The Way You Look Tonight (31 page)

‘Shhh!’ It was the manager. ‘I’m trying to hear this, for Chrisakes!’

They turned back to the screen. The President was saying something about a blockade of Cuba, and continued:

‘
It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the western hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union
on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union . . .’

When he had finished, the screen faded to black again and all three of them looked at each other in silence.

It was the manager who broke it, with an attempt at gallows humour.

‘You guys ordered dinner yet?’

Stella, astonished by the irrelevance of the question, nevertheless managed to croak: ‘Yes . . . we have.’

‘Then considering the next stop down from here is Havana, I’d suggest you both to go back to the restaurant and enjoy a nice meal while you still can. The way things are looking, it
could be your last supper.’

Henry Stewart. THAT was the
Courier
guy’s by-line. He knew it’d come back to him eventually.

He scribbled the name on a scrap of paper. He’d already jotted down the phone numbers of the hotels he thought she was most likely to be staying in – the Casa Marina, the
Marquesa, and La Concha. Upmarket, but not expensively so. They were all what were known as ‘historic’ hotels, well-established places in the quiet Old Town area of Key West. He figured
they’d be exactly the sort of places the FBI would park its more senior agents and contacts.

And if he drew a blank, he’d simply try some others until he found her. There weren’t that many candidates to pick from in a place as small as this.

He took a slug of scotch before dialling the first one. He’d already sunk two glasses of the stuff since supper but it wouldn’t matter if he sounded a little drunk. All reporters
were lushes, everyone knew that.

After a couple of rings, the receptionist picked up.

‘Casa Marina. How may I direct your call?’

He affected a bored tone.

‘Yeah . . . this is Henry Stewart of the
Courier
calling for one of your guests. She would’ve checked in a coupla hours ago. A Miss Stella Arnold.’

‘One moment please.’
He could hear her riffling through the hotel register, humming some dumb tune to herself, before she spoke again.

‘A Miss Arnold, did you say? I’m afraid we have no one of that name staying with us.’

He rang off without bothering to say anything else and called the Marquesa.

No dice there either.
‘No English rose at the marvellous Marquesa,’
he sang as he rang off.

He caught himself. Shit, he was a little drunk, wasn’t he? Too much whisky and too little food. He crossed the hall to the kitchen and ate what was left of the still-warm hash straight
from the pan, before going upstairs to the bathroom to relieve himself and splash his face and neck with cold water in the sink. Then he took the old man’s toothbrush and toothpaste and spent
a couple of minutes cleaning his teeth.

Refreshed and sobering up some, he went back down to the phone and dialled a third time.

‘You’ve reached La Concha,’
the receptionist said brightly.
‘How can we help you this evening?’

He repeated the mantra he’d spouted twice before, but this time his heart leapt when she replied:
‘Yes, she’s here. She was in with the manager earlier but I think
she’s in the dining room now finishing her supper with her companion. Is this urgent? Should I interrupt her?’

He thought fast. The ‘companion’ was probably that FBI jerk Foster. But he could be useful. He could draw him in to the deception if he was clever, give it some spurious
authenticity.

As usual, he followed his instincts.

‘No, no, please don’t disturb her meal,’
he said as urbanely as he could. ‘
If she could just call me back on—’
he read the old queen’s
phone number off the dial –
‘before she goes to bed I’d be most grateful. Tell her it’s pretty important, though.’

He rang off. What was it his old platoon commander in Korea used to say?

‘Slowly, slowly, catchee monkee.’

Sometimes, even when you were in a corner as tight as this one, it still paid to be patient.

‘I can’t even begin to see what Khrushchev and Castro think they’re doing,’ Lee said yet again as they ate their steaks. ‘Fidel letting that
Russian maniac put nuclear warheads on Cuba, ninety frigging miles from American soil! Which, by the way, is ninety miles from you and me at this precise moment. It’s a gun to our heads. Do
they
want
to reduce the planet to a gently-smoking cinder? Jesus.’

The colour had returned to Stella’s cheeks, now she’d had time to think.

