The Far Side of the Sun

by Kate Furnivall

  “Anyway . . .” He spoke rapidly. “When I was twelve my parents were gunned down in the street in front of me. A revenge killing. Sicilians are good at revenge.”

  “Flynn, I’m so sorry. How—”

  But he kept going. The need to spit it out was too strong. “Luciano sent me to Chicago, in case they came for me too. That’s where I met up with Johnnie Morrell. He was in with Al Capone by then. I went to work for them.” He exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the open window. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  He stood up, flexed his shoulders as though something was gripping them and he had to wrench them free. He moved over to the window, staring out at the sun-bleached street, where a wind was sneaking up through the sea grape, no more than a furtive ripple of air, but it made life easier for a moment in the hot little room.

  “By the time I was fourteen, I walked out on them. I’d had a gutful. Four of my good friends had been shot dead in those two years. Rubbed out. So I hit the road. Needed to breathe clean air. Morrell put me on to Harry Oakes over the border in Canada, a buddy of his from his old prospecting days. I worked for him for a few months but I couldn’t keep my feet still now that I was loose. Canada is one hell of a big country, so I took to drifting. Stopping awhile in lonesome faceless towns but always moving on.”

  The words ran out. He tossed his cigarette into the street but remained at the window, staring out.

  “Flynn,” she called softly.

  He didn’t hear.

  “Flynn, come here.”

  He turned his head to her. The hardness had gone from his eyes and in its place lay a sadness that set up an ache inside Dodie.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  He sat beside her, limbs stiff. “How’s your back?”

  “Forget my back.” She lay on the clean white pillow and didn’t let her hands touch him. “Tell me the rest.”

  “There’s not much more to tell. Eventually I went back. That’s the thing about the Mafia. They’re like the Catholic Church. Once they’ve got their hooks in you, they’ve got you for life. I did a fair bit of work with Meyer Lansky in Florida and he sent me over here with Morrell to close out this land deal with Oakes. They chose us because we both knew him before he was Sir.”

  “So who,” she asked, “is on the island hiring thugs to beat me up?”

  “Lansky has another guy here to do his bidding. Goes by the name of Spencer.” He picked up her hand off the sheet and held it flat between his own. “That’s why we have to keep you safe.”

  “What is it they think I know?”

  “They are scared that Johnnie Morrell may have spilled too many beans on his deathbed. The only reason they haven’t done worse to you before now is that they don’t want to attract more police interest, and also I’ve sworn to them that”—he shrugged apologetically—“you’re a dumb little waitress who knows nothing.”

  “Thanks for that, Mr. Hudson.”

  He smiled. She frowned at him.

  “One more question,” she said.

  Still he held her hand as though fearing it would move away.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did Sir Harry give Mr. Morrell the gold?”

  Flynn slowly shook his head. “There you’ve got me. I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I was outside. All I know is that Morrell left with it.”

  “Have you asked Sir Harry?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It might be significant.”

  “Because Sir Harry wouldn’t tell me. That’s why.”

  She nodded. It sounded right. “One final question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What was your business alone with Sir Harry? After Morrell had left.”

  She saw him considering his answer. Didn’t he know yet that he could trust her?

  He sighed faintly. “Oakes wanted to talk to me about his son-in-law, Freddie de Marigny. The cradle snatcher. He sends Oakes into a fury. Nothing to do with Morrell.”

  That surprised her. If it was true.

  “One more question.”

  He laughed but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Ask away.”

  “Who do you think killed Johnnie Morrell?”

  He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to think of a lie. “Sir Harry Oakes.”

  * * *

  “You should leave while you still have the chance,” Flynn told her.

  Dodie was breathing hard, as though she’d been running somewhere where the air was thin. She sat up, touched the pale city skin of his throat, placed a kiss firmly on his mouth, and lay back down on the pillow again.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Flynn. Don’t imagine that I will run because of what you’ve told me.”

  He remained seated on the bed, staring down at her face, memorizing each feature in minute detail as if he expected her to vanish in a puff of smoke. When he leaned closer, his face just above hers, the scent of him swept into her nostrils. His kiss was not gentle. It was fierce and hungry. She could taste the sharpness of his desire. She could feel it in the way his lips took possession of her mouth and caressed the curve of her cheek. It set up a need in her, a need that pulsed through her body.

  The strength of it startled Dodie. She had no idea it would be like this, how a few kisses could destroy her body’s defenses that had been so carefully erected. Sounds escaped her. Small sighs and moans and faint mews that she did not know existed within her, as Flynn slid the strap of her dress off one shoulder. It lay naked and exposed.

  “Dodie,” he murmured, “this isn’t what you came here for.”

  Isn’t it? Isn’t this what she came for?

  With an effort he rolled away from her and was about to leave the bed.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  One by one she undid the buttons of his shirt, peeled it from his shoulders, and ran both hands over the paleness of him. Over the dark glinting line of hairs. She bent her head and pressed her lips to his chest. His heartbeat was hammering through his ribs, vibrating against her tongue as she savored the salty tang of his skin.

