The Players (15 page)

The defeat of the defending Wimbledon champion was accomplished on Tuesday afternoon without drama and without suspense. The people crowded into the stands of Centre Court watched in a kind of sick-room silence as a seventeen-year-old French player named Jean-Pierre Leduc beat Ron Hopper in straight sets, 6–4, 6–2, 6–2.

His loss did not come as a surprise. Word of Hopper’s sudden collapse in his first match had spread rapidly, the way bad news always does. Hopper had refused to discuss his injury either following the match yesterday or before coming out today. The only visible sign that he was hurting was a wide elastic bandage he wore on his right thigh. On the court, however, he moved like a man in hip-deep water.

When the reporters cornered him after the match he said, “You fellows shouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me. The French lad was the winner out there. He’s the one you should be interviewing.”

However, the reporters were not to be put off. “When did you first hurt your leg, Ron?” asked the UPI. “Was it in Melbourne? Is that why you didn’t play in the Italian and French tournaments?”

“The leg’s all right,” Hopper told them. “A bit of a muscle pull is all.”

“But it slowed you down, didn’t it?”

“The way young Leduc played out there today he could have beaten anybody. Give him credit.”

“What are your plans now?”

“Take a little rest, do a little fishing. Then we’ll see.”

“Was the loss today a big disappointment to you?”

The group abruptly fell quiet, and all eyes turned on the
New York Times
reporter who had asked the inane question. A flush rose from Ron Hopper’s neck to his freckled forehead as he regarded the young man. Mike Wilder, standing a little apart from the others, thought for a moment that the red-haired Australian was going to lose his temper.

However, when he spoke Hopper’s voice was as controlled and courteous as ever. “Yes,” he said, “it is a very great disappointment to lose. It always is. A man who tells you it doesn’t hurt to lose is either a liar or he’s not a professional.”

For a moment there was silence, then the moment passed and all the reporters were asking questions at once. Ron Hopper raised his hands for their attention.

“Gentlemen, I’ll have to ask you to excuse me now. I really must go in and towel off. Thank you all very much.”

With a wave and a smile last year’s champion turned and walked away toward the dressing room, a narrow-shouldered man, shorter than average, with muscles like twisted wire rope. He walked without even a faint suggestion of a limp. The watching reporters could only guess at what that effort cost him.

“If you ask me, he’s played his last match anywhere,” said the AP.

“Why should he care?” said Reuters. “I hear he’s got enough squirreled away to live well the rest of his life without ever lifting a racket again.”

“It makes you wonder why he even went this far,” remarked CBS. “He could have gone in the tank yesterday and not risked hurting the leg any worse. I know I would have.”

A pipe-smoking man from the
Melbourne Tribune
spoke up. “There’s the difference between Ron Hopper and you, old chap. He’s a champion.”

Yes, thought Mike Wilder, he
is
a champion. Mike had seen the purplish streak of broken blood vessels that had spread down his leg below the bandage by the time Hopper had finished taking his beating. Twice the umpire had asked him if he wanted the allowable five minutes rest for an injury, but the Aussie just shook his head and motioned for play to continue. Mike thought ruefully about some of the opinions he had expressed in print about “sissy” tennis players. It seemed he owed some apologies.

• • •

A stroll around the other courts and a check of the scoreboards told Mike that the defeat of Ron Hopper was the only real story on this second day of Wimbledon. All other seeded players in the men’s singles were winning as expected. The only one having trouble was Milo Vasquez. The angry Mexican seemed to die a little these days every time he took the court. Still, he somehow beat his second-round opponent in four sets.

Tim Barrett, looking a little peaked, won in straight sets, yet managed to look bad doing it. Mike noted that Christy Noone was not at Tim’s court today and wondered why.

Nearby, Alan Doughty, playing his usual steady, unspectacular game, won his match before a bare handful of spectators. As before, he was closely watched by his wife Hazel.

Fred Olney, the diminutive Australian, lost his match to Brian White and pretended impatience with big Denny Urso who won to stay in competition. It was most selfish of Denny, Fred complained, to cut into their practice time for the doubles this way.

