Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Francesca was mixing their drinks. She said, ‘From what you were saying, I gather Katharine fired Mrs Jennings today.’

  ‘Yes. And she’s terribly upset about it. Apparently Katharine flew into a screaming rage early this evening and for no good reason. She became abusive and dismissed Mrs Jennings, as of tomorrow. Mrs J. wasn’t about to spend another minute in the house, so she told me. She downed tools, flung off her apron and marched out. And she won’t be coming back. Renata is off today; she asked to go into Manhattan to see her cousin who’s visiting from Italy. She’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘And Kath? Did Mrs Jennings know anything?’

  ‘She said Kath was dressed up when they had the row, was ready to go out to a dinner, or a party, the housekeeper wasn’t sure which. Seemingly Kath had words with Renata as well, yesterday that is. She had her pressing dress after dress all day, uncertain what she would wear tonight.’ He sighed. Same pattern, he thought and stared down at the pad.

  ‘How odd that Kath should go out! She knew we were arriving. Oh hell, it’s par for the course, I suppose. And at least we’ve accounted for the household.’

  ‘Not quite. We don’t know where Kath is.’

  ‘Come and have this drink, darling,’ Francesca urged, observing his worried expression. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nick responded absently. His eyes were glued to the pad. Just below his doodlings were deep indentations of writing which had penetrated through onto the sheet of paper from the previous page. This had been torn off, and he noticed the ragged uneven edge at the top of the pad. He peered at the indentations under the light and read: Michael. Thursday. Seven. Greenwich. There were several numbers under these words, but they were so indistinct that he could not make them out.

  ‘Nick, what are you doing over there?’

  ‘Just a minute, Frankie. I think I’ve found a clue. Does Katharine know a man called Michael who lives in Greenwich?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘Look at this.’ He held out the pad to her. ‘She wrote something down and the impressions are here on the new page.’

  Francesca agreed it was Katharine’s handwriting, and said, ‘The numbers aren’t very clear. Shade over them with a pencil. The lead should make them stand out.’

  ‘Hey, good girl, now they are very legible,’ Nick exclaimed, tossing the pencil aside. ‘I bet you it’s a ’phone number.’ He grabbed the receiver, pausing to say, ‘We shall now find out who the mysterious Michael is, and whether Katharine is with him in Greenwich.’

  Clutching his arm, Francesca cried, ‘Wait a minute, Nicky. Look, I know you’re angry with Kath, and understandably so. It’s irresponsible of her, going out without leaving a note, worrying us like this. But you’ll only blow up at her, if she is at this number, create additional problems. She’s been so paranoid lately, thinking people spy on her. Especially you. It’ll look much better if I call, ask to speak to her. Please.’

  He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Be my guest, kid.’ Rising, he handed her the telephone and strode over to the fireplace.

  Francesca dialled, waited. A hint of surprise flashed in her eyes briefly. ‘Sorry, wrong number,’ she murmured and replaced the receiver carefully, averting her face, unable to look at Nick.

  ‘Why in the hell did you hang up so quickly?’ he demanded furiously, frowning at her. ‘How do you know it was a wrong number?’ When she was unresponsive, Nick said quickly, ‘And why did you look so surprised?’

  Francesca walked back to the sofa slowly, endeavouring to hide her shock, wondering whether to tell him a white he. But if she said she had reached a restaurant or a bar in Greenwich he would not believe her. And knowing him, he would dial the number himself. She could not permit him to do that under any circumstances. Clearing her throat, she said softly, ‘I think it was a butler who answered.’

  ‘And?’

  Francesca sank onto the sofa, her misery acute. ‘He said—’ The words choked in her throat, and she cleared it again, more nervously. ‘He said… The butler said… “Lazarus residence”.’

  For a split second Nick seemed not to understand. He gaped at Francesca. His eyes held a startled expression. And then he exploded. ‘Goddamn it to hell! I might have known! That son of a bitch has been sniffing around her for years.’ He clenched his right hand, smashed his fist into the open palm of his left, and hard. ‘Goddamn it, I’m going to call that bastard right now and let him have it. As for Katharine,’ he shouted, ‘I’m going to wring her neck. I’ve warned her about him. Warned her repeatedly.’ He moved with swift agility, racing to the desk in a fulminating rage. Reaching for the telephone, he yelled, ‘She knows how I feel about that monster. How could she do this to me?’