‘It won’t come to that, Lee,’ she said calmly. ‘Really, it won’t. What do they call this ridiculous nuclear arms race? Oh yes – M.A.D. Mutually Assured
Destruction. No one’s going to press the button, not now, not ever. This will all turn out to be some stupid power-game and the whole thing will fizzle out. I don’t know the first thing
about international politics but I do know about human nature. You Americans have an expression that covers this situation perfectly, actually.’

‘We do?’ Great Scott, he thought, Armageddon is staring us in the face and she’s making me feel better about it already. I love this woman.

‘Of course. Dorothy told me it just the other day. “Turkeys don’t vote for Christmas.” Kennedy and Khrushchev will have to find a way to settle this, believe me,
otherwise they both know they’re going to hell in a handcart and taking rest of the world with them. That is NOT an option that’s open to either of them.’

Stella popped the last piece of her steak into her mouth and groaned as she swallowed it.

‘Oh no . . . that damn waiter’s scurrying over again. What now? The Martians have landed?’

But it was only a scribbled message from reception. He handed it to Stella, bowed, and left.

‘What is it?’ Lee asked, still lost in admiration for his new girlfriend’s chutzpah.

‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘The journalist from the
Courier
, Henry Stewart, wants me to call him. He says it’s urgent.’

‘Let me see.’ He took the note and quickly scanned it. ‘Well, at least he had the manners not to drag you to the phone while you’re eating. Stewart’s OK, actually.
I’ve read most of what he’s written about this case and it’s been pretty accurate and not as sensationalised as you’d expect for the
Courier.
Still, you could
hardly exaggerate this story, could you? It’s pretty much off the scale as it is. Why don’t you call him while I order dessert for us both? You know we’ll want the same
thing.’

‘Oh, do I, Mr Clever-Clogs?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Smart-ass, in your debased language. All right. I’ll go and call him. And I’ll have the cheesecake, please.’

‘I knew that already.’

She stuck her tongue out at him and went to reception.

‘Can I use this phone?’ she asked the girl behind the desk.

‘No problem. Long distance?’

‘I don’t know.’ She showed the receptionist the number.

‘Oh, that’s fine, ma’am, that’s a Key West number. Local calls are free. Go ahead.’

Stella dialled and waited. The fourth ring was interrupted by a pleasant voice: ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, this is Stella Arnold. Is that Mr Stewart? You asked me to call you.’

‘Yes, I did, Miss Arnold. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. My paper’s sent me down here for the press conference tomorrow. I’ve just learned it’s scheduled for
three o’clock, which is a bit later than we were expecting.’

‘That’s right. I’m not looking forward to it, to be honest with you, Mr Stewart. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘Ah . . . well then, you might be willing to help me out here. The
Courier
is a morning paper but we’re running a special, one-off evening edition tomorrow because of you.
We—’

‘You mean because of Kennedy’s speech tonight about the Cuban missiles,’ she said drily. ‘There’s no need to flatter me, Mr Stewart.’

There was a brief silence at the other end.

‘Yes . . . Kennedy,’ he said at last, non-committally. ‘Kennedy, yes, of course. You saw him on TV earlier?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘It’s a huge story, especially for you down here in the Keys, so close to Cuba.’

He seemed to be struggling for words.

‘Well yes, of course,’ he managed at last. ‘But the Keys Killer story and your part in it is important too, and we . . . we want to include it in tomorrow’s special
edition.’ He sounded back on track again. Stella decided that even a hard-nosed journalist could be thrown by something as big as a nuclear stand-off.

‘But here’s the thing, Miss Arnold,’ he continued. ‘We go to press at three-thirty. There’s just no way I can file my piece in time for that, so I wanted to ask you
a
huge
favour. Would you give me a short interview, one-to-one, at, say, two-thirty? That way I can just about meet my deadline.’

