The Folks at Fifty-Eight (38 page)

“You could say that. I must’ve. . .” The old man paused for a moment. “Don’t often see that though. That’s strange. I wonder. . . ?”

He was peering between the vertical blinds that ran the width of the hotel, studying a lone car in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. Hammond wandered over to join him.

“Cadillac, huh? Nice car; expensive.”

“Keep looking.”

Hammond studied the Cadillac for some moments, with a picture of Dawid Gabriel waving a fifty-dollar bill in his mind’s eye and the alarm bells ringing.

“I still don’t see anything unusual about. . .”

Then he saw them, illuminated by a flashing neon sign farther down the street: two men, sitting in the front seats.

“You see that?”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“Cops, you think?”

“No, couldn’t be, or I wouldn’t have thought so, not in a car like that.”

“Feds then?”

“They drive around in Caddys these days?”

“Unlikely, but they might do, I suppose.”

“Could be the Mob. This is New York, after all.”

“You reckon?”

“Don’t know. I wonder what they’re looking for?”

“Or who?”

“Don’t know that either. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I wanna know.”

Hammond thought back to Dawid Gabriel’s comment, about his unsought testament to truthfulness. Gabriel had been right; it was a dead giveaway.

“Either way, I’m going back to bed.”

He downed the remains of his drink and headed back to his room. Once there, he dropped the catch, linked the chain, and then moved to the window to again study the car. After that, he collected his suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and removed the Beretta from where he’d left it wrapped in a towel. He returned the suitcase, propped a chair beneath the door handle, and slipped the automatic under his pillow. Then he undressed, switched off the lights, and returned to the many enigmas of his nightmares.

He pulled the Pontiac to the side of the road, climbed out, and walked back the sixty or so yards to where the Cadillac sat waiting with the engine running. When he leaned forward and tapped on the passenger window, it lowered by no more than three inches.

“You guys ought to be getting more sleep than this.”

A thickset individual stared back at him in bleary-eyed apathy. The man was unshaven, but otherwise smartly dressed in a dark-grey suit with a white shirt and red tie.

“You want something?”

“I need to get to Conrad Zalesie’s place in Connecticut. I hear it’s up along Highway One. I was wondering if you wanted to save some time, and maybe lead for a change.”

The man scowled briefly and restored the window without further comment. It left Hammond standing alone on the sidewalk, feeling slightly foolish and none the wiser. He wandered back to the Pontiac and then saw what he was looking for: two of New York’s finest, strolling towards him.

He stopped them and asked how he could get to the elusive Highway One. They obliged with the necessary directions. He thanked them, produced his State Department identification, and then pointed to the Cadillac.

“They’ve been following me. I wonder if you’d check them out?”

“Excuse me?”

“The men in that car. . . I know they’re following me, but I don’t know why. Perhaps you could check. They might be dangerous.”

The two cops eyed each other uncertainly, then nodded and wandered down the street to the Cadillac. One stepped forward and tapped on the window. The other stood back with his hand resting menacingly on the thirty-eight’s chequered-walnut grip.

Once again the window lowered, this time by six inches more than the previous three. The thickset individual briefly spoke. Moments later, the two uniforms continued on down the street. They didn’t look back.

Hammond grinned and shrugged at the two men in the Cadillac, feigning self-confidence and privately cursing the absence of the streetwise Gabriel.

It was two hours later when he drew the Pontiac to a halt in front of the heavy wrought-iron gates, marking the main entrance to the Zalesie estate. The Cadillac had followed at sixty yards distance, every inch of the way.

Two clean-shaven but otherwise similarly-dressed and belligerent-looking characters opened the gates. Hammond wound down the window, intending to produce his identification, and explain the purpose of his visit. The guard said nothing and waved him on down the drive. Half a mile later he reached a second set of equally sturdy gates. A second set of equally belligerent-looking characters stood waiting.

“You carrying?”

