The next occasion on which I saw Travers was about a week later on returning from the bank with some petty cash. Once again he was standing in front of the Vuillard oil of mother and daughter at the piano.
“Good morning, Patrick,” I said as I joined him.
“I can’t seem to get that picture out of my mind,” he declared, as he continued to stare at the two figures.
“Understandably.”
“I don’t suppose you would allow me to live with them for a week or two until I can finally make up my mind? Naturally I would be quite happy to leave a deposit.”
“Of course,” I said. “I would require a bank reference as well and the deposit would be twenty-five thousand pounds.”
He agreed to both requests without hesitation so I asked him where he would like the picture delivered. He handed me a card which revealed his address in Eaton Square. The following morning his bankers confirmed that three hundred and seventy thousand pounds would not be a problem for their client.
Within twenty-four hours the Vuillard had been taken round to his home and hung in the dining room on the ground floor. He phoned back in the afternoon to thank me and asked if Caroline and I would care to join him for dinner; he wanted, he said, a second opinion on how the painting looked.
With three hundred and seventy thousand pounds at stake I didn’t feel it was an invitation I could reasonably turn down, and in any case Caroline seemed eager to accept, explaining that she was interested to see what the inside of his flat looked like.
We dined with Travers the following Thursday. It turned out that we were the only guests, and I remember being surprised that there wasn’t a Mrs. Travers or at least a resident girlfriend. He was a thoughtful host and the meal he had arranged was superb. However, I considered at the time that he seemed a little too solicitous with Caroline, although she certainly gave the impression of enjoying his undivided attention. At one point I began to wonder if either of them would have noticed if I had disappeared into thin air.
When we left Eaton Square that night Travers told me that he had almost come to a decision about the picture, which made me feel the evening had served at least some purpose.
Six days later the painting was returned to the gallery with a note attached explaining that he no longer cared for it. Travers did not elaborate on his reasons, but simply ended by saying that he hoped to drop by sometime and reconsider the other Vuillards. Disappointed, I returned his deposit, but realized that customers often do come back, sometimes months, even years later.
But Travers never did.
* * *
It was about a month later that I learned why he would never return. I was lunching at the large center table at my club, as in most all-male establishments the table reserved for members who drift in on their own. Percy Fellows was the next to enter the dining room so he took a seat opposite me. I hadn’t seen him to talk to since the private view of the Vuillard exhibition and we hadn’t really had much of a conversation then. Percy was one of the most respected antique dealers in England and I had once even done a successful barter with him, a Charles II writing desk in exchange for a Dutch landscape by Utrillo.
I repeated how sorry I was to learn about Diana.
“It was always going to end in divorce,” he explained. “She was in and out of every bedroom in London. I was beginning to look a complete cuckold, and that bloody man Travers was the last straw.”
“Travers?” I said, not understanding.
“Patrick Travers, the man named in my divorce petition. Ever come across him?”
“I know the name,” I said hesitantly, wanting to hear more before I admitted to our slight acquaintanceship.
“Funny,” he said. “Could have sworn I saw him at the private view you gave quite recently.”
“But what do you mean, he was the last straw?” I asked, trying to take his mind off the opening.
“Met the bloody fellow at Ascot, didn’t we? Joined us for lunch, happily drank my champagne, ate my strawberries and cream and then before the week was out had bedded my wife. But that’s not the half of it.”
“The half of it?”
“The man had the nerve to come round to my shop and put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he’s had enough time to make love to Diana he returns them both slightly soiled. You don’t look so well, old fellow,” said Percy, leaning across the table. “Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I’ve written to the wine committee about it several times but—”
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need a little fresh air. Please excuse me, Percy.”
It was on the walk back from my club after the conversation with Percy that I decided I would have to do something quite out of character.
* * *
The next morning I waited for the mail to arrive and checked any envelopes addressed to Caroline. Nothing seemed untoward but then I decided that Travers wouldn’t have been foolish enough to commit anything to paper. I also began to eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, but he was not among the callers, at least not while I was at home. I even checked the odometer on her Mini to see if she had driven any long distances, but then Eaton Square isn’t all that far. It’s often what you don’t do that gives the game away, I decided: we didn’t make love for a fortnight, and she didn’t comment.
I continued to watch Caroline more carefully over the next two weeks but it became obvious to me that Travers must have tired of her about the same time as he had returned the Vuillard. That only made me more angry.
I then began to form a plan of revenge that seemed quite extraordinary to me at the time and I assumed that in a matter of days I would get over it, even forget it. But I didn’t. If anything, the idea grew into an obsession. I began to convince myself that it was my bounden duty to do away with Travers before he besmirched any more of my friends.
I have never in my life knowingly broken the law. Parking fines annoy me, dropped litter offends me and I pay my VAT on the same day the frightful buff envelope drops through the letterbox.