  Francesca flew after him, grabbed his arm, tried to drag him away from the desk. He held his ground, but was unable to shake free of her tenacious grip. He clutched at the ’phone as Francesca, in turn, clung to him desperately, her eyes wide and pleading. ‘For God’s sake don’t do this, Nick! Please, please, don’t call there! You’re jumping to conclusions. The wrong conclusions!’

  Nick continued to wrestle with her, his face flushed and blazing with anger. ‘Let go, Frankie. I know what I’m doing!’ The telephone crashed to the floor, the chair tipped over, the desk lamp wobbled precariously. Unexpectedly, Nick let his arms fall limply to his sides and ceased his struggling. He stared at Francesca and shook his head slowly. ‘You’re right, kid,’ he muttered and bent down, picked up the ’phone, righted the chair.

  Francesca, breathing heavily, took his hand. ‘Let’s talk this over quietly,’ she gasped, and drew him back to the fireside. After pressing him down onto the sofa, she brought their drinks and seated herself opposite. ‘Don’t judge her, Nicky, not without having all the facts. Her presence in Mike Lazarus’s house means absolutely nothing, and you know it. This could be a perfectly innocent evening. After all, he does own Monarch, and he’s in the picture business in a big way these days. Katharine is a superstar. And she has been edgy about not working lately, has indicated to me that she’s ready for a project. Perhaps he wants her to do a film for Monarch.’

  Nick peered at Francesca through the haze of their cigarette smoke. ‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked with a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility,’ she hedged, not certain what to think, aware that she had been dismayed when she had heard that particular name a moment ago. In a firmer tone, she added, ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s why she’s over there.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, kid.’

  She ignored his disdainful tone and said, ‘What did you mean, when you said he’s been sniffing around her for years?’

  ‘Exactly that. As chairman of the board of the conglomerate that owns Monarch, he doesn’t normally get involved with the movies they make. He leaves that to the head of production. He’s only interested in balance sheets, the bottom line, profits. But he was parked in his office at the studio—and never off the set incidentally—when she made that film for Monarch in 1964. Look, Frankie, I was out there with her. I know he was ogling her, sucking up to her the entire time. I turned a blind eye. I’d no choice. And I—’

  ‘Katharine couldn’t possibly be interested in him! She was most likely being polite because of his position, tolerating him—’

  ‘Tolerating him my goddamned foot!’ Nick bellowed, and then fell back against the sofa, looking shamefaced. ‘Sorry, Frankie, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Let me calm down for a minute, get a hold of myself.’

  She nodded, and he finished his cigarette, staring into the fife morosely. A number of things were clicking into place in his shrewd and agile mind: A comment Victor had made years ago was suddenly very meaningful; and a recent chance remark of Jake Watson’s likewise assumed new significance. He signed under his breath, looked across at Francesca. ‘I’m sure she saw a lot of Lazarus last summer, you know, when she was dubbing the Far East picture at Twentieth after she
got back from Ceylon. I read a story in the Hollywood Reporter… about a lavish party Lazarus had given at his new house in Bel-Air Estates. It said Katharine was the guest of honour. I was dumbfounded. After all, she knows how much I hate that slimy bastard. I remember thinking it was disloyal of her to socialize with him, when she didn’t have to do so for business reasons.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask her about it?’

  ‘Sure. When she got home I mentioned it in passing, in an off-handed way, as usual treading on eggs around her, not wanting to upset her. She denied she’d been at the party, said she had accepted, not wishing to offend him, but then cancelled at the last minute.’

  ‘But you didn’t believe her, did you?’

  ‘Not really, Frankie. Still, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, since she was so stable. I let it go.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’ve been concerned about her lying and the way she’s been disappearing at the oddest times over the last few months. What you don’t know is that none of it is new to me. She was behaving like that immediately before she went to Ceylon.’

