‘I don’t know about this one.’
‘Name me one man who couldn’t be bought?’
‘Then let me handle it,’ said Richard. ‘For your own sake, you should stay out of it.’
It was a good point, though not the real reason Richard didn’t want him speaking to Labarde.
‘You should have come to me,’ snapped his father as soon as Richard had left the room.
‘Come to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Since when have I ever been able to come to you?’
His father glared at him.
‘It’s true,’ Manfred went on. ‘You know it is.’
He lit a cigarette. His father wandered to the French windows and looked out over the garden. They both smoked in silence.
His father turned. ‘He’s with you for ever now—Richard, I mean. You know that, don’t you? This is his ticket.’
It hadn’t occurred to Manfred before that Richard might have an agenda all of his own. And he drew comfort from it. If he’d done wrong, it was because his hand had been guided by a man thinking only of himself.
At that moment, Richard returned to the drawing room.
‘He wants two hundred thousand dollars for the document. Tonight.’
‘Two hundred thousand!?’
‘It’s cheap at that price,’ said George Wallace. ‘Though I daresay it’s doubled since you tried to steal it from him.’
‘Where are we going to find that kind of money on a Saturday?’ said Richard.
‘After everything else you’ve arranged,’ snarled Manfred’s father, ‘I can’t imagine it poses too much of a problem.’
Thirty-Six
Hollis had come prepared with two handkerchiefs. By midday, when the first cars started to arrive, one was already sodden from mopping his brow, and he’d laid it on a nearby hedge to dry in the sun; the second was well on its way to reaching its saturation point.
Another car tried to park on the verge and he moved it on.
Christ, it was hot, the windless heat roasting him in his uniform.
‘Ambulance! Ambulance!’
The urgent call came from behind him and he spun round.
Abel triggered the shutter of the Speed Graphic. ‘That’s great,’ he said, appearing from behind the camera. ‘I can just see it on the front page of the Star: Deputy Chief Hollis, Moments Before His Sad Demise.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Jesus, Tom, you look like you just went twelve rounds with Rita Hayworth.’
Easy for him to say in his sleeveless open-necked shirt and his cotton slacks.
‘So, how’s it going?’ asked Abel.
‘How’s what going?’
‘The fair, Tom, the ladies’ fair.’
‘Great. Attendance is up this year.’
Abel looked at him askance. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’
‘I’m kidding.’
‘Christ, for a moment there I thought they had you in their clutches.’
‘No danger of that,’ said Hollis. ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘Sulking. We had an argument. She thinks I’m seeing someone on the side.’
‘Are you?’
‘I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you if I was. But no, as it happens, I’m not.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘How’s the President?’
‘The President?’
‘Mrs Calder. You remember, the one who invited you to a party, the one you were spotted with in Springs the next day.’
‘We went walking,’ said Hollis. ‘She likes to walk.’
‘You’ve got to start somewhere, I guess.’
‘I guess.’
‘Why the hang-dog expression? No, don’t tell me—you fucked it up.’
‘I might have.’
‘You idiot, Tom.’
‘Coming from you?’
‘Well, go and sort it out. Tell her she’s invited to dinner over at my place later. You can come too…assuming you survive.’
‘What about Lucy?’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Abel, ‘she’ll be okay by then.’
Hollis waited till three o’clock before making his move. The fair was in full swing, the village green thronging with people clustered around the booths, the gypsy caravans, the wishing well and the wheel of chance, or waiting in line for boat rides on Town Pond. Mary’s little entourage had thinned out, and she was sipping a drink in the shade of a tree, the glass beaded with sweat.
‘Hi.’
‘Here—’ said Mary, handing him the glass.
He took a gulp of the cold lemonade.
‘Finish it,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Believe me, I’m sure.’
He drained the glass, dabbed at his face with his handkerchief and looked around. There were some children playing nearby, romping and running about.
‘Edward…?’
‘The big one with the stick chasing the small one without a stick.’
‘Seems like a nice kid.’
Mary laughed, and he felt his heart soar.
‘How have you been, Tom?’
‘Oh, you know…terrible.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ she said, hardening.
‘I’m not. I let you down, I know that. And I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
Her words sounded so final, but he wasn’t going to give up, not now. ‘There’s a lot I need to tell you.’
