The Talbot Odyssey (23 page)

Abrams followed Claudia up the tilted staircase. She turned to him on the landing. “Good night.” She started up the next flight of stairs.

Abrams was annoyed. He said, “I’m going downstairs to have a drink.”

She smiled.

Abrams stood on the landing, then approached the door to his room. He listened, then opened it, standing off to the side. He reached in and snapped on the light. There was no place a person could hide except under the bed, and he kept his eyes fixed there as he entered and retrieved his revolver from the top drawer of the bureau. He opened the cylinder, checked the six bullets, peered down the barrel to see if it was clear, felt the hammer and firing pin to make certain no one had done any filing, then dry-fired a few times. Satisfied he still had a lethal weapon, he reloaded and snapped the cylinder in place. Abrams dropped the revolver into his side pocket.

He walked downstairs and joined the Grenvilles in the sitting room. The fire was dead and the lights were out, but several candles lit the room. Abrams looked at Joan Grenville, half reclining on the couch, a drink in her hand. She arched her eyebrows in a quizzical look, as though to ask, thought Abrams, “Why aren’t you fucking Claudia?”

Abrams poured himself a glass of warm club soda. He noted that Tom Grenville was asleep in a wingback chair.

Joan Grenville said, “I love candlelight. Especially in a house built before electricity.”

Abrams sat on the couch and Joan had to move her feet. Abrams said, “There’s always been electricity.”

“You know what I mean.”

She sipped on her drink, then said, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an enjoyable evening?”

“Relative to what?”

She looked at her husband and called out, “Tom, wake up!”

Grenville didn’t stir.

Joan turned to Abrams. “He’s passed out. Other people sleep, he goes into a coma.”

Abrams looked at Grenville. He appeared to be really out, but his physical presence was inhibiting. Abrams said to Joan Grenville, “Are you a member of the group?”

She didn’t answer for some time, then said, “No.” She paused again, then said, “I’m into aerobics.”

Abrams smiled.

She added. “And tennis. Things that prolong one’s life-span. How about you?”

“I smoke, carry a gun, and get involved in dangerous situations.”

“You’d fit right in. I could give you a warning, but it would be pointless.”

“Does your husband belong?”

“I’m not at liberty to speak about any of that.”

“Are you afraid?”

“You’re damned right.” She stretched out her legs and one foot came to rest on his thigh.

There was, thought Abrams, a certain amount of sexual tension present in any houseguest situation. He remembered when his second cousin, Letty, slept in his parents’ spare room. After a week of clumsy signaling, unneeded nocturnal trips to the kitchen and bathroom, they’d finally made it on the couch at 3:00 A.M. Abrams nodded toward Grenville. “I’ll help him up, if you want.”

She didn’t answer but placed both feet on his lap. Abrams took one foot in his hands and massaged it.

“That feels good. I hate high heels.”

Abrams realized he had little physical desire for her, and what there was had to do with things far more complex than instinct.

Abrams glanced again at Tom Grenville, sprawled in the chair. It seemed, or perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, that Grenville was awake. He considered this for a moment, then a noise brought him to full alertness and he froze.

Joan Grenville heard it too, and she looked up at the ceiling. Someone was walking in Abrams’ room directly overhead.

Abrams got up from the couch and went to the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. He stood outside his door and listened. Someone was still inside. He drew his revolver, stepped to the side, and pushed open the door. He peered cautiously around the jamb.

Claudia was sitting on the bed, with her legs drawn up to her breasts, leafing through a magazine. She was wearing a loosely tied white silk robe. Abrams said softly to himself, “Jesus Christ. There’s no end to the madness.”

Claudia glanced at him. “Come in and close the door.”

Abrams stepped into the room and drew the door shut. He slipped his .38 into his pocket. He said tersely, “What makes you think I want you here?”

She tossed aside the magazine and sat up straighter. Her robe fell open and Abrams could see her breasts, olive-colored and full. She looked serious. “I am no whore. I don’t go with many men. I like you. I think you like me.”

