Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

She stared across the lawn, red lips compressed. “So what are you going to do with Stravinsky, my dear Captain?”

“Advise him to quit the country in a hurry. Not today, but certainly tomorrow. You must have your cache-money, a weapon, travel documents. Use them!”

“But if I choose to stay with Philip, what can you do?”

“Hound you, Mrs. Smith. Perpetually hound you. Do you think, because I can stand here talking to you as if you’re a human being, that I’ve forgotten you tried to murder my daughter? I haven’t. It burns my brain like a white-hot poker. I’d give a lot to kill you, but I prize my family too much.”

“You won’t stop my going?”

“I can’t.”

“I too am KGB,” she said, staring at North Rock.

“Stravinsky would have to be. I trust that fact will make you welcome in Moscow?”

“I will survive.”

“So will you go?”

Her shoulders hunched. “If I can say goodbye to Philip, I will go. He would want it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty to tell them in Moscow when they debrief you.”

“You would indeed hound me,” she said slowly. “Yes, you would. I will go tomorrow.”

“Tell me how. I want to be sure you do.”

“I will send you a telegram from Montreal. It will say, ‘Stravinsky sends greetings from Montreal.’ Of course I could have someone else send it, but my patriotic duties in America are at an end. KGB will want me back.”

“Thank you, the telegram will be fine.”

A sorry conclusion, but the only one, Carmine thought as he drove away. Today Stravinsky will visit the hospital to see Smith, and say her farewells. He, good KGB agent that he is, will wish her well. Any federal tape recorders will inform those who listen that the grieving wife is simply telling her husband that her psychiatrist is putting her in a private hospital for a few days, and that it’s on the outskirts of Boston. She’ll catch the commuter plane from Holloman to Logan, but not to leave the airport. She’ll switch to the Montreal plane and be away, the faithful Stravinsky. A murdering bitch, but indeed a faithful one. That squat figure, that shapeless body, that rather terrifying face. But most of all, those spooky blue eyes. A contradiction, that’s Stravinsky.

There was still time to make his last call on this nasty case, a kind of valediction his so-called insatiable curiosity made imperative. Namely, a visit to some of the inhabitants of the Cornucopia Building.

He took an elevator to the thirty-ninth floor, and found Wallace Grierson occupying Desmond Skeps’s old office.

“Look what you’ve done!” Grierson said angrily.

“You’re in a suit and tie,” Carmine said mildly.

“And you don’t care, do you?”

“It’s not my fault. Blame Philip Smith.”

“Don’t worry, I do.” Grierson’s spurt of temper died. “I may have found a way out of my predicament, however.”

“May you? Who?”

“You’re quick, I’ll give you that. None other than Mr. Michael Sykes.”

“Ah, Michael Donald himself!” Carmine said, grinning. “He was promoted, but as Smith did the promoting, I wasn’t sure the rest of the Board would-er-come to the Party.”

“Ha ha, very funny! Actually Phil may have done us a big favor. Mickey turns out to be amazing.”

“Mickey?”

“That’s his diminutive of choice.”

“It fits.” Carmine held out his hand. “This is goodbye, sir. I won’t be haunting your corridors anymore.”

“Thank God for that!”

And why not? Carmine asked himself when the elevator came. He pressed 38, wondering which floor M. D. Sykes was occupying. Floor 38, it turned out. Richard Oakes was in the outer office and went so white when Carmine filled his gaze that he seemed likely to faint.

“Is your boss in?” Carmine asked.

“Mr. Sykes?” It came out as a squeak.

“The very one. May I see him?”

Oakes nodded, throat working. It was probably a signal to proceed, Carmine decided, and proceeded.

He found Michael Donald Sykes sitting at Erica Davenport’s lacquered desk, but it was hard to associate this person with the disgruntled denizen of a managerial limbo. Sykes actually seemed to have trimmed down in size yet grown in height, and wore a well-cut suit of Italian silk, a shirt with French cuffs and gold links, and a Chubb alumnus tie. No wonder he’d resented being passed over! He had the proper credentials. Carmine felt a rush of pleasure at the thought that Sykes had triumphed.

A cardboard box sat on the desk in front of him, spilling curly wood shavings, and about a dozen two-inch-high figures, exquisitely painted, stood freed from their packing: Napoleon Bonaparte and his marshals, all on horseback.

“Mr. Sykes, I’m very glad to see you here.”

“Why, thank you!” the not-so-little man exclaimed. “What do you think of my new acquisitions? I can afford to add Jena and Ulm to my battles! Aren’t these gorgeous? They’re made in Paris by the best militaria model maker in the world.” He picked up a splendid figure wearing a leopardskin hussar’s pelisse. “See? Murat, the great cavalry commander.”

“Wonderful,” said Carmine. He held out his hand. “This is definitely goodbye, Mr. Michael Donald Sykes.”

“Don’t tempt fate, Captain! Still, Cornucopia is safe now, and in excellent hands,” Sykes said.

He escorted Carmine to the elevators and saw him leave, then returned to his office and sat for a moment drinking in the sight of his new goodies. Inside his desk drawer was a powerful magnifying glass with a battery-operated light; Sykes switched it on and stared through it, his blue eye huge, its white shot with scarlet veins. Murat was close to hand; he lifted the figure and turned it over, looking for any impairment, any sign that Murat had been maimed. Then he sighed, smiled, and produced a dissecting needle. It went under the edge of the satchel Murat wore and pried a section of the paint away.

“Shostakovich will be pleased,” he said.