Nevertheless once I’d decided what had to be done I set about my task meticulously. At first I had considered shooting Travers until I discovered how hard it is to get a gun license and that if I did the job properly, he would end up feeling very little pain which wasn’t what I had planned for him; then poisoning crossed my mind—but that requires a witnessed prescription and I still wouldn’t be able to watch the long slow death I desired. Then strangling, which I decided would necessitate too much courage—and in any case he was a bigger man than me and I might end up being the one who was strangled. I moved on to drowning, which could take years to get the man near any water and then I might not be able to hang around to make sure he went under for the fourth time. I even gave some thought to running over the damned man, but dropped that idea when I realized opportunity would be almost nil and, besides, I wouldn’t be left any time to check if he was dead. I was quickly becoming aware just how hard it is to kill someone—and get away with it.
I sat awake at night reading the biographies of murderers, but as they had all been caught and found guilty that didn’t fill me with much confidence. I turned to detective novels which always seemed to allow for a degree of coincidence, luck and surprise that I was unwilling to risk, until I came across a rewarding line from Conan Doyle: “Any intended victim who has a regular routine immediately makes himself more vulnerable.” And then I recalled one routine of which Travers was particularly proud. It required a further six-month wait on my part but that also gave me more time to perfect my plan. I used the enforced wait well because whenever Caroline was away for more than twenty-four hours, I booked in for a skiing lesson on the dry slope at Harrow.
I found it surprisingly easy to discover when Travers would be returning to Verbier, and I was able to organize the winter holiday so that our paths would cross for only three days, a period
of time quite sufficient for me to commit my first crime.
* * *
Caroline and I arrived in Verbier on the second Friday in January. She had commented on the state of my nerves more than once over the Christmas period, and hoped the holiday would help me relax. I could hardly explain to her that it was the thought of the holiday that was making me so tense. It didn’t help when she asked me on the plane to Switzerland if I thought Travers might be there this year.
On the first morning after our arrival we took the ski lift up at about ten thirty and, once we had reached the top, Caroline duly reported to Marcel. As she departed with him for the A-slope I returned to the B-slope to work on my own. As always we agreed to meet back on the ski lift or, if we missed each other, at least for lunch.
During the days that followed I went over and over the plan I had perfected in my mind and practiced so diligently at Harrow until I felt sure it was foolproof. By the end of the first week I was ready.
* * *
The night before Travers was due to arrive I was the last to leave the slopes. Even Caroline commented on how much my skiing had improved and she suggested to Marcel that I was ready for the A-slope with its sharper bends and steeper inclines.
“Next year, perhaps,” I told her, trying to make light of it, and returned to the B-slope.
During the final morning I skied over the first mile of the course again and again, and became so preoccupied with my work that I quite forgot to join Caroline for lunch.
In the afternoon I checked and rechecked the placing of every red flag marking the run, and once I was convinced the last skier had left the slope for the evening I collected about thirty of the flags and hid them behind a large fir tree. My final task was to check the prepared patch before building a large mound of snow some twenty paces above the chosen spot. Once my preparations were complete I skied slowly down the mountain in the fading light.
“Are you trying to win an Olympic gold medal or something?” Caroline asked me when I eventually got back to our room. I closed the bathroom door so she couldn’t expect a reply.
Travers checked in to the hotel an hour later.
I waited until the early evening before I joined him at the bar for a drink. He seemed a little nervous when he first saw me, but I quickly put him at ease. His old self-confidence soon returned, which only made me more determined to carry out my plan. I left him at the bar a few minutes before Caroline came down for dinner so that she would not see the two of us together. Innocent surprise would be necessary once the deed had been done.
“Unlike you to eat so little, especially as you missed your lunch,” Caroline commented as we left the dining room that night.
I made no comment as we passed Travers seated at the bar, his hand on the knee of another innocent middle-aged woman.
I did not sleep for one second that night and I crept out of bed just before six the next morning, careful not to wake Caroline. Everything was laid out on the bathroom floor just as I had left it the night before. A few moments later I was dressed and ready. I walked down the back stairs of the hotel, avoiding the lift, and crept out by the “fire exit,” realizing for the first time what a thief must feel like. I had a woolen cap pulled well down over my ears and a pair of snow goggles covering my eyes to ensure that not even Caroline would have recognized me.
I arrived at the bottom of the ski lift forty minutes before it was due to open. As I stood alone behind the little shed that housed the electrical machinery to work the lift I realized that everything now depended on Travers’ sticking to his routine. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it if my plan had to be moved on to the following day. As I waited, I stamped my feet in the freshly fallen snow, and slapped my arms around my chest to keep warm. Every few moments I kept peering round the corner of the building in the hope that I would see him striding toward me. At last a speck appeared at the bottom of the hilt by the side of the road, a pair of skis resting on his shoulders. But what if it didn’t turn out to be Travers?