Mike wandered over to the courts where a few of the first-round women’s matches were underway. Tomorrow the entire grounds would be given over to the women and the beginning of doubles play. Mike watched a couple of thick-legged girls swat baseline strokes back and forth at each other for a while. He decided the action was faster in the lawn bowling at Hurlingham. Women’s athletics had never been a favorite subject for Mike, and rather than criticize and risk the wrath of Women’s Lib, he merely ignored it.

As he started away a tall, Scandinavian-looking blonde on one of the courts knelt to tie a shoelace. The movement was so gracefully feminine that Mike smiled with pleasure. At that moment the girl looked up and saw him. She returned his smile, showing square, even teeth that gleamed white against her tanned skin. No game, Mike decided, that attracts girls like that one can be all bad.

• • •

With little that was newsworthy happening on the courts; Mike strolled up to the Players’ Tea Room to see how things went in the marketplace. There was no lull in the action here. The babble of voices and clash of dishes made a constant din in the place. Everywhere players, players’ agents, tournament directors, and hustlers of all kinds bargained unceasingly. As Mike moved through the crowd he picked up bits and snatches of conversations.

“I do need some shoes, but the Adidas man is supposed to come around tomorrow afternoon.”

“Forget about him. I’ll have half a dozen pairs of ours at your room in the morning. Any colors you like.”

“We’d really like to have you come to Mexico City. The weather is beautiful there in the fall. Naturally we’ll take care of the air fare, and you’ll have a really nice hotel room …”

“All you have to do is take one swig out of the bottle during the television interview. Fake it if you want to, just make sure the label is turned toward the camera …”

“I know you’re signed up with MacGregor, but that’s only in the States and in Europe, right? Now, when you’re playing in Cairo …”

“Believe me, La Costa is
the
club in California now, they’ve got Segura there as pro, you know …”

Mike spotted J. J. Kaiser at a table talking fast and earnestly to Yuri Zenger, who had clowned his way through a second easy match. Between them sat Geneva Sundstrum looking like some great golden goddess.

• • •

Mike had seen enough of Wimbledon for this day. He left the grounds and drove his rented Ford back to the Regency House. Back in his room, he uncased his typewriter, rolled in a virginal sheet of paper, and began his column for the day:

Three hours later the column was written and sent off. Mike showered, changed clothes, and left to pick up Paula at her flat.

“Where are we dining?” Paula asked as they walked out together.

“I reserved a table at a place called The Mirabelle. I hear it’s pretty good.”

“Pretty good? The Mirabelle is known for having the best of everything. And comparable prices.”

“Tut tut, my girl, we need not concern ourselves with price.”

“Spoken like the holder of a fat expense account.”

“You are so right.”

They ordered dinners of lobster, which were superb. The service was excellent, and the wines from the best French vineyards.

When they finished eating, Mike lit a cigarette and rolled the cognac around in the bottom of the balloon glass. Paula watched him thoughtfully.

“Is there something you want to say to me?” she asked.

“God, am I that transparent?”

“Let’s say you’re rather scrutable.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m curious about something, but I didn’t know how to bring it up gracefully.”

“Why not just blurt it out?”

“Why not?” He tried to make it casual, but didn’t feel he was pulling it off. “I got to wondering about your ex-husband, Eric Teal.”

“Oh?”

“Did you say something about him being a sports car driver?”

Paula looked at him curiously, but her answer was calm. “He did some racing before I knew him. Grand Prix cars, the big ones. People tell me he was quite good at it. I wouldn’t know, I never followed the sport.”

“He didn’t race any more after you were married?”

“No. He gave it up after his accident. He still liked to fool around with sports cars and such, but nothing competitive.”

“And you don’t know where he is now?”

“I haven’t heard a word since his parents put him in hospital. Why are you interested, Mike?”

For just a moment Mike considered telling her the truth—that he suspected Eric Teal had been at the wheel of the green Jaguar that engaged him in the deadly chase Sunday morning. He rejected the notion as soon as it occurred to him. It was very possible he was mistaken, and it would be better to check it out himself without involving Paula.