  ‘Oh Nicky, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I guess I was being protective.’ After enumerating some of these baffling incidents, he remarked, ‘I’m beginning to think she was involved with Lazarus then, perhaps even as far back as 1964, when she made the film for Monarch. Just as I’m sure she’s involved with him now.’

  Francesca said swiftly, ‘I think that’s a hasty assumption. You have no real evidence.’

  ‘I’m not shooting from the hip, kid!’ Nick smoked for a moment, his eyes narrowed. ‘When I ran upstairs to check the bedroom earlier, I saw a number of empty jewel cases on the dressing table. I’ve never seen them before. They’re brand new. I’m putting two and two together, and coming up with Lazarus.’

  Francesca stared at him, her brow creasing, her expression puzzled. ‘She could have bought—’

  ‘But I know she didn’t,’ he asserted. ‘Besides, the stuff was purchased at Van Cleef’s in Beverly Hills. She’s not been out there for a year. And she always shows me everything, asks my opinion before making a final decision. And it’s the Lazarus style. That joker has always decked his women out in expensive baubles. Don’t you remember Hélène Vernaud and her emeralds?’

  ‘Yes. Whatever happened to Hélène? Did he ever marry her?’

  ‘Are you kidding!’ Nick laughed derisively. ‘Lazarus never marries his women, he simply discards them when he gets tired of their charms. Thank God for Hélène’s built-in survival kit. She married an English duke and is sitting pretty. I thought you knew.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember, now that you mention it.’ Francesca grimaced. ‘I can’t picture Kath with Lazarus. Ugh! Beauty and the Beast. Why would she be interested in him?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘But Katharine’s a millionairess.’

  ‘Yeah. But Lazarus is one of the richest men in the world, in the same category as Ludwig and Getty. Katharine’s millions are pin money in comparison to his billions. And I didn’t mean money per se. Perhaps I should have said his power, his clout. And what about the studio? She would love to have that as a little plaything.’

  Francesca was silent, pondering, scrutinizing Nick. He sounded calm enough and certainly his initial fury had died down, and yet she saw the strain on his face, the pain in his eyes. He was chain smoking, occasionally tapping his foot, which he only did when he was excessively agitated. Wanting to alleviate his worry, she now said, ‘Neither of us should jump to conclusions, as I said earlier. Let’s wait to hear what Kath has to say. There’s a good explanation, I’m positive.’

  ‘She’s been spending a lot of time out here lately. This is supposed to be a weekend retreat not a permanent residence,’ Nick said, as though musing out loud. ‘And don’t forget, she is alone here, free as a bird, and I’m out of the way. She can do anything she wants. And Lazarus has a house in Greenwich. Convenient, eh?’

  Passing over the question, Francesca bent forward, smiled reassuringly. ‘You seem to have forgotten one thing, Nicky. Katharine adores you. You’re her dearest love.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ Not waiting for an answer, he took their glasses to the refectory table near the window, refreshed their drinks, returned to his seat. He tried to relax, slumping down on the sofa. He wished he could put Katharine out of his mind, knew this was an impossibility. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and fixed his vivid blue eyes on Francesca, his expression alert. ‘I wonder… I wonder…’ he began softly, and paused, reflecting.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, watching him closely.

  ‘Is it possible that she is not deranged at all? Is this an act? And a very clever one at that?’

  Taken aback, Francesca exclaimed, ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s positively batty at times. Flipped out.’

  ‘She acts as if she is, and perhaps that’s what she wants us to believe. But remember, Katharine is an actress. A consummate actress. Know what, Frankie, she might just be putting it on.’

  Francesca’s hazel-amber eyes stretched wider in her face, and she paled. ‘If that’s the case then she’s behaving in the most disgusting manner. We’ve both been out of our minds with worry. And why would she want us to think she’s crazy?’

  Nick rose, paced the floor, stopped abruptly. ‘Not guilty by reason of insanity,’ he intoned. ‘Murderers have got away with murder by using that plea. It excuses everything they’ve done. They hide behind their so-called insanity. Could she be doing that? In order to behave any way she wishes, and without having to take responsibility for her actions.’

  ‘Nicky!’ Appalled, Francesca drew back on the sofa, regarded him apprehensively. ‘Oh God, Nicky, that’s a horrendous idea, and frightening.’