  Tenderly he stroked her hair and lifted its long chestnut tangle, baring her neck to his kisses, and without shame she lifted her shift over her head. She felt his gaze on her naked breasts, but instead of being self-conscious and shy, instead of being the awkward and inexperienced lover she knew herself to be, she wanted him not only to gaze but to touch. She hadn’t wanted any man to lay a finger on her since the incident with her boss at the sewing factory, and she had sworn she would never let any man—however kind or gentle—anywhere near her again.

  But she had not bargained for this. For this roaring. This pounding of her blood in her veins. This heat. Suffocating and consuming. She wanted to feel ashamed but couldn’t, she wanted to speak but couldn’t, she wanted to say: Look what you’ve done to me. But couldn’t. His mouth was on hers, his hands touching her, caressing her breasts, her thighs. She stripped his clothes from him and could no longer tell which limbs were his and which were hers, the ache inside her was so fierce as they effortlessly wove themselves into the fabric of each other.

  And then he was above her with his eyes looking down at her with such naked concern that she realized that he knew. Knew about the sewing factory. She had no idea how, but he did. He knew all about the dirt in her. A flush of shame burned her cheeks, but he kissed her hard and whispered against her lips, “My love, this is a new beginning. Us together. Forget the rest. This is you and me.”

  My love.

  He knew her dirt, had smelled the filth on her body, yet still he called her my love.

  Greedily, she wrapped her legs around his hips, and when he entered her she cried out. Not with pain this time. Not with rage and humiliation at having her body ripped open like a butcher’s carcass. But with shock. That it could be so gentle, so loving, so exhilarating. She could
n’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t be. There existed only their flesh bound together. That was her reality in the small secretive room that was now her world.

  * * *

  The light outside grew softer. Shadows edged into the room. Dodie had lost track of time, but it didn’t matter. As if time belonged in an unknown world and meant nothing here. She was propped on one elbow, studying Flynn’s face while he slept.

  Mobster or miller or major in the army?

  Did it make any difference to her?

  No. The answer banged into her head. No. Not a scrap. Whatever he was, he was part of her now. She smiled down at him, relishing the intimacy in the narrow bed, and she leaned over until her lips were half an inch from his and it took all her willpower not to kiss his mouth. As if it were hers now to claim whenever the urge took her.

  “What are you grinning at like a loon?” Flynn murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep. “How’s your back?”

  “What back?”

  He rolled her over and pressed her onto the pillow, where he trailed strands of her hair gently through his fingers and kissed her nipple, sending a bolt of heat to join the ache between her legs.

  “So the sore back and purple bruises were . . .”

  “A device to get you into bed.”

  He laughed, delightedly, but heard her sigh.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She tucked an arm around his body, anchoring herself to him. “There is someone else we need to speak to.”

  He laid a finger lightly on her lips, unwilling to hear more, but she kissed it and removed it.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Mr. Harold Christie.”

  “The real-estate guy?”

  She nodded. “He came to see me. Now it’s my turn to see him. I’m sure he is involved in what went on with Morrell, and it’s time we asked him some questions.”

  Chapter 36

  Ella

  “Reggie, should we invite Detective Calder to join the party tomorrow night?” Ella asked.

  Her husband paused. He was in the middle of undoing his shirt buttons, preparing for bed. “Why on earth should we do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems the decent thing to do.” She leaned over to unpeel her stocking. “The poor man has spent so many hours waiting in the car for me.” She walked over to her husband and draped her stocking around his neck, its silk surface sliding against his skin. “It’s not as if he’s just a chauffeur. He’s a proper police officer. Anyway he’ll just be one of the crowd there. It doesn’t seem fair to him to make him wait outside all evening, does it?”

  Reggie thought about it. She could see the moment of doubt perch at the back of his eyes. His fingers fondled the stocking.

  “Tilly and Hector won’t invite their bodyguard to the party, I’m certain,” she pointed out, and kissed his cheek. “But you’re a much nicer man than Hector.”

  She retreated to the dressing table and picked up the dark amber bottle of perfume. Delicately she dabbed a touch of Guerlain’s Vol de Nuit at the base of her throat. She knew that Reggie adored the woody scent of it. Sometimes to please him, it was all she wore to bed. Lightly dotted along her thighs. He came over to her now, drawn by its fragrance, and ran his thumb thoughtfully over the raised design on the front of the bottle. It depicted an aircraft propeller because the perfume was named after Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s second novel, Vol de Nuit, and Reggie’s eyelids half lowered, his lips parted loosely. She could imagine all too well what was going on in his head, so she didn’t disturb him. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were faintly out of focus.

  “Of course, my dear, whatever you think is right,” he said.

  She gave him a warm smile. “Oh, Reggie, you are such a dear man.”

  He stood straighter, his cheeks pink. As if it were all his idea to invite Detective Dan Calder to the party.

  * * *

  Ella stared sleeplessly at the black hillock that was Reggie.

  It was wrong. Of course it was wrong.

  What was she thinking of?

  So foolish. So mistaken. So utterly, utterly wrong.