The guard held out his hand. Hammond took out the Beretta and passed it over.

“Look after that. It’s got sentimental value.”

The guard nodded appreciatively as he weighed the automatic in his hand.

“Mmm, Beretta nineteen-thirty-four. Shade on the lightweight side for me, but a good-looking piece. I hear these are worth a few bucks these days. Old war souvenir?” Hammond nodded. The guard pointed to the glove compartment. “That all?” Hammond nodded again. “OK. Head on down to the house, there’ll be someone there.”

“You just gonna take my word? You’re not gonna search?”

“We’re naturally-trusting people, Mr Hammond.”

“You know my name.”

The expression didn’t flicker.

“I wouldn’t be letting you in if we didn’t.”

Hammond grinned good-naturedly.

“Well, it’s good to meet naturally-trusting people. You don’t see so many these days.”

The guard grunted and returned his attention to the ball game on the radio. Hammond headed down the drive. More scenes reminiscent of Hollywood gangster movies greeted his arrival at the sprawling Zalesie mansion, with more Cagneyesque characters sporting ever more belligerent faces. He pulled in under the porte cochère, then climbed out of the Pontiac and looked around.

“Mr Hammond, I presume. Allow me to welcome you to Connecticut.”

The accent and tone were English and pretentious, the manner effeminate, the complexion pale, but the eyes that scrutinized his were both black and cold. Beneath the faultlessly-tailored suit, the frame was stocky. The hand that shook Hammond’s was firm and strong.

“Count Zalesie?”

“Good lord no, Mr Hammond.” The man smiled briefly and condescendingly. “My name is Cowdray, Simon Cowdray. I am Mr Zalesie’s private secretary. I also look after his local security arrangements.”

Hammond gazed pointedly at the multitude of armed bodyguards.

“You take your work seriously.”

The condescending smile returned.

“Mr Zalesie is a busy and important man, Mr Hammond. When he does take the odd moment or two to relax he prefers to do so in peace.”

“Does that mean I don’t get to see him?”

“Not at all. . . Mr Zalesie is looking forward to meeting you. Do come in.”

Hammond followed him in through the door and along the corridor, talking as he walked.

“You keep saying Mr Zalesie. I understood he was some sort of Count?”

“That is not a title Mr Zalesie cares to use. I’m sure he will tell you about it when you meet him. Perhaps you’d like to wait in here. You should be comfortable. I’m sure you’re tired after your long journey. I’ll send someone over with some coffee.”

“I only came up from New York.”

The smile was back.

“Yes, but the long way around, I understand.”

Hammond grinned ruefully, then eyed the Englishman.

“So they were your men, the two in the Cadillac?”

Simon Cowdray nodded. The smile evaporated.

“After what happened to poor Mr Carlisle, Mr Zalesie felt you might benefit from some, shall we say, additional security?”

“Directions might have been of more use, but thank him for me. That was thoughtful.”

“Mr Zalesie is a thoughtful man. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall tell him that you have arrived.”

Hammond wandered on into a large and luxuriously appointed suite. To the left, a single door led to a large marble-tiled bathroom. Double doors farther along led to a cavernous bedroom with an enormous four-poster.

French windows on the right-hand side led to a patio. Stone steps stretched the patio’s width, and led to a vast expanse of manicured lawn. Beyond that, an extensive lake added to the general air of calm and tranquillity, while, on the slopes in the distance, a leafy Connecticut offered its own spectacular charm.

He gave a low whistle as he assessed the scope and grandeur, and then sat down in one of the patio chairs to take in the view. A knock at the door called him back to the room. A waiter, with silver tray and promised coffee, stood waiting.

“Where would you care to take your coffee, sir?”

“The patio, I think.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to pour it for you?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

The waiter carried the tray to the patio. He set it down on one of the tables before returning to the lounge, where he bowed politely and thanked Hammond for nothing in particular. Hammond wandered back to the patio. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down again.