Abrams turned and slipped out the door, colliding with Joan Grenville, who had obviously been listening. Abrams said, “Sorry, Mrs. Grenville. Look, I seem to have a calendar conflict. . . .”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. “If you can, come to me afterward. Third floor. Second on the right. I’ll leave it unlocked. Wake me. Any time before dawn.”

“Right.” He watched her mount the stairs, then went back into his room. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. His notebook hadn’t been moved, and neither had any of his other odds and ends.

Claudia was leaning forward. “Do you think I came here to steal from you?”

He walked to the bed. “I was looking for my prayer shawl.” He placed his revolver on the night table. Then he ripped off his tie and shrugged out of his dinner jacket. The shirt studs gave him trouble, and he ripped the front open, then tore the cuffs loose. “Damned stupid outfit . . .” He finished undressing, then climbed onto the high bed and knelt beside her, drawing her robe open. Her body was full, her hips wide. He caressed her legs, arms, and buttocks, and could detect her taut muscle tone. He wondered what kind of work she’d done in Rumania. “Do you do aerobics?”

“What is that? Flying? Why do I have trouble understanding you?”

“Beats me.” He leaned over and kissed her, then his mouth moved down her body.

Claudia suddenly pulled away and drew her robe around her. “Come. Follow me.” She rolled out of bed and gathered a heavy comforter from the footboard, draping it around her shoulders.

Abrams watched her as she walked to the window and threw up the sash. She turned back to him. “Come. There is a fire escape. The rain has stopped, and it’s a beautiful night. Have you ever made love al fresco?”

Abrams shrugged and looked around for something to wear. She called out, “Just bring the pillows. Come.” She slipped through the window and stood on the fire escape. Abrams grabbed two pillows, dropped his revolver into the pillowcase of one, and joined her on the fire escape.

A front was moving through, and a warm breeze blew from the south. The sky was clearing, and a half-moon was setting in the western sky. Abrams looked around at the surrounding buildings, all of which towered over the four-story town house. A few windows were still lit.

Claudia said, “This is beautiful. I love to make love outdoors.”

Abrams smiled.

“Go on. You first.”

Abrams began to climb the wet ladder. He said over his shoulder, “Slippery. Be careful.”

She stopped climbing at the third-floor landing. “I have brandy in my room. Go on. I’ll be a minute.”

Abrams continued up the ladder past the darkened fourth-floor window. He peered over the parapet. The flat roof was covered with gravel for drainage, but puddles gleamed in the low spots. There was no stairwell shed, no skylights or ducts, and he had a clear view except for a wide brick chimney in the center of the roof.

Abrams climbed over the low parapet and dropped to the roof. He walked gingerly over the rough gravel and circled the chimney, then found a relatively dry area and dropped the two pillows. He stood looking out into the backyards below, the soft wind caressing his body.
Yes,
he thought,
this will be different.
Very nice.

He heard the sound of crunching gravel and sloshing water to his left and spun around. Two rappelling lines swung from the higher roof down the wall of the adjoining building. In the dark he saw two black-clad shapes in ski masks moving quickly toward him. One held a long jimmy bar, the other a black bag, which Abrams took to be a case of burglar tools. But in an instant he knew they were anything but burglars. They were very professional killers.

Abrams was about ten feet from the fire escape ladder and an equal distance from the pillow where his revolver lay tucked inside. The men were less than fifteen feet from him. Abrams lunged in three long strides and dove for the pillow. The gravel scraped his naked body as his hand shot into the right pillowcase. He seized the revolver by the barrel. He had no time to bring it out, and he worked it around, grasping the butt, his finger slipping into the trigger guard. He prepared to squeeze off a round through the case, but the closer of the two men loosed a violent kick that caught him on the side of the head. The other man came up quickly and swung the long steel jimmy at his elbow, paralyzing his right arm. Abrams felt a flash of searing pain travel to his shoulder and almost passed out. He thought again,
Pros.

They pinioned his arms to his sides and rolled him over on his back. One man pressed a gloved hand over Abrams’ mouth. The other held up something that Abrams thought was a club. The first man knelt on his chest and pried open his jaws as he held his nostrils shut.

