The Quirk (43 page)

“It’s all so horrible. I just can’t believe it. It has nothing to do with Rod as I know him.”

“Sex does funny things to people. Temporary insanity. If you’d seen him in the last ten days, you’d know the defense could make a pretty strong case with that line.”

“But the trip to Marseille. That had nothing to do with sex.”

“No, that was a straight business deal. You’ve probably guessed that I’m not interested in that. A two-bit dope operation. There’s something else involved. When it all seemed to be blowing up, I didn’t know where the chips were going to fall. Now that we’ve got it sorted out, I think we’re OK. Valmer’s murder is the only piece that doesn’t fit. I suspect it’s not supposed to. I’ve discovered a connection with a very highly placed individual on the French side. I think somebody may have recognized Valmer and jumped to the wrong conclusions. A private account settled. Tough luck.”

A brief shudder contracted Nicole’s body. She took a deep breath and lifted her head. “He doesn’t know I am here?”

“I’ve been of two minds about that. There’s the shock value of finding you here unexpectedly, but on the other hand I’m not sure just how much shock he can take. I’ve dropped your name into the conversation pretty frequently. It’s hard to judge what his reaction is. I think he’s so riddled with guilt that he doesn’t dare count on you.”

“He apparently has much to feel guilty about.”

“It’s piling up. You intend to be rough on him?”

“I? Why should I be? We were very deeply in love with each other ten days ago. I know nothing that makes me think it has changed. Whatever has happened with Patrice Valmer, what we have is not in my imagination. Parties and orgies–as you say, men sometimes do things that women can never understand. The only thing that troubles me is the boy at the hotel–the violence–but there must be more to that story than we know.”

“I wish I had a wife like you. You’re planning to marry him?”

“You ask questions that I find insolent. Why should I answer you? Who are you? What do you want with Rod? Why shouldn’t we see each other in our own way instead of letting you use me for some game you’re playing?”

“It’s a pretty serious game. If you knew more about it, you might want to play it with me.” He ran a hand over his face and glanced at his watch and shoved his hands into his pockets. “He should be here any minute. Let’s not forget that if it hadn’t been for me, our friend Rod wouldn’t have had ten days of expert care and attention. He’d have been in a French jail. He’s had a total breakdown, but I think he’s coming out of it. I’m not running a benevolent society for the protection of deranged Americans. I’ve got a job to do, and I think he can be useful. If he can’t be–well, I’m a busy man, and I have just so many trump cards. I can’t afford to throw them away on risks that aren’t worth taking. That may sound callous, but I want you to understand my position.”

“What do you want him to do?”

“It’s a bit soon to go into that. First, I want you two to sort things out for yourselves. If what you decide fits into a scheme that looks profitable to me, all well and good. Otherwise–it may be unpleasant for Rod, but it won’t be the end of the world.”

“But is that really fair? Shouldn’t you make it clear what the choices are?”

A tight little smile appeared on Mather’s weathered face. “I’ve planted a few seeds in the last few days. We’ll see if they germinate. We want to make people feel that they’re volunteers. I’ve found that the wrong kind of coercion doesn’t pay.”

“But you will warn him if you decide he’s a risk not worth taking?”

Mather considered for a moment. “OK. I’ll do that. I like the guy. He’s–”

There was a knock on the door. They exchanged a quick look of warning and surmise before Mather moved around the sofa toward the door. Nicole sat without moving, her hands clasped to control the slight tremor in them. She heard the door open, Rod’s voice, footsteps. She rose and turned with a faint smile to face him as he entered the room.

His penetrating eyes slid past her, and he stood absorbing the feel of the place. “Hello,” he said. He had to force the greeting out.

“Hello, my dearest,” she said quietly.

He moved quickly to the easel and removed the canvas that was standing on it and put it on the floor with the others, facing the wall. He straightened and stood staring out of the big studio window without seeing anything. The clothes Mather had brought him for this outing, his best jacket and slacks, made him feel overdressed for home. “Monkey?” he called. He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder in the general direction of Mather. “I know he’s not here.” He had been badly mixed up about Patrice. He had started to get it straight in his mind a day or two ago. Patrice had never come back from Marseille. Being here reminded him of the long afternoon’s wait for him. They said he was dead, but Rod wasn’t entirely convinced of it. They might be holding him somewhere as part of the plot. “Is he dead?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid so. He was killed.”

“I didn’t do it. I know I thought I did, but I didn’t. I wanted to kill him.”

“Is that what it was all about?” Mather asked sharply. “Did you think the boy at the hotel was Patrice?”

“Yes. It was Patrice. Why else did he come to the hotel? We talked about things only Patrice knew about. Then somehow it wasn’t Patrice. I don’t understand it any more than you do.”

“Illusion,” Mather said with the satisfaction of a man disposing of a problem. “You were exhausted and overwrought. I’d just told you that Patrice was dead. It’s perfectly understandable. I’m glad we’ve got it straight finally. I’ll run along and leave you two in peace.”

Rod whirled around to him. “You don’t want me to go with you?” He glanced again at Nicole. She was looking at him with tears silently rolling down her face. What was she doing here? Their dream of marriage was ended. What could he say to her? She must loathe him.

“I think we can get along without each other for a day or two,” Mather said. “The telephone’s there if you want me.”

“The telephone?”

Mather pointed at the instrument on a table at the end of the room. “I had it put in a few days ago.”

“Aren’t you taking a lot for granted? What right had you to put a telephone in a place that doesn’t belong to either of us?”

“I’ve been known to take liberties from time to time. As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. The place belongs to you. Patrice left it to you. The will has to be probated or whatever they call it here. Meanwhile, I’ve arranged with the management to let you stay here if you want to. You can sell it if you go. It’s worth quite a lot of money. The management is ready to give you $20,000. You could probably get more if you wait.”