He said, “No reason. Just making after-dinner conversation.”

Paula searched his face, but she didn’t ask him any more. “Would you mind awfully if we talked about something else?”

He grinned at her. “I wouldn’t mind a bit. What say we talk about you and me for a while?”

“Lovely idea.”

The mood lightened then, and they talked comfortably about Wimbledon and about Paula’s job and about their plans for the next week and a half. At the same time a part of Mike’s mind was trying to recall something Paula had said in an earlier conversation—something to do with where her former in-laws lived.
“A place out near Henley,”
that was it. He resolved that tomorrow he would pay a visit to the Teal family estate.

The little Ford hummed smoothly westward out of London past Heathrow Airport toward the village of Henley. Wednesday had dawned gray and gloomy with a light mist hanging in the air. Tough luck, Mike thought, for the lady tennis players, who were having their first full day at Wimbledon. They would likely find some way to blame male chauvinism for the weather too.

Getting directions to the country house of Sir Oliver Teal had not been difficult. Since his overtalkativeness with Mr. Wilder’s “friend” Sunday morning, the desk clerk at the Regency House had leaned over backwards to be helpful. He had found out the exact location of the Teal estate and marked it on the map for Mike.

Driving on the left was beginning to feel almost natural to Mike by now. It was remarkable, he thought, how adaptable the human machine can be. He still glanced regularly in the rearview mirror, but so far no menacing green Jaguar had appeared.

Mike had stopped by the London bureau of Worldwide Publications earlier this morning to do some research on the Teal family. Sir Oliver had been knighted in the early days of World War Two in recognition of the conversion of his chemical plants to the war effort. Lady Teal, the former Ann Prentice, was a woman of poise and no special talents who came from good English stock. Their only offspring, son Eric, was something of a playboy, having been involved with racing cars and show girls and the like. After his accident in Italy, there was no further mention of him until his marriage to Paula. Subsequently he had dropped out of the news. Too bad, Mike thought, that he hadn’t dropped off the world.

Mike was careful in seeking out the information to keep his inquiries secret from Paula. With things developing so well between them, he thought it would be best just now to keep his suspicions about her ex-husband to himself.

He turned off Motorway M4 at the secondary road marked on his map. He drove on through fenced farmlands that had a leaden, dismal look under the heavy gray clouds.

The Teals’ house came into view as the Ford crested a low hill. It was a handsome structure of red brick and flint with a profusion of chimneys and ivy spreading over the walls. Out behind the house Mike could see a wide garage and long low building that looked like a stable.

Mike parked on the broad drive in front of the house and walked up to the entrance. The door was blackened oak with a heavy iron knocker in the shape of a horse’s head. He raised the knocker and let it fall. After a short wait, the door was opened by a smooth-faced man with the self-possessed attitude of a good English butler.

“Yes, sir?”

“My name is Michael Wilder. I’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. Teal.”

“Sir Oliver and Lady Teal are in the garden,” the butler said, gently correcting Mike’s form of reference. “May I tell them the nature of your business?”

“It’s about their son, Eric.”

“Very good, sir. Will you wait inside, please?” The butler’s expression remained bland at the mention of Eric’s name.

Mike stepped into a high-ceilinged entrance hall with a tile floor and dark oil paintings on the walls. The butler went out toward the rear of the house.

After about three minutes a tall, gray-haired man came in. He wore the kind of “gardening” clothes you saw in the pages of magazines like
Country Life
. Very rural, in a genteel way, but definitely not for getting down in the dirt.

He put out his hand and Mike took it. His grip was firm, but the man’s pale eyes were wary.

“I’m Oliver Teal,” he said.

“How do you do. Mike Wilder.”

“I understand you know my son.”

“Not exactly. I know his former wife.”

“Oh?” There was a perceptible chilling in Sir Oliver’s tone.

“We both work for Worldwide Publications. She here in London and I in New York.”

“I see.”

Mike waited, but apparently Sir Oliver was not going to volunteer any information.

“May I ask where your son is now?”