Abrams could see that the club was actually a bottle, and he felt the cold liquid hit his lips and splash across his face. He tried to cough it back, but it slid down his open throat. It took a few seconds before he identified the burning sensation and the faint smell that somehow reached his olfactory nerves. It wasn’t poison or acid but Scotch whisky. His brand, he guessed. So it wasn’t to look like murder but like a drunken tumble from the roof. He began to struggle but felt a hand clamp on to his testicles and twist. He stopped moving.

They held him pressed against the rough gravel for what seemed like a long time but was, he thought, probably a few minutes. He felt the effects of the alcohol on his brain and tried to fight it. Suddenly the two men turned him on his stomach, seized his arms and legs, and began running toward the edge of the roof.

Abrams saw the low parapet coming up quickly, and beyond the parapet the emptiness of a four-story fall.

He waited until they slowed, a few feet from the edge. He felt the imperceptible loosening of their grip as they prepared to hurl their burden out into space. At that last moment Abrams twisted violently, breaking the hold on his right arm. His shoulder dropped and collided with the brick parapet wall, causing the two men to lose their grip on him.

Abrams wrenched free and fell to the rooftop, spinning around into a crouching defensive position, his back to the brick parapet. The two men hovered over him but hesitated a split second. Abrams sprang out of his crouch, grabbing two handfuls of gravel and flinging them into the men’s faces. His left foot shot out and caught the closest man in the groin. The other man lunged at him while he was off-balance and delivered a clenched fist to the side of his jaw, knocking him off his feet.

Abrams lay on his back, stunned. The man dove at him, his hands outstretched and reaching for his throat. Abrams planted his bare feet in the man’s stomach, lifting him high into the air, and the man’s forward momentum catapulted him over the parapet. The quiet night was broken with a shrill, piercing scream.

Abrams sprang to his feet. The second man was already running toward the dangling rappelling lines. Abrams began to follow, but the alcohol slowed him and he felt a growing pain where his shoulder had hit the wall. His right arm was still numb from the blow on the elbow, and the sharp gravel cut into his feet.

The man was halfway up the rope as Abrams reached it. Abrams grabbed the rope and jerked it violently, but the man, wearing crepe soles and leather climbing gloves, hung on and disappeared onto the higher roof.

Abrams turned and walked unsteadily back to where the two pillows lay. He retrieved his revolver and began descending the fire escape.

Claudia was on the top landing. She looked at him in the dim light. “What happened to you? You smell of whisky. . . .”

He stared at her. “I slipped.” He took her arm and led her down the fire escape into the bedroom. He said, “You forgot the brandy.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

Abrams pulled on his suit trousers. “Where’s the comforter?”

Claudia didn’t respond, but asked, “Where are you going?”

“Back to Brooklyn, where it’s safe.”

“But . . . we haven’t . . .”

“I think I’ve lost the desire. Good night.”

“What . . . ?” She reached out and touched his scraped elbow. “You have cuts all over you.”

“Good night.” He noticed his voice was slurred.

She hesitated, then turned quickly and left.

Abrams waited, then took his revolver and went out into the hallway. He mounted the stairs and went to Joan Grenville’s room. He opened the door without knocking and found her under the covers, sleeping in a sitting position, her bare breasts peeking out over the bedsheets. Her lamp was on, and a book lay on the covers. He was surprised to find she snored.

Abrams saw that she had a bolt lock on her door, and he threw it shut, then checked the window latch. He sat in an easy chair, his revolver on his lap, and closed his eyes.

His thoughts seemed a bit jumbled, but through the alcohol he concluded that if he had any doubts about the reality of what he’d heard so far, he had none now. Like a soldier new at the front or a rookie cop on a bad beat, he’d been lucky to survive his first day. Luck or chance would play no part in his future survival. He’d be harder to kill, but they wouldn’t stop trying.

He had one distinct advantage over everyone now. He knew the name of one of the enemy: Countess Claudia Lepescu. But he didn’t know where to turn with this interesting knowledge. In contrast to his police work, he had no brothers, no partners. He was alone. He began to appreciate the sheer terror and loneliness of intelligence work.

He looked at Joan. How, he wondered, did she fit? His instincts told him she was what she seemed to be. She might even be useful if she weren’t so useless.