Death Trick (19 page)

‘What sort of work did he do while you were living in Paris?’

‘I just don’t know. That may sound silly, but it’s true. In the beginning I tried to get him to talk about it, but he wouldn’t He was as secretive about that as he was over his women; only other people were eager to tell me about them.’

‘Forgive my asking, but were there many affairs after you left Paris?’

‘Enough to make me realize that all my hopes of becoming close again were so much moonshine. In the end, I suggested it was stupid to go on as we were and he agreed, with unflattering alacrity. That was the first time I acknowledged to myself that I no longer really meant anything to him.’

‘And then?’

‘He’s always been very generous and he gave me more than enough money to lead the rather simple life I prefer.

We’d see each other occasionally. He’d ring and suggest we met and I’d tell myself it was meaningless, but each time I felt like a girl on her first heavy date because in spite of everything that had happened, I’d still wonder if he was going to say he’d become fed up with his rootless existence and how about trying to make a go of our lives together . . . He’s never going to phone again, is he?’

‘I’m afraid not, señora.’

‘There were times when I longed to hear him say he wanted to come back and times when I never wanted to see or hear from him again. But now . . . I just don’t know what I feel, except empty.’

‘The last time you saw him, did he say anything at all about what he was doing?’

‘Only that he’d just come from Mallorca. I knew he’d rented a house there, but I’ve never seen it.’

‘Was he with you for long on that occasion?’

‘Only one day. He’d come to give me some money . . . Your being here means that there was something wrong in what he was doing, doesn’t it?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘What was it?’

‘We think he was working with a man in England who was engaged in insider dealing.’

‘Is that all? I was scared . . .’ She stopped.

He said, very sadly: ‘It is not all. There is also the possibility that in Mallorca he killed a man.’

She spoke with sudden fierceness. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘The evidence . . .’

‘You met him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you should know he couldn’t ever do such a terrible thing.’

He wondered just how much a woman had to suffer before her faith in a man was finally destroyed and she could see him as he really was.

She’d noticed his expression. ‘How can you begin to think he would?’

‘He visited the house of the dead man on the afternoon of the murder and had a serious row; the murdered man had been swindling him and because of that the company he was running was in serious financial trouble . . .’

‘I don’t care. He couldn’t do such a thing. He didn’t dislike anyone that much. He looked at life with an amused irony so that nothing really shocked him—which I suppose is why he couldn’t understand how his behaviour shocked me . . .’ She became silent once more.

‘Señora, do you know if he had a house or flat anywhere else besides the one in Mallorca?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Could you give me the address?’

‘I could, but I won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . Oh Christ!’ She suddenly stood. ‘I need a drink. What will you have?’

‘Do you have a brandy, please?’

‘And what about him?’ She indicated Varessi.

After she’d served the drinks, she sat once more. ‘Gerry used to say that drinking never really helped. He was wrong; it’s helped me a lot . . . Does that shock you to hear?’

‘Anything that eases pain is good. People who deny that have never known real pain.’

‘You’ve known it, haven’t you?’

He nodded.

‘It’s in your face. And that’s why you’re being so kind to me now. He—’ she nodded at Varessi—‘he’d never understand, not in a month of Sundays.’

‘What’s she saying?’ demanded Varessi.

‘That you remind her of one of the more adventurous racing drivers, but she can’t remember his name,’ replied Alvarez.

Varessi smiled complacently.

She finished her drink, looked at Alvarez, stood, went over to the cocktail cabinet and poured herself another. ‘Why d’you want to know where Gerry had another house?’

‘I’d like to go there and find out if there’s anyone who’s seen him recently.’

‘No problem!’ she said bitterly, as she returned to her chair. ‘All you have to do is talk to Jacqueline Tabriz.’

It was the same christian name she had mentioned before. ‘Is she a friend?’

‘If you go in for euphemisms. She’s his latest woman.’

‘Have you met her?’

‘No. If I had, I’d have . . . Oh God, would I? Would I have clawed her face, or would I have remained ladylike, as I was brought up to be no matter what the circumstances? Of course, in those days “the circumstances” did not include greeting one’s husband’s latest tart.’