Before Sir Oliver could answer, a slim woman with sharp, clean features came in. She walked over and stood beside him, presenting a united front.

‘This is my wife, Lady Teal,” Sir Oliver said. Then, to the woman, “This gentleman is inquiring about Eric. It seems he is a friend of the Sadler woman.”

The tone of this reference to Paula by her maiden name told Mike as much as he needed to know about the Teals’ feelings toward their former daughter-in-law.

Lady Teal said, “What is it you want with our son, Mr…. er …”

“Wilder. First of all, I’m trying to find out where he is.”

“I presume you know that Eric has been ill,” said Teal.

Mike decided he would get nowhere carrying on with the polite chitchat. He said, “I heard he was in a hospital for psychiatric care.”

“Eric was under treatment for a nervous condition,” his mother corrected firmly.

“Whatever it was, I am told that he had spells of violence.”

“Perhaps you had better state your business with us more explicitly,” said Sir Oliver.

Mike considered briefly how blunt he ought to be with these people. Maybe he could shock them into giving him some information through total frankness.

He said, “I have reason to believe that your son, for what reasons I don’t know, followed me around London Saturday night, and that on Sunday he tried to run me off the road with his car.”

“That’s preposterous!” said Sir Oliver.

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“What conceivable reason could my son have for following you, not to mention doing you an injury?”

“That’s something he would have to answer. I think it has to do with Paula, his ex-wife. Her flat was broken into, and several of my letters to her were stolen along with a picture I’d sent her. From what I’ve heard of your son’s past behavior, he could have psychotic feelings of jealousy toward me.”

Lady Teal spoke up. “I can assure you, Mr. Wilder, Eric has no psychotic tendencies of any kind, especially concerning that woman or any of her friends. What is more, my son has been in the south of France for the past two months, and is not expected to return until August.”

Sir Oliver looked quickly at her and away again, but not before Mike had caught the questioning glance that passed from husband to wife.

“Is there anything else you wished to discuss?” Teal asked pointedly.

“Does your son own a car?”

“Of course.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t see—” Lady Teal began.

“Eric’s car is a Bentley,” her husband said firmly. “A silver-gray Bentley. Last year’s model.”

“I see,” Mike said, thinking that he was indeed beginning to.

“Then I hope we’ve been able to clear the matter up for you.”

“Thanks, you’ve been a big help.” Mike headed for the door where the butler materialized, holding it open for him. He walked back out to the Ford and heard the big oak door boom shut behind him.

He waited for a moment beside the car to see if anyone would appear at one of the front windows. When no one did he walked quickly around the side of the house to the back where he had seen the garage when he drove in. It had a set of heavy doors that were fastened in the center with a hasp and padlock. Mike worked” his fingers into the crack between the doors, trying to pry them far enough apart so he could see inside.

“Lookin’ for somethin’?”

Mike spun around at the sound of the voice to see a powerfully built man in real gardener’s clothes standing some five yards behind him. The man carried a long-handled hoe loosely in one hand, not quite menacingly, but in such a way that it could be quickly brought into use as a weapon.

“I just wondered what was inside,” Mike said, trying a disarming smile.

“It’s a garage,” the man said, not smiling back.

“So I see. Well, I guess I’ll be on my way.”

The man with the hoe stayed where he was, but his eyes followed Mike all the way back to the front of the house. As Mike drove away he imagined he could still feel eyes watching him. Not until he was over the low hill and out of sight of the house did he relax and begin to think about what to do next.

He could call in the police, of course, but Mike rejected that idea immediately. He had no real evidence to back up his suspicions, and if it came down to his word against that of Sir Oliver and Lady Teal, he had no doubt whom the local constabulary would believe. All he could do was stay on his guard from now on.

Maybe his visit out here today would do some good. At least the Teals were aware now of Mike’s suspicions about their son, and they might keep a closer watch on him. He felt these were essentially honest people despite the fact that they had lied to him about Eric.

The gardener’s interruption had kept Mike from getting a good clear look inside the garage, but he had seen all he had to—the rear end of a dark green Jaguar sedan.