Дональд Джеймс - The House of Eros

He found some cigars and lit one. Persevering past the first rush of nausea, he blew smoke across the light from the table lamp. First he had to get rid of that suit. Police laboratories could match anything now, mud, carpet fibres, cotton fluff from a bedcover. He stopped. His mind seemed to drain of all other thoughts. He had killed her. He was safe now. He had cut all possible connection with Nan Luc.

He poured himself a small drink. Somewhere up on the road he could hear a car. He stood, drink in hand, listening to it slow down and turn through the gates.

His first thought was that it was Sunny. But the weight of the vehicle over the gravel made him think again. He walked into the hall. Through the uncurtained window he saw nothing at first but the falling snow. Then the white Range Rover and Mary climbing down from it. He opened the door. Her face, he saw, was set. She stamped snow from her fur boots and walked past him into the hall.

Alarm rose slowly through him. ‘How did Sunny find out?’ he said.

She walked on into the living room turning on more lights. ‘Forget Sunny,’ she said. ‘You’re in worse trouble than that.’

He looked at her, her face drawn by panic. What in God’s name was she talking about? She couldn’t know about Louise. But all his instincts told him to move cautiously. ‘Sit down, Mary,’ he said. ‘First, I’ll get you a drink.’

‘There’s no time for that,’ she snapped. ‘A Vietnamese girl came to the club today to meet Jason.’

‘So?’

‘She told Jason you’re her father.’

It was like a slap in the face. He knew she must have seen his reaction. ‘She’s lying.’

Mary shrugged. ‘More important, she says you were using fund money to pay your blackmail.’

‘She’s lying, I tell you, Mary.’

‘She was an official at the Quatch trial.’

The breath seemed to flow out of him. ‘What’s Jason going to do?’ he said slowly.

She stood opposite him, her hands deep in her Barbour jacket, the melted snow glistening on the waxed material.

‘He’s called a meeting of the committee. If the girl convinces them, and she will, then they’ll call the police.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘You know why, Cy.’

‘I’m going to need your help, Mary. I’m going to need money.’

He moved towards her but she stepped back, raising a hand between them. ‘I want those pictures, Cy. Bring me the negatives and I’ll get you money.’

‘Negatives…’ He shook his head slowly. ‘You know better than that, Mary. The modern world, I could have made a million copies already. Just get me the money. Your guarantee that those pictures won’t spring out of the box depends on you keeping the money flowing.’

‘Please, Cy…’ she said. ‘Everything I’ve lived for is here in Meyerick. You can just disappear. I can’t do that.’

‘Go to Jason’s committee meeting, Mary.’ His head was clearing magically. Survival was one thing he was good at. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Go to the meeting. Tell them what a bastard I must have been. I’ll call you in a week or two and let you know how to make arrangements for the money. You and me are going to be partners for life, Mary.’ He stepped towards her and took her cheeks between his hands, squeezing hard. ‘I might even let you bring the money in person,’ he said, planting a kiss on the distorted pout of her lips.

Alone in Jason’s study, Nan Luc stood before the French windows and watched the snow falling outside.

For minutes she watched the soft, unhurried fall through the yellow terrace light, noticing how the flakes scurried between the flagstones, still uncertain how anything so light and fragile could build to the deep drifts she had seen in photographs.

She had found him.

She had found him. But now, could she kill him?

As the superintendent opened the door the phone was ringing inside the apartment. Running past him through the hall Max reached the living room and picked up the receiver.

Her voice was pitched low. He could hear no background noise, no music, no voices. ‘Max,’ she said. ‘I just rang Edward. I knew you’d be there.’

He found his voice catching in this throat. ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are.’

‘It doesn’t matter where. I didn’t want to run away from you last night. But I had to. I knew you were trying to stop me.’

‘Nan, please listen to me. You’ve got the wrong man.’

‘I’ve got the right man.’

‘You’ve found Stevenson?’

‘I’ve found him, Max.’ Her voice had a sudden metallic ring to it.

‘For God’s sake, Nan, Cy Stevenson is not your father. And even if he is, you’ve no right to do this yourself. Shattered dreams aren’t reason enough.’

‘Louise was murdered last night.’

‘I know that, too. But don’t you see what it means? It means that the moment you show yourself to Stevenson, you force him to act. He’s a killer, Nan. Call the police, for God’s sake.’

‘No.’

‘Then what in God’s name are you talking to me for now?’

At the other end of the line there was a long silence. ‘I want you to understand, Max. He killed my mother. As good as killed her.’

‘I don’t understand, Nan. You told me that your mother committed suicide. Whatever part Stevenson played in that, it’s not worth you sacrificing your own life for revenge. To me it’s simple. He killed Louise Cartwright. So call the cops.’ He stopped. ‘Or is there something else to tell, Nan. Is that right?’

‘There’s something else to tell,’ she said flatly. ‘I need you to know, Max. A film. Made by Stevenson. A made-to-order scenario written by Quatch. It’s on the machine.’

‘You want me to watch it?’

‘Yes.’

He sensed she had said everything she wanted to say. ‘Don’t hang up,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are.’ No answer. ‘Where?’ Again the silence. ‘Where are you, Nan?’ He clenched the phone, willing her to answer.

‘I’m going to hang up, Max,’ she said.

‘Nan, I’m pleading with you now. Nothing’s worth it. Not all the insults, the dishonour. Nothing’s worth taking the law into you own hands.’

He counted the seconds. Then her voice said: ‘Watch the film.’

‘OK. Then what?’

‘Then ask yourself why my mother killed herself. Ask whether you could have gone unavenged.’

In Jason Rose’s study she replaced the phone, brushing tears from her face. It was snowing harder now with heavier, thicker flakes. She stepped forward and opened the glazed door to the terrace. A blast of cold air hit her and she felt the strange, unfamiliar fingering of the snowflakes on her cheeks.

Closing the door behind her she ran along the side of the house to the drive where she had left her car.

An enormous pink Vietnamese moon hung in the sky.

Very slowly, as Max watched the screen, the camera pulled back across the rooftops of Saigon. Above the sound of music and laughter and squealing girls was laid a heavy, menacing heartbeat.

Over the image of the moonlit roofs the title came up in Gothic letters: The House of Eros . The camera’s eye blinked and it was the interior of the Eros Bar. To the music of the Stones, giant American servicemen danced with slender Vietnamese partners. It was a scene of incredible noise and confusion. Groups of soldiers sat round tables loaded with bottles and glasses. Girls serving them were fondled routinely or, amid gales of laughter, pulled on to their laps. Bottles of whisky were passed from mouth to mouth. Fat, conical joints were inhaled, releasing swirling blue smoke into the already smoke-laden room. To Max everything suggested the Gotterdammerung , the twilight of the gods, the last days of the gigantic American adventure in the East.