  The remedy was simple: she would issue no invitation. Detective Calder could wait outside in the car along with all the other chauffeurs. Why on earth should she care? Reggie wouldn’t even notice.

  She drew a long breath and released it silently into the night. The darkness of the bedroom wrapped itself effortlessly around her secrets, hiding them away even from herself, and she experienced an overwhelming sense of relief. It made her feel as if she had just climbed up a cliff face. She had made the decision.

  Tomorrow morning without fail she would rise early and march straight down to the garage and tell Detective Calder he was no longer required by the Sanford household. He would be pleased. She would be pleased.

  Everyone would be happy.

  She tucked herself closer to her husband and inhaled his soapy smell. The sex hadn’t been good. But neither had it been bad. Not really.

  * * *

  The Cockatoo Club was Ella’s favorite. More like the risqué ones Reggie had taken her to on their trips to New York, all gold and glitz and glamour. Huge petal-pink chandeliers cast a sunset glow over the dancers and diners, flattering bare shoulders and setting fire to diamonds and to gold necklaces, so that the place flashed and sparkled. Wide shiny steps swept up to a semicircular stage where a black swing band in glossy white jackets was in full flow. Their silky smoothness made it a delight to dance, while a husky-voiced singer in a startling beaded dress crooned at the microphone.

  Tonight everyone was here. Ella was pleased with ticket sales for this fund-raiser, and the duchess was particularly satisfied with the turnout, elegant in her midnight blue Schiaparelli gown and her trademark panther bracelet as she passed from table to table. Ella was on the crowded dance floor. She kept turning her head unobtrusively as she scoured the swirling crush of noisy revelers.

  Where was Dan? Had he slunk off somewhere?

  He’d said yes. He would come. She was holding on to that. Yes, he’d said, he’d be happy to attend the event, and yes, he did possess an evening suit. She had blushed at the look he gave her when she asked the question. It told her she had gone too far. So now she was ignoring him, unaware of where he was at the club, but she couldn’t stop her eyes straying. Betraying her.

  There was a vitality to the movements of her fellow dancers tonight. As if a spark flared from one to the other, setting them alight. It was the reports of fatalities that caused it, all that violent and tragic death. For those who had to stand on the sidelines and watch, their only weapon was to fight back with gritted determination to make life go on as normal. To show that the music and dancing proved they would live forever.

  “Looking for someone, Ella?”

  It was the Duke of Windsor.

  “No, not at all.” Ella gave the ex–King of England a bright smile as she danced with him. “Just thinking too much about the aircrews here.”

  They both glanced around at the uniforms surrounding them, wrapping girls in their arms as if for the last time.

  “Well, my dear, you’ve done them proud again. A pat on the back for you is well deserved.” With a laugh he patted her back.

  “Thank you.”

  The band broke out into “Chattanooga Choo Choo” and the tempo on the floor picked up. The duke was a fine dancer, moving well despite his small stature, a smooth slight man who prided himself on his charm. Immensely vain, in Ella’s opinion. He lavished no end of care and expense on his personal appearance, his suits all top-quality Savile Row, the waist of his jackets set especially high to elongate his silhouette.

  She’d admit that at forty-nine, tanned and trim, he was still good-looking in a boyish sort of way with his soft blond hair swept back. But there was a petulance around his mouth,
a pettiness. And a sadness in his large blue eyes that was sometimes so intense that she could scarcely bear to look at him. Yet he had everything—an attentive wife, wealth, status, an important job, good health—the whole works, for heaven’s sake. Yet he regarded himself as hard done by. Always greedy for more. Poor Reggie would rather sew his lips together than breathe a disloyal word against a member of the royal family, but when he returned home tense and frustrated some evenings, Ella knew exactly who to blame. But she was being good. Dancing. Smiling. Asking no favors. Reggie would be pleased with her.

  “Is Sir Harry not here tonight?” she inquired casually.

  Sir Harry Oakes and the duke were frequent golfing partners.

  “No, he’s a touch under the weather, or so he claims.” The duke chuckled to himself, deep lines sprouting around his eyes. “More a case of the cat’s away, so the mouse will play. If you take my meaning.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. His wife and daughter are over in America.”

  The thing about the duke was that as governor, he was remarkably well informed and liked to keep up with all the latest gossip. Ella arranged her face into a sympathetic smile.

  “You must have had a busy week, sir. A bit of a headache, what with the murder and the labor unrest.”

  “Ah, don’t remind me, my dear.”

  He spun Ella around the dance floor, as if to demonstrate the giddiness of his week. She passed close to a set of broad shoulders that towered over the duke and for a second her breath hitched in her throat. But they were the wrong shoulders.

  “Anything new on the ghastly murder?” Ella asked.

  “It’s a damnable business. Such a ballyhoo, but they have turned up nothing on the unfortunate fellow yet.”

  Unfortunate. Was that the word for him?

  “The police are searching high and low,” the duke continued, “for his wallet. They are convinced he must have had one. Colonel Lindop tells me that he believes someone stole it on the night of the murder and that they will find it eventually. He’s a good chap, I’m sure he’s right.”