I stepped out from behind the shed a few moments later to join the warmly wrapped man. It was Travers and he could not hide his surprise at seeing me standing there. I started up a casual conversation about being unable to sleep, and how I thought I might as well put in a few runs before the rush began. Now all I needed was the ski lift to start up on time. A few minutes after seven an engineer arrived and the vast oily mechanism cranked into action.
We were the first two to take our places on those little seats before heading up and over the deep ravine. I kept turning back to check there was still no one else in sight.
“I usually manage to complete a full run even before the second person arrives,” Travers told me when the lift had reached its highest point. I looked back again to be sure we were now well out of sight of the engineer working the lift, then peered down some two hundred feet and wondered what it would be like to land headfirst in the ravine. I began to feel dizzy and wished I hadn’t looked down.
The ski lift jerked slowly on up the icy wire until we finally reached the landing point.
“Damn,” I said, as we jumped off our little seats. “Marcel isn’t here.”
“Never is at this time,” said Travers, making off toward the advanced slope. “Far too early for him.”
“I don’t suppose you would come down with me?” I said, calling after Travers.
He stopped and looked back suspiciously.
“Caroline thinks I’m ready to join you,” I explained, “but I’m not so sure and would value a second opinion. I’ve broken my own record for the B-slope several times, but I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of my wife.”
“Well, I—”
“I’d ask Marcel if he were here. And in any case you’re the best skier I know.”
“Well, if you—” he began.
“Just the once, then you can spend the rest of your holiday on the A-slope. You could even treat the run as a warm-up.”
“Might make a change, I suppose,” he said.
“Just the once,” I repeated. “That’s all I’ll need. Then you’ll be able to tell me if I’m good enough.”
“Shall we make a race of it?” he said, taking me by surprise just as I began clamping on my skis. I couldn’t complain; all the books on murder had warned me to be prepared for the unexpected. “That’s one way we can find out if you’re ready,” he added cockily.
“If you insist. Don’t forget, I’m older and less experienced than you,” I reminded him. I checked my skis quickly because I knew I had to start off in front of him.
“But you know the B-course backward,” he retorted. “I’ve never even seen it before.”
“I’ll agree to a race, but only if you’ll consider a wager,” I replied.
For the first time I could see I had caught his interest. “How much?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing so vulgar as money,” I said. “The winner gets to tell Caroline the truth.”
“The truth?” he said, looking puzzled.
“Yes,” I replied, and shot off down the hill before he could respond. I got a good start as I skied in and out of the red flags, but looking back over my shoulder I could see he had recovered quickly and was already chasing hard after me. I realized that it was vital for me to stay in front of him for the first third of the course, but I could already feel him cutting down my lead.
After half a mile of swerving and driving he shouted, “You’ll have to go a lot faster than that if you hope to beat me.” His arrogant boast only pushed me to stay ahead but I kept the lead only because of my advantage of knowing every twist and turn during that first mile. Once I was sure that I would reach the vital slope before he could I began to relax. After all, I had practiced over the next stretch fifty times a day for the last ten days, but I was only too aware that this time was the only one that mattered.
I glanced over my shoulder to see that he was now only a hundred feet behind me. I began to slow slightly as we approached the prepare
d ice patch, hoping he wouldn’t notice or would think I’d lost my nerve. I held back even more when I reached the top of the patch until I could almost feel the sound of his breathing. Then, quite suddenly the moment before I would have hit the ice I plowed my skis and came to a complete halt in the mound of snow I had built the previous night. Travers sailed past me at about forty miles an hour, and seconds later flew high into the air over the ravine with a scream I will never forget. I couldn’t get myself to look over the edge as I knew he must have broken every bone in his body the moment he hit the snow some hundred feet below.
I carefully leveled the mound of snow that had saved my life and then clambered back up the mountain as fast as I could go until I reached a large group of fir trees. I grabbed the red flags that I had hidden behind one of them the night before. Then I skied from side to side replacing them in their correct positions on the B-slope, some three hundred feet above my carefully prepared ice patch. Once each one was back in place I skied on down the hill, feeling like an Olympic champion. When I reached the base of the slope I pulled up my hood to cover my head and didn’t remove my snow goggles. I unstrapped my skis and walked casually toward the hotel. I reentered the building by the back door and was back in bed by seven forty.
I tried to control my breathing but it was some time before my pulse had returned to normal. Caroline woke a few minutes later, turned over and put her arms around me.
“Ugh,” she said, “you’re frozen. Have you been sleeping without the covers on?”
I laughed. “You must have pulled them off during the night.”
“Go and have a hot bath.”
After I had had a quick bath we made love and I dressed a second time, double checking that I had left no clues of my early flight before going down to breakfast.
As Caroline was pouring my second cup of coffee, I heard the ambulance siren coming from the town and then later returning.
“Hope it wasn’t a bad accident,” my wife said, as she continued to pour her coffee.
A Twist in the Tale Page 15