“Not bad; not bad at all.”

He idly gazed around the grounds wondering how much a place like this would cost to buy, and equally important, how much it would cost to run. It was then he saw her: a solemn-looking woman, wearing a red headscarf and dressed in dark slacks and a white blouse, with a tweed jacket slung across her shoulders. She appeared from the right-hand side of the house, and then wandered past the patio on her way to the lake. She nodded an acknowledgement. He nodded politely back and then called out to her. The last time he’d seen that face it hadn’t looked solemn. The last time he’d seen that body was in a photograph.

“Mrs Carlisle. It is Mrs Carlisle, isn’t it?” he said. “I knew your husband. We worked together at The State Department. I’m so sorry. . . Please accept my condolences.”

She stopped and turned to face him.

“You’re Gerald Hammond, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I believe you know my wife.”

There was no humour in her answer.

“I think, in one way or another, most of my family know or have known your wife.”

“Yes, so I understand. . . I’m sorry.”

For a moment, as he recalled the wilful Emma and her litany of transgressions, he wondered why he had found it necessary to apologize on her behalf. Then Angela Carlisle climbed the steps and he saw the pain in her eyes.

“Would you like some coffee? There’s plenty here. I’ll get another cup.”

“Thank you, no, but I will sit for a moment. . . That is, if you don’t mind?”

Hammond remembered his manners. He stood up and collected a chair.

“Of course not. I’m sorry, please. . .”

She sat down at the table and smiled weakly back at him.

“You were with Alan in Frankfurt, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The two of you didn’t get on, I understand?”

“No, that’s true.”

“Is that why you stole the photograph and showed it to Marcus?”

Hammond’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t realised she’d known. He wondered how much she knew of the meeting with Allum and Chambers. He presumed she knew it all.

He studied her face, but saw no hostility or criticism, just a hollow look that spoke of unhappiness.

He apologized, and told her that he’d had no choice. He apologized again, and said he didn’t mean to embarrass or distress her in any way. He followed that with yet another apology.

She said she didn’t blame him. She should apologize to him. Her question had been impolite. She understood he was only doing his job.

There was a long uncomfortable pause before she spoke again. She told him that Zalesie thought the meeting in Frankfurt had something to do with the murder. She asked what he thought. He said he didn’t know. He supposed it was possible. When he asked her if the Russians had blackmailed her husband, she relaxed the formality. He should call her Angela. He found himself remembering the photograph and thinking mildly disgraceful thoughts.

Finally she answered. Yes, the Russians had been blackmailing her husband, and not just with the photograph. They had also used her son, Mathew. He had been in Europe. They used a girl to trap him. She blushed wildly and added that they often did that.

Knowing something of the chaos and confusion in Europe, he asked why Mathew had been there. He said post-war Europe wasn’t the ideal destination for a vacation.

She said he hadn’t been on vacation, just getting away from a silly family squabble. That had been her fault, too. Thankfully, some of Conrad Zalesie’s friends in Austria had managed to get Mathew away from them. She recalled her son and smiled through the grief. She hoped he would join her in a few days. Maybe they could put the past behind them.

Hammond asked how long she was staying at the estate. She said just a few days. She wished she could stay longer. It was so beautiful and peaceful; not like all the hustle and bustle of Washington. The Zalesies had made her feel so welcome. Theresa had been such a comfort, and Conrad had dealt with the police and the FBI and taken care of everything.

“Did you say the FBI?”

“Yes, Morton Simmonds sent some people. He and Alan were friends.”

“Your husband did tell me something about that. But Morton Simmonds didn’t come in person? I thought he and your late husband were close?”

“They were, but Morton wasn’t able to get away from Washington. He’s on assignment at the moment. Conrad’s been marvellous, though. I only wish Alan had confided in him from the beginning; maybe none of this would have happened.”

“No, perhaps not. So, how are you bearing up?”