Stella considered a moment before replying: ‘I’d like to help you, Mr Stewart, but I’ll probably be on my way to the press conference at the town hall by then. And I’ll
be busy earlier in the day working on the case.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. So here’s my idea: I’ll pick you up in the
Courier
car from La Concha and drive you to the town hall myself. I
have a miniature reel-to-reel tape recorder which I can prop up on the dashboard to record our interview. I know it’s only a five-minute journey but it’ll give me just about enough to
file a story, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, allow you a chance to rehearse for the press conference. I won’t be asking anything anyone else won’t ask. It’ll be a sort
of dry run for you and if you make any mistakes, I give you my word I shan’t report them. In fact I can put you straight on them, as just between you and me. What do you say?’

‘Will you hold on, Mr Stewart? I need to go and consult someone on this.’

‘Of course. Take all the time you want. I’ll be here.’

Back at their table Stella quickly summarised her conversation with the journalist to Lee. When she’d finished he said: ‘Sounds like a good idea to me. Like I say, the
Courier
has played it pretty straight with us so far, especially this Stewart guy. Anyway, what with tonight’s news we may find the numbers are way down at the press conference
tomorrow; everyone’s gonna be chasing the end-of-the-world angle. I was worrying about that, to be honest. So yeah, a bird in the hand, and all that. Go for it.’

Thirty seconds later Stella was back in reception.

‘Mr Stewart? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here, Stella.’

‘The answer’s yes. Where will I see you?’

There was a hiatus at the other end; it sounded like the reporter had been seized by a fit of coughing. Eventually he spoke.

‘Sorry about that, I have a touch of the grippe. I’ll be right outside La Concha in my car, ready to go so we don’t waste a second of your precious time – or mine, come
to that. It’s a green and white Ford Country Sedan . . . a sort of station wagon. I’ll keep the indicators flashing; you won’t be able to miss me.’

‘Green-and-white . . . got it. All right, Mr Stewart, I’ll see you there. Two-thirty?’

‘Two-thirty.’

Stella put the phone down.

Maybe she’d been wrong about journalists.

This one seemed rather nice.

He replaced the receiver and slumped back in the little wicker chair next to the telephone table. He was exhausted. The phone conversation had been as demanding, mentally,
as crank-starting the Ford earlier had been physically.

What was all that stuff she was saying about Kennedy and Cuba? He’d had to tap-dance for his life there. He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about. Thank Christ at
least he’d seen Kennedy on TV earlier, even with the sound down. He supposed he’d just about bluffed his way out of it. Whatever ‘it’ was. He’d better watch the late
news tonight; something big was obviously going down and as a reporter he’d be expected to know all about it.

Christ, he was tired. That was partly the reason he’d almost cracked up laughing when she’d come back to the phone to tell him she’d meet with him tomorrow. Relief mixed
with triumph and a kind of hysteria brought on by fatigue. Korea again. When they’d wiped out that village they’d all laughed fit to bust.

Nothing ever really changed, did it?

The lust within him for killing was stronger than ever. And now it was focused completely on the girl. When he thought of what he was going to do to her, alone together upstairs in that
room, his chest grew tight and his throat constricted with hunger and desire.

But he was ready to die, too.

When it was done.

He stood up and went slowly into the kitchen, where he filled a bucket of water and added some liquid soap.

He just about had enough time to wash the car before the late TV news.

As he passed the cellar door on the way to the garage, a familiar odour caught his nostrils.

He smiled, nostalgically.

Korea.

Next morning there was not even a paragraph about the Keys Killer and his latest victim in any of the newspapers. It was Cuba, Cuba, Cuba. Photographs of Castro, Khrushchev and
Kennedy dominated the front pages and for all Stella’s optimism of the evening before, the consensus amongst editorial writers was that the world was teetering on the brink.

She and Lee had to make a pact to stop talking about the crisis. Stella had come down here to help find Woods and there was nothing to be gained by speculating who would make the next move in
this terrifying game of nuclear chess.

‘I still think it’ll be all right in the end,’ Stella said stubbornly, by way of having the last word on the subject. ‘As Jackie said, her husband and Bobby are smart
guys. They’ll find a way through this.’