”

Some damned thing leaked out of the far corner of my right eye.

James swore softly and stepped away. I folded my arms and stared at the red carpet, slightly worn. The ribbon of light from under the door. I heard him rummaging around his clothes and expected him to say
Well, I'm off, then, pleasant evening, jolly pip,
but instead his body slumped next to mine against the wall and the orange newly lit smell of his cigarette filled the silence.

“What's the poor bloke's name?”

I snared the cigarette for myself. “Paul. He's a doctor. He took a million dollars to marry my boss's daughter, because his dad got in deep with the Vegas racket and he needed the money.”

James snorted. “That's what he told you?”

“That's what he told me.”

“Let me guess. Dad's severed finger arrives in the post one day, shock and horror, strike me down, he has nowhere else to turn . . .”

“It was the ear, actually.”

“Oh, nicely done. Marvelous touch. Engages the sympathy, a detail like that. A real professional.” He took the cigarette back. “So it seems he wants to have his million dollars and eat himself a little scrumptious cake on the side.”

“The cake is not on the menu.”

“Good. He's not worth it, Vivian.”

“Are you worth it, James?”

“I expect not.” He rolled to his side and laid his hand atop my left breast, as if to count the strikes of my heart through my dress. “God, you're astonishing. Look at you. Say the word, Vivian. Say the bloody word, please. We will be so
good
together in there.”

“Damn it.” I squeezed my eyes shut.

The hand fell away. “He's an idiot.”

“Well, I love that idiot. That stinking idiot. I love him to death.” I slid down the door and landed ungracefully on my bottom, legs splayed, as if that act of abasement would stop the tears, which ran right through the cracks in my eyelids, no matter how hard I squinted them, and down my cheeks and into my collar. “Why, James? Can't a girl catch a break once in a while? Does everything have to be so damned difficult?”

He slid down next to me, shoulder to shoulder. Violet's suitcase sat at our feet. “Because it's life, Vivian. It's just life, we're all out for ourselves. It's the only way you make it through to the end. You get lucky sometimes, that's all, and you enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Poor Violet,” I said.

A reassuring glassy patter filled in the silence. Rain, gentle and English, on the window at the end of the hall, the slate roof above us. We lay there listening to it, until James finished his cigarette and kissed my shoulder and rose to his feet. I didn't move.

“You'll be all right?”

“I'm always all right, James.” Right as rain.

He was taking out a card from his inside jacket pocket, a ballpoint pen. “When you're all better, Vivian, ring me up. Sooner, if you need anything. If I can help you with something.”

Tell me another one.

“Thanks.” I lifted my hand and he slipped the card between my fingers.

“Stay here as long as you want. It's taken care of.”

“So I hear.” I looked up and found his face, which was all wrinkly with handsome worry. Another fine physical specimen, James Merriwether. Really, the world was full of them. Chockablock, dime a doozy. An endless supply. No need to worry. No need to pine for the one that got away.

His lips found my forehead. “Mind yourself, Vivian.”

•   •   •

IN THE MORNING,
I found a slip of paper under the door from the hotel reception. A Margaux Lightfoot had telephoned long distance yesterday evening at nine-thirty-eight. She would try again at noon today.

I crumpled the note in a ball and tossed it into the wastebin. A knock sounded on the door.
Bell service!
I opened with a shiny morning-glory smile.

“Take it all downstairs, please. And could you be a dear and have the doorman call me a taxi for London Airport?”

“Of course, Miss Schuyler. Where are you headed today?”

I slung my overcoat over my elbow and picked up my pocketbook.

“Paris,” I said. “Where else?”

V
iolet leaps to her feet in the hot and airless room and turns to Jane. “
You?
You killed him?”

“Ah.” The blond man squares his papers. “You are perhaps acquainted with the unfortunate Dr. Grant, Mrs. Brown?”

Violet opens her mouth. Every eye is fixed upon her. Jane is impassive; Henry, leaning forward in the chair next to his mother, looks flushed. She can only imagine the expression on Lionel's face.
This,
after all he's done, after all his careful preparations. Naive Violet tumbles without a bump into the most elementary of traps, clumsily set.

A chair leg scrapes briefly against the wooden floor.

“Yes.” Violet hides her shameful damp palms in her skirt. “We know Dr. Grant. What shocking news. I believe we met the man at some party or another. At Jane's apartment, isn't that right, darling?”

“Why, I guess you're right,” says Lionel. “Or maybe it was that evening with the baroness. Poor old fellow. You say he was murdered?” Lionel makes a
tsk
ing sound.

“Yes, he was. A most bloody crime, wasn't it, Madame de Saint-Honoré?” says the blond man.

“This is nonsense,” says Lionel. “Jane wouldn't hurt a fly.”

The blond man smiles at Violet. “And of course you must have met
Dr. Grant's lovely wife, Mrs. Brown. American, too, by a happy coincidence.”

Violet resumes her seat. “I think so. I don't remember exactly.”

His head dips once more to the papers before him. He sifts through them, one by one. “Perhaps this will help your memory. She is of above average height, with reddish hair and blue eyes. A pretty young woman, about twenty-two years of age.” He looks up. “Rather like yourself, in fact.”