‘You mean your investigation.’
‘That came to nothing.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Other things,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure this is the time.’
She didn’t want to hear it, thought Hollis, not now, not ever. She just couldn’t bring herself to tell him straight.
‘Maybe later,’ she said.
Two simple words kicking down the door.
‘How about this evening?’ he suggested. ‘You’re invited to dinner at Abel’s place.’
‘This evening’s difficult. There’s all the clearing up.’
‘Delegate it. You’re the President.’
‘And there’s Edward.’
‘Get someone to look after him. I think it’s going to be a special occasion.’
‘A special occasion?’
‘It’s just a feeling.’
She thought on it. ‘Okay, I’ll ask my sister if she can have him for the night.’ She paused. ‘Don’t read too much into that; it’s easier if he sleeps over.’
‘I wasn’t reading anything into it,’ he lied.
The sister said yes. He even met her briefly, with her brood and her lanky husband who made no bones about eyeing him mistrustfully.
He stayed for Mary’s speech and clapped politely with everyone else when some prizes were handed out. As he headed home he stopped by Daker’s Wine & Liquor Store and asked for two bottles of Champagne to be put on ice.
Thirty-Seven
Manfred checked himself in the mirror, adjusted his bow tie and removed a fleck of lint from the shoulder of his tuxedo.
He was surprised that nothing in his appearance, his face, betrayed the turmoil inside.
He told himself it would be over soon, but the thought brought little satisfaction. He had been outmaneuvered by a fisherman. Labarde would still be at large and in possession of a considerable amount of money, destined to see out his days in comfort, at their expense. No, there was not a whole lot to be happy about.
The cash had arrived a few hours earlier, Manfred and Richard watching from the house as the black van pulled up by the garage. A dark little man pulled open the doors, the van disappeared inside and the doors were closed again. A few minutes later, the van was gone, taking the body with it. A leather case containing the money had been left beside the wheelbarrow.
With the exchange now sure to go ahead, they needed Gayle out of the way, and Manfred had spent more than an hour persuading her to brave the dinner with him at the Maidstone Club. At the appointed hour, he would slip away, join Richard back at the house, and they would go on together from there. Justin was under instructions to ensure Gayle stayed at the club.
That, at least, was the plan. Richard had assured him it would all be over by midnight. Only, it wouldn’t be. There would be no conclusion, simply an accommodation with a man who might haunt him for the rest of his life.
Manfred checked himself once more in the mirror then crossed to the Wellington chest. He opened the top drawer and stared at the handgun buried amongst his socks.
Thirty-Eight
Hollis arrived at Mary’s house to find that she was running a little late. She called to him from upstairs saying she’d be down in a minute. A few seconds later, Edward appeared at the top of the stairs. He slid down the banisters and landed beside Hollis.
‘Where’s your gun?’
‘My gun?’
‘Mom says you’re a cop.’
‘That’s right, but I don’t always carry my gun. I’m Tom, by the way.’
‘I’ve got a catapult.’
‘That’s great…Edward, right?’
‘My dad made it for me.’
The emphasis on the word ‘dad’ was clearly intentional.
Their relationship deteriorated rapidly from there. Hollis proved to be an embarrassingly bad shot with a catapult, a source of considerable amusement to Edward, whom he then made the mistake of calling ‘Eddy’. To cap it all, Hollis had to admit he’d never killed anyone, although he was beginning to believe he might have it in him.
He was rescued by Mary, beautiful and fragrant and carrying Edward’s overnight bag and a stuffed bear. ‘Hey, cute teddy,’ said Hollis, eliciting a satisfying scowl from Edward.
Abel and Lucy were waiting for them on the front porch. Lucy was beaming. Even from a distance, Hollis could see why.
‘Lou’s got some news,’ said Abel.
‘We’ve got some news,’ said Lucy, shooting him a look then holding up her hand.
It was an emerald, fringed with diamonds.
‘Oh, Lucy…’ said Hollis, taking her in his arms.
‘Congratulations,’ said Mary.
The women drew each other close, the men shook hands before abandoning the formality for a hug.
‘Well done,’ said Hollis to Abel.