“He’s really dead,” Rod said, speaking to himself. Tears came into his eyes, and he turned quickly back to the window and saw now, blurred but known in minute detail, the walls and roofs and chimneys that it framed. He had studied it all thousands of times while the power Patrice had nurtured in him flowed out to shape paint on canvas. He had stood watching, as now, the late-afternoon light deepen into wedges of dark shadow, knowing that his boy would soon be here, lifting his spirits when they were down, bright and saucy with praise, eager to feed him and care for him, offering him his body for whatever pleasure he could find in it, selfless and undemanding. He had given so little in return, and now it was too late to make amends. Patrice was gone. No more pretending. No more hope. Would he ever be able to work again? He had to. Patrice had left him a parting gift of time, laid a burden of obligation on him. He had to prove that his boy hadn’t misjudged him. “You’re my life.” The last whispered words came back to him, and he gasped with the sudden pain of loss.

He was aware of sounds behind him, a few murmured words, movement, the sound of a door closing. The floor creaked close beside him. Nicole? All of his body stiffened with the shame and guilt she stirred in him.

“Can’t I help, my dearest?” she asked gently.

“How?” His voice was hoarse. He was barely able to get the word out.

“In any way I can. Perhaps it would help to talk to me.”

“How much do you know about all this?”

“That man, Mr. Mather, I think he’s told me everything, but only bare facts, without the meaning they must have for you.”

Rod slowly turned toward her and found her standing only a few feet from him. Her tears were gone, and she looked at him with love and solicitude. He couldn’t bear it. He had an impulse to hit her and drive her away once and for all. His eyes couldn’t meet hers. “You mean you expect me to justify myself?” he asked roughly.

“No, darling. Only explain a little more perhaps. Was Patrice very bad to you?”

His eyes lifted and looked into hers. “No. He was wonderful.”

“But you said you wanted to kill him.”

“I was nearly mad. That boy–the one I beat up–he said they’d been to bed together, and I went over the deep end. Isn’t that enough? Do you want to be in love with a madman?”

“I know you’re more sensitive to life than most people. If you were very badly hurt, I understand that it would drive you nearly mad. Were you and Patrice lovers?”

Something in him balked at the word, but he found that he was past caring about appearances. “Yes, in a way. Ever since you’ve known me. The sex part was mostly doing things, letting him do things because they made him so happy. He was bound to want a real lover sooner or later. I’d stared to fall in love with him. I suppose that’s why I felt I had to kill him.”

“My poor darling. How terrible for you. Does it help to know that I think I can understand, or doesn’t it matter anymore?”

“You ask
me
that? You don’t know all of it. I’ve been to bed with Beauty Lussigny. Do you want a man who wants boys?”

“If he also wants a girl, that’s probably more important. Life is full of adjustments–usually later, as one goes along. It might be better to make some of them right at the start. All the time when there was Patrice, you also made me very happy. We shouldn’t forget that. If you would hold me, you would know the answer.”

He took a quick step to her and put his arms around her. She moved in against him. “Oh, God. I was so damn happy.” He choked on the words. Remembered sweetness and tenderness unhinged him. He was suddenly clinging to her, his whole body torn by sobs. She got him to the sofa and let him down on it, and he buried his head in her lap while all his agony was wrenched from him in great gasping sobs. She held his head and stroked his hair and soothed him. As torment subsided, he felt her love and was eased by it, but he was not yet able to draw it into himself. The magic and wonder he had known with her was gone forever; her acceptance of him was frightening. Why was she so confident that she knew who he was? She was still thinking in terms of a lifetime, but his mind could no longer encompass the concept. His sense of time remained badly dislocated. Fragments. There was still one fragment that had to be weighed and examined before he could hope to be intact. The thought of it agitated him and brought his shattered body upright. He sat on the edge of the sofa, creating distance between them, and kneaded his forehead with trembling fingers.

“Some man you’ve got on your hands,” he said dully.

“Very precious to me, my dearest.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t think we need worry about that yet. You’re still recovering from a terrible ordeal. Let’s think only of simple things–like whether you’d like me to go out and get us something to eat or would rather come home with me.”

“No. I’m not hungry. I need a day or two before I can start functioning right again.”

“But I can’t leave you here alone, dearest.”

“You have to. I’m not here yet Have I talked to you about New York? I get mixed up. I talked to somebody about it. My idea was to go back to my old job so we could get married. What would you think of that?”

“Didn’t you hate the job?”

“Not when I was doing it. It could be worse. I’ve got to make a living. I’ve failed here. Patrice wouldn’t let me face it, and now he’s made it even more difficult by getting himself killed. This place. I have his money. I don’t see how I can help giving it another try for his sake.”

“That man Mather worries me. What does he want you to do?”

“I’m not sure. I think he wants me to go back, but he hasn’t actually said so. On the contrary, he keeps warning me of the trouble I’ll be in if I try to leave. It seems that kid might still–” His body was seized by a spasm. His face was contorted. His hands doubled into fists. He took a breath that was a gasp. The spasm passed. “Oh, God, it’s all so horrible.”

“Try not to think about it. Think of Patrice. I think you’re right. I think you must go on with the work he believed in, that I believe in. You couldn’t be happy with me or anybody else if you go back to something you hate.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that. But what if I never paint another picture? I don’t think I ever will.”

“That will pass when you feel better.”

“It might,” he agreed, thinking of what he was going to do as soon as she left. He rose, feeling overdressed again in his working surroundings. Maybe if he got out of these clothes, he would capture some sense of life resuming. “You should go. You’re wonderful to have come. I don’t like you to see me when I’m like this.”

“Don’t be foolish, darling. If we can comfort each other, that’s what we’re here for. I can’t bear to think of your being here by yourself.”