“This is nonsense,” Lionel says again. “What exactly are you trying to imply? That my wife is also married to this Dr. Grant? That she's somehow involved in his murder?”

The blond man smiles at him. “Your words, sir. Not mine.”

Lionel's voice gains urgency. “Now look. You've detained a group of tourists on suspicion of capital murder—capital murder!—without a single shred of proof, let alone evidence. In America we have a little saying, sir. Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Naturally, the system of American justice is the wonder of the world.” The blond man's lip makes a little curl. “But, alas. I'm afraid we in Germany are in a declared state of preparedness for war, which allows the police a little more freedom to perform our duties. And I do”—here he patted the papers before him—“have a number of eyewitness accounts, of a man and a woman matching your descriptions, both entering and leaving the apartment of Dr. Grant around the day of the murder. Leaving the city hastily together that night, I regret to add. And there is the question of Mrs. Grant.” He turns to Violet, and the curl in his lip becomes a full-fledged smile, the cat who happened upon the unguarded canary.

“What question is that, sir? What are you implying?” says Lionel.

“I am implying, my good fellow, that you are not Edward and Sylvia Brown of New York City. I am implying that you are the Englishman Lionel Richardson and his lover, Mrs. Violet Grant. That you are fleeing Berlin with Madame de Saint-Honoré, Dr. Grant's known mistress, having murdered him in cold blood in his own library.” The blond man speaks passionately now, building to his thrilling climax. He rises to his
feet. “And that you are now trying to escape German justice by entering Switzerland. And I promise you, Mr. Richardson,
that will not happen
!” His fist rams his point home on the table.

Violet cannot speak. This is out of her universe, beyond her experience. What did you say, in the face of accusation? What did you say, when caught in a trap, staring up at the poacher who planned to make a meal of you?

And they had been inches away. A few steps only, before the gate thudded down.

Lionel sits exquisitely still, watching the blond man without blinking. His quietude contrasts with the blistering passion that continues to echo in Violet's ears:
fleeing Berlin, known lover, murdered him in cold blood
. And the clock, ticking softly, somewhere.

Henry clears his throat. Lionel holds up his hand.

“Very well, Herr—”

“Von Engel.” A look, meaning
as you know very well
.

“Herr von Engel. I am prepared to make a full confession, to cooperate fully with the police in this unfortunate affair.”

“You admit you murdered Dr. Grant?”

“I am prepared to confess that I acted, and acted alone. I put myself in your custody. I do so, however, under a single condition.”

Herr von Engel lowers himself in his chair with a flourish of immense satisfaction. “A condition, you say? What right have you to demand conditions?”

Lionel does not flicker. “I have every right. I can contest this matter fiercely. I can call in the American consulate. The British consulate. I can make any number of protests to any number of influential people. Or I can go willingly, cooperate without hesitation in your investigation, and praise your efficiency and professionalism at every level. But the decision, of course, is entirely yours.”

Violet marvels at him: his calmness, the precision of his words, his air of disdainful superiority in the face of von Engel's blond doggedness.
Go
willingly
. He will not go willingly, of course. There is a plan here, she's sure of it. Brilliant Lionel.

Von Engel picks up his pen and fiddles with it. A tic beats mercilessly at his temple. Those luscious words,
praise your efficiency and professionalism at every level
: he's slavering at them. Lionel knows his man.

“What is your condition, Mr. Richardson?”

“My friends go free. They are escorted by your guards to the front of the border queue, and allowed without further delay into Switzerland. I do nothing, say nothing, until I have watched them board the train for Zurich, in Swiss hands, in perfect safety and without harassment.”

Violet's mouth freezes open. Jane starts to say something, but Lionel aims her a look of immediate and total command.

“This is impossible, and you know it,” says von Engel. “They are suspects, witnesses in a case of capital murder.”

Lionel shrugs. “Then I'm afraid your career will pay the price. Thank goodness there's a war about to start. You could join the Army. Pick up your rifle, dig a few trenches. Face down a machine gun or two.”

The tic throbs away. Von Engel's forehead has taken on a delicate sheen.

Lionel continues: “It's a simple request, really. You have your suspect. You'll have a confession. You won't even need to go to trial. The hero of the hour, the intrepid detective.”

Von Engel stands. “Very well. I meet your condition, Mr. Richardson.” He turns to the guard and barks in German: “Take these three to the border and escort them through.”

The guard's eyes widen. “Sir?”

“Immediately.”

Violet has time to look wildly at Lionel, to plead with her eyes. He shakes his head. “Don't forget your valise, darling,” he says, and he picks it up from the floor and hands it to her. The leather handle is warm in her hand. Their fingers touch. He leans to her ear and whispers,
“Wait for me in Zurich.”

Five words.

She repeats them on the way out the door, the confused bustle of guards and suitcases, the reassuring hand of Henry Mortimer at the small of her back.

She repeats them as they board the train, and she looks frantically for the low building near the border gate, where Lionel is surely watching from the window.

She repeats them all the way down the twenty miles of rattling track to Zurich, where they find a hotel and order dinner, and the setting sun turns orange in the peaceful west.

Wait for me in Zurich
.