‘It’s all your fault.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
Abel took the bag off him and peered inside. ‘Champagne?’
‘Call it a hunch.’
Hollis made a point of not drinking too much over dinner. They sat at the table out back and fought their way through the feast Abel had prepared for them. Lucy told the story of how a friend of hers had spotted Abel in Southampton earlier in the week. Puzzled by this, Lucy had casually asked Abel about his movements that day. When he failed to mention the trip to Southampton, she immediately assumed he was having an affair, and said as much to him. Abel had let her stew in her suspicions, only to propose to her that very afternoon, presenting her with a ring—the one he’d been picking up from the jeweler in Southampton earlier in the week.
They all cleared the table, and Hollis found himself alone with Abel in the kitchen, making coffee.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re finally going to take her up the aisle.’
‘What we get up to in the privacy of our bedroom is none of your damn business,’ retorted Abel.
They were still laughing when the phone rang.
‘I guess the word’s out,’ said Abel, heading for the hallway. He returned a few moments later.
‘Tom, it’s for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Conrad Labarde.’
Abel was at his shoulder when he picked up the receiver.
‘Hello.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,’ said the Basque.
‘How the hell did you know I was here?’
‘I followed you. Do you have a pen?’
‘No,’ said Hollis, laying the indignation on thick.
‘Then listen carefully.’
He listened. At a certain point he interrupted the Basque. ‘Let me go get a pen,’ he said.
Abel provided the pen and the paper, and Hollis scribbled furiously for more than a minute. Only when he hung up did he realize Lucy and Mary had joined them in the hallway.
‘What is it, Tom?’ asked Lucy.
‘I have to go.’
‘Why? What’s up?’ asked Abel.
Hollis looked at Mary helplessly. ‘I have to.’
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Really. Go.’
‘I need a flashlight.’
‘I’ve got one in the car,’ said Abel.
Nearing the car, Abel said, ‘I lied.’ He opened the door and took his camera from the back seat. ‘I don’t have a flashlight, but I am coming with you.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Hey, 1943—where was my ass while yours was polishing a chair?’
It was Bob Hartwell’s weekend off. What if he was away? It wasn’t a risk Hollis could afford to take. He might need assistance.
‘You drive,’ said Hollis.
‘Where to?’
‘My place. I need my gun.’
Hollis spelled it out for Abel as best he could in the few minutes it took them to get to his house: Lizzie Jencks, Lillian Wallace, the Basque, the lack of hard evidence, and the meeting set to take place in just over an hour’s time.
‘Jesus, Tom, no wonder you’ve been acting so weird.’
‘Have I?’
The gun was in the bedroom. He checked the chamber, shoved a fistful of shells into his hip pocket, then he phoned Bob Hartwell.
‘Thank God,’ he said when Hartwell picked up.
Hollis told him to change into something dark and to have his gun and a flashlight ready; he’d pick him up in five minutes. He didn’t tell him why, and Hartwell didn’t ask.
‘Sure thing,’ he said in that low, impassive voice of his.
Thirty-Nine
Conrad capped the fountain pen and replaced it in the chipped mug on the desk. Wandering through to the bedroom, he tugged at the bedspread, straightening it.
Everything in order. Just one last act to perform.
He took the deer trails through the pitch pines north of the highway. He hadn’t walked on Napeague since her death, fearful that the memories would hunt him down. She was everywhere, it was true, but now he drew comfort from her presence: her narrow footprints pressed into the firm sand around him, the fallen branch she had once tripped over, the clearing with the lone tree in the middle, the one she felt so sorry for, shunned by its companions.
Maybe she had seen herself in that tree, standing apart from those around her. Strange that it hadn’t occurred to him before. And as he stared at the twisted little pine, it struck him just how alone she must have felt at the end, during those final moments of her life—the long walk back along the beach to her house, striding in anger beside the water’s edge, angry with him.
She had overreacted; if she had lived to see the new day she would have realized that, she would have understood his hesitancy at her proposal.
It had caught him unawares as they lay intertwined on the damp sheet.
‘Come away with me, Conrad.’
He had grunted, suspended in the sweet limbo between reality and dreams.
‘I mean it. Come away with me.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. You decide. It doesn’t matter to me.’