  ‘Isn’t it just…’

  ***

  He could not decide whether to call Victor Mason or not.

  It had struck Nick earlier that Victor was the one person who could enlighten him on two points, and he had been on the verge of picking up the telephone an hour ago. But Francesca had come back into the living room at that precise moment, carrying a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches and a bowl of fresh fruit and had insisted they both eat.

  Nick eyed the clock on the oak mantelpiece above the huge open stone fireplace. It was eleven-twenty, therefore eight-twenty in Santa Barbara. He was hesitating for a couple of reasons. Katharine might return at any minute; Victor had his own problems to contend with at the present, so that Nick was reluctant to disturb him. Lynn Mason, Victor’s wife of a year, had been taken ill, and two days ago Vic had told him the prognosis was not good. The specialists had diagnosed leukaemia. Poor bastard, Nick thought, he has such lousy luck in his private life.

  Francesca came in briskly, wearing a camel-coloured cape over her cream sweater and matching pants. ‘I’m going to take Lada for a walk, Nick. We can have coffee when I get back. It’s brewing.’

  ‘Okay. Stay in the grounds.’

  ‘Naturally. Come on, Lada.’

  The dog was curled up in a bah next to Nick on the sofa. She jumped down obediently and trotted across the room. Nick watched Francesca leave, his eyes thoughtful. Victor frequently asked about her. She never mentioned his name. She must think about him sometimes though, Nick thought, and stood up. If he was going to call the ranch he had better do so immediately, while he was still alone. He hurried to the desk, lifted the receiver.

  Victor himself answered a few seconds later, after several brief rings. ‘Rancho Che Sarà Sarà.’

  ‘Hello, Vic, it’s Nicky.’

  ‘Hi, old buddy. Jesus, this is mental telepathy. I was just about to call you.’

  ‘Oh! Everything okay out there?’ Nick cut in worriedly. ‘How’s Lynn?’

  ‘She’s a bit better than she was yesterday.’ Vic sounded subdued but calm. ‘The medication is helping, and we’re seeing a big improvement. The doctors are very hopeful, think they’ve checked this, got it under control.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news. Give her my best
love.’

  ‘I will, Nicky. As I was about to say, I had my hand on the ’phone to call you, when Jake arrived. He drove down from L.A. to spend a few days with us. He’s a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘I know what you mean. There’s nobody like Jake, and it’ll do you both good to have some company. I’ll come out myself as soon as I can. Listen, Vic, Jake is one of the reasons I called tonight.’

  ‘Oh really. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to check something out with you—a chance remark he made in front of us both recently. I felt he’d clam up if I called him, tackled him head on. But look, I’m jumping the gun. I have a question first. Have you got a few minutes?’

  ‘Sure, kid. Shoot.’

  ‘Do you remember when Katharine and Beau Stanton separated?’

  There was a small silence at the other end of the line, where, three thousand miles away, Victor Mason was instantly filling with dismay. ‘Sure I do, Nicky,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. I don’t know whether you recall this, but around then you told me Beau Stanton blamed Mike Lazarus for some of their problems, that he thought Lazarus was a bad influence on Katharine. Remember?’

  Oh Jesus, he’s found out before I could tell him, Victor thought. He said slowly, ‘Yes, I do. But Beau didn’t say anything to me about Lazarus. That was my opinion. Beau and Lazarus were still very pally in those days. Lazarus was a constant visitor, always hanging around with them. I got the feeling that he idolized Katharine, had put her on a pedestal. Before Katharine and Beau split up I used to needle Beau a bit, you know, about the megalomaniac coming between them. But I must say Beau never took the bait.’

  ‘I want to clarify another thing. When I was out on the Coast three months ago, for the Bellissima board meeting, Jake started to tell me something about seeing Kath and Lazarus at La Scala. They were having a cosy tête-à-tête one evening last year when she was dubbing at Twentieth. You cut him off, changed the subject. I decided not to press then, and I let it drop. Now I want to know more about that night. I thought you might fill me in, but listen, since Jake’s at the ranch I might as well speak to him one to one. Put him on, Vic, please.’