‘He told you about her?’

‘Not a word. Give the devil his due, he never flaunted them in my face. I wouldn’t know if that was out of respect for my feelings or for fear of what I’d do if I had definite proof.’

‘Then how do you know about her?’

She drank.

‘Please, señora, it is important.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need to speak to her. Where does she live?’

There was a long silence. She drained her glass, then spoke, her voice now almost devoid of tone, as if she were being forced very reluctantly to recite in public. ‘La Maison Rouge, Rue de Dunkerque, Nice. I thought how appropriate it was that his tart was living in a red house. I wonder if she’s ever realized the significance? He’d have done immediately, of course, and had a chuckle. Do you want to know how I found out? They say that confession brings the peace of absolution; or the self-delusionment of the peace, which is just as useful. The last time he was here, the weather was very muggy and he was sweating heavily—he always did. He hated feeling tacky, so he had a shower. While he was in the shower-room, I had to go into my bedroom for something or other and his clothes were on the bed and his wallet had fallen out of his trouser pocket. Even as I picked it up, I thought of all those seaside postcards of wives going through their husbands’ possessions . . . But I just couldn’t stop myself seeing what was in it. There was a letter from her. I began reading it and then he came out of the shower-room so suddenly I didn’t have time to do anything. I was so ashamed I wanted to sink through the floor, but as that remained solid, I started shouting like a fishwife. He just looked at me with that ironic smile which I knew so well and said there was another letter in his suitcase if I’d like to read that as well.

‘As soon as he was dressed, he left. No further mention of the letter. Just a peck on the cheek and the hope that I’d managed to make lots of nice friends. I haven’t. He understood me too well for my own good, but never seemed to realize that I gave him so much of myself that when he’d gone there wasn’t much left, whereas he’d always withheld part of himself from me to have enough to offer others.’ She picked up her glass, went to drink, found it was empty. ‘And now I’ll never see him again. So as he died, his last memory of me was probably of me shouting like a fishwife . . .’

‘In time,’ he said quietly, ‘the memories will not hurt so much.’

‘Perhaps. But they’ll always hurt.’

He could not deny that. He stood. ‘We’ll go now. Thank you very much, señora.’

She looked up at him, then away. She did not speak again before they left, nor had she moved from the settee.

In the lift, Varessi said: ‘What was she going on and on about?’

‘Her husband had been betraying her.’

‘Hardly surprising.’

Alvarez hoped that one day Varessi would discover that his wife had been as unfaithful to him as almost certainly he had been to her.

Alvarez was a romantic, so he viewed Nice as he had always imagined it, not as it had become. He saw elegance where another would have seen only casual sloppiness, shops filled with quality, not discounts, restaurants where every single dish was a masterpiece, not fast food outlets . . .

‘You did say Rue de Dunkerque?’ asked the taxi-driver, talking around an unlit, sodden cigar.
That’s right.’

‘I used to have a cousin who lived in the next street. Smarmy little sod went into politics and made a fortune.’

‘Don’t they all?’

‘Not like here, they don’t. Compared to the mob that runs this town, everyone else is a beginner. If I told you the half, you’d call me a liar.’

Were things really much worse here than they were anywhere else? Power meant money and money corrupted. But poverty corrupted just as much . . .

They turned a corner. ‘Here we are. What was the number again?’

‘The name’s La Maison Rouge. I guess it’s that place along on the right.’

They drew up alongside a house with very red brickwork and red shutters, obviously old, set in a large garden. Many years ago, Alvarez guessed, it had been built for a newly successful merchant, eager to underline his success. Since then, the area had clearly gone down in social standing, leaving the large house stranded.

He paid the fare, adding a generous tip, climbed out on to the pavement, small suitcase in his left hand. The taxi drove away. Some children, playing an unusual form of hopscotch on the pavement looked at him for a while, then decided he was of little interest and returned to their game.

The wrought-iron gate was unlocked and he pushed it open and went through. The garden was almost totally overgrown and, perhaps as a result of seeing this neglect, he noticed that the house had broken coping stones, crumbling pointing, and flaking paint on many of the shutters.

Three stone steps led up to a small portico. He pressed the electric bell button to the right of the door, the top half of which was panelled with opaque red glass. He saw a form approach from inside, but could not tell whether it was male or female.

A woman opened the door. ‘Gerry, I’ve been going crazy . . .’ She stopped and stared at him with bitter disappointment.

‘Mademoiselle Tabriz?’

‘What do you want? Who are you?’

‘My name is Inspector Alvarez, of the cuerpo general de policia; I’m from Mallorca.’

‘Oh God, has something happened?’

Her appearance was provocative, initially suggesting that either it was a declaration of rebellion, or Stephanie’s description of tart was an accurate one. The blouse was too tight and the neckline too plunging, making it clear she wore no brassiere, the jeans hugged her thighs and buttocks, her make-up was garish and her hair was peroxide blonde. And yet he slowly gained the impression that under this crude exterior there was too much ability to care for the word ‘tart’ to be a true label—life quickly taught tarts that there was no room for weakness. She reminded him of someone, but whatever the point of resemblance was, it was too weak or shifting for him to be able to pin it down.

‘Has something happened to Gerry?’ she demanded, her voice high.

‘May I come in?’

She moved to one side and he entered. If he were right, he thought sadly, and life had not sufficiently toughened her, she was going to be badly hurt.

The sitting-room was large, but gloomily dark because of the mimosa tree outside the window. On the heavy marble mantelpiece was a large photograph in an elaborate silver frame which showed her laughing gaily at Oakley, who was clowning with a woman’s hat.

‘For God’s sake, tell me what’s happened.’

He would have liked to put the facts so that she was left with some hope because then he would not be forced to witness her full misery, but because he knew that although there was no final proof, there was now no room for hope, he spoke bluntly. ‘Mademoiselle, last Thursday night, Señor Oakley sailed out of Llueso Bay in a yacht. On Friday, when well out to sea, the yacht was boarded by members of the Spanish Navy and they found no one aboard.’

She stared at him, her face working. ‘No! No,’ she shouted. ‘You’re lying!’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘He never sailed on it.’

‘We know that he did and that he was aboard not long before the yacht was sighted. We can only presume that while he was eating something happened to take him up on deck—it may have been a boat-hook breaking loose and rolling about—and tragically he did not bother to wear the safety harness. He fell overboard.’

‘If that had happened, he’d have swum back. He’s a wonderful swimmer.’

‘The self-steering gear was rigged so the yacht held its course.’

‘But he can swim really fast.’

‘I fear, not fast enough.’

She shivered; her face puckered; she began to whimper and then ran over to the enormous, clumsy settee and threw herself face downwards on to it and began to pound it with her feet.

At times like this, he hated his job; ten times fortunate the man who had to suffer only his own tragedies.

After a while, she became motionless; finally she twisted round and sat up.

‘I am very sorry, but I have to ask you questions. When did you last hear from him?’

‘He . . . he phoned.’

‘What day was this?’

‘Wednesday, Thursday; I don’t know.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he’d be back here in two days at the most. And ever since Saturday evening I’ve been waiting and getting more and more desperate . . . Please, isn’t there a chance another boat could have picked him up?’

The harbour master had said that the odds were all against this having happened by a rescue craft having neither a radio to report the event nor making for the nearest port to land the survivor. Sadly, he shook his head.

She whimpered again, as if she had been hit.

She had been expecting Oakley at the latest on Saturday evening—this placed the phone call as having been made on the Thursday, which was when he had first heard that a detective had arrived from England.

‘I’ve only known him for about a year,’ she said, as if the unfairness of so brief a happiness might reverse the subsequent, tragic events. She went on, speaking in a distant voice, reliving the past: ‘I was working in a patisserie and he came to buy bread. He was back the next day and the day after that and always he waited for me to serve him and the other girls began to joke about it. Adele said he was too old for me, but she was just jealous. He asked me out on my day off and we went to a bistro that specialized in Languedoc food and had a cassoulet. We laughed because the waiter refused to understand his French and I had to translate it . . .’ She became silent.