Queen's Pawn

by Victor Canning

  His hand came out and held hers across the table. ‘You won’t regret it. Now let’s forget about it and enjoy ourselves. I’ll tell you what we want later.’

  That night, lying in bed with him, she listened to him talk, the darkness, and his words all fantasy, each sentence from him, unopposed by her, committing her deeper and deeper. He was telling her now what he needed to know. So much about Sarling and his houses, so much detail … on and on. For God’s sake why did he want to know about clothes? Two nasty grey-black tweeds, the colour of wet granite pavements, two dark grey flannel, smooth, unmarked slate. Taking it all in, she added her own commentary, marking things unlisted as though it were a game, played in the mind, to see who could go on longest … What about his bowel movements, regularity or otherwise of and duration? Toothpaste used and colour of brush. Dressing and undressing programme, shoes then trousers and then socks, or did socks follow shoes and then trousers. And a flipping camera, not to be hidden between her tits or under her girdle … you never knew, Belle, when some bastard’s hands would stray … Nor in any body orifice, the word coming to her memory-shed from some article on natives and diamond smuggling … And she going round Meon and Park Street like a five-bob stately homes tourist, snapping and gawking. Click, an angled view of bed and sidetable with drinking carafe, sleeping pills and the unopened Bible; click, a badly focused shot of the study carpet, a chocolate brown spread with one single white line all the way round, six inches from the sides … For Pete’s sake, it was a game. It had to be a game, lying here in the dark, right after making a woman of her, and still doing it, his passionless but now possessive hand moving over her, the sliding touch keeping the lines of communication open. A game. All these bloody men played games. No matter how serious it was they made a game of it, a serious game, but a game. Stamp out Sarling—colourfully boxed, any number from three upwards can play. Shake dice and collect your clues and rewards and the first one to complete the murder kit got the pleasure of shooting, stabbing, poisoning, strangling or just with fingertip upsetting the man on the parapet so that he went spinning and cart-wheeling down. After the smash on the pavement, a shuffle of chairs and then, ‘ Well, what do we do now? Monopoly or have a drink and just chat?’

  Raikes beside her said, ‘Are you taking all this in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was his cool voice, county to her, cool, sure, and full of that security which she knew she would never have, evenly accented with the right to enter, speak, demand and question, anywhere, anytime and anyone. Right against the grain of all he was saying, she told herself ‘All I want is to love and be loved.’ Didn’t he know that? Even if he didn’t, wasn’t there a kind of magic in the wish itself which had to work itself into him? Love was a habit. She was full of it; surely some of it would rub off on him, grow on him?

  He said, ‘ The one thing, Belle, that can’t be risked, is to give him any idea that you’re doing this. It could lead to hell for both of us.’

  ‘I understand.’ That was her secretary’s voice, notebook closing, rising to her feet, one hand sweeping the lapcrease from her skirt, spoken deliberately because his hands had momentarily left her and she knew the deadly seriousness in him.

  To the darkness above him, he said, ‘He’s got to go. Clean out of this bloody world with a doctor’s certificate as a safe conduct—for us.’ Then to her, a hand coming back, ‘Almost everything depends on you.’

  The hand eased her round to him, her face feeling his face close in the dark. ‘I’m putting myself in your hands. If you wanted to, you could betray me and still be safe yourself. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t like you to say it.’

  ‘I never will again.’

  Then, from some impudent malice in her, she said, ‘And what happens when it’s all over? I mean, to me and to you?’

  Without hesitation, without any break in the flow of his hands which were heralding the rise of desire again in her and in him, he said, ‘We can talk about that when we’re out of trouble and free.’

  And, while she moved to him, ready and longing to be used, she told herself that she had asked for it and got it, got exactly what she knew she would get. The meeting was adjourned sine die.

  Chapter Six

  After a few days of being fully committed to Raikes, there was no nervousness in her, no anxiety about making any mistake that would betray her or Raikes to Sarling. She had insisted on two Minox cameras to avoid the necessity of having to travel a single camera between Park Street and Meon Park. All those journeys were usually done in company with Sarling. She knew him well enough to appreciate that had he any suspicion of her he was capable of stopping the car en route and stripping her. The presence of the chauffeur would mean nothing to him.

  When she wasn’t using the cameras they were kept well hidden. The one at Meon Park was in her room, Scotch-taged to the inside of the marble crosspiece of the never-used fireplace. At Park Street the other was hidden; taped too, to the inside of the detachable cover of her electric Olympia typewriter in the small office she had adjoining Sarling’s study.

  Over two weeks she photographed, checked the details which Raikes had asked for, drew plans of both houses, and laid out time-tables of the daily routines of servants and also Sarling’s routines when at either place. She would wait until she was in Mount Street before she committed anything to paper and then it was no more than was absolutely necessary. In addition to her own natural competence and caution, she had now, to reinforce it, her desire to do this job immaculately in order to gain Raikes’ pleasure and esteem. Committed to him, she was drawn even closer to him and began to imagine something of the same response in him. Quite apart from their love-making, he seemed to have admitted her into a more intimate relationship … serious always about the job in hand, but affectionate, reaching to small vulgarities and jokes, the casual signals of a new understanding. Standing at his side sometimes while he sat in a chair, going over some detail with him, he would slide his hand up her leg and caress her with absent-minded, habit-born, naturalness of— so she felt—a couple perfectly integrated and content with one another. In these weeks she enjoyed a form of happiness unknown before.

  One evening in the Mount Street flat, Raikes said to her, ‘ Describe for me again Sarling’s study at Park Street.’ He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, listening to her. She’d done it before more than once and as she did it again, he could see the room. Up the stairs to the first floor landing, study door on the right, Sarling’s bedroom door to the left. Study door, panelled oak, brass fittings highly polished. Inside, the study panelled in the same wood, brown carpet with a running white line round it. Windows in the far wall overlooking a small yard and garden, each window alarmed and burglar proof. Sarling’s desk in the window—a Chippendale period maghogany desk with cock-beaded drawers and carved gilt handles (this from Berners after he had studied one of Belle’s photographs)—and on the right-hand wall a mahogany breakfront bookcase. Then the door into Belle’s office. He could have walked around it in the dark.… The tall, walnut-cased grandfather clock in the left corner from the main door, a walnut bureau over against the left-hand wall and the centre table, the armchair and two occasional chairs, the two pictures on the wall spaces, one a Stubbs of a groom holding a black mare, the other a portrait in oils of Sarling by Graham Sutherland and, dead centre in the left-hand wall, the oak door that led to the strong room.

  Raikes said, ‘All right. Give me the routine when Sarling wants to go into the strong room.’

  ‘I’ve done this before.’

  ‘Do it again.’ His voice was almost sharp. ‘ Shut your eyes and go over it and try to remember everything he does … normally, that is.’

  ‘Well, he tells me he wants to go into the strong room. That means he wants me to go into my office until he has the door open.’

  ‘The ordinary oak door?’

  ‘No. The door behind that, the strong-room door.’

 
; ‘The oak door is locked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you go into your office. Do you shut the door?’

  ‘I used to at first. But often now I leave it half open.’

  ‘You’ve seen him go up to the strong-room door?’

  ‘Once or twice. And don’t ask me what the door looks like. You’ve got the photograph.’

  That was the trouble. They had photographs of the door, the one in Mount Street and the one at Meon, and they were both the same. There was no combination dial, no handles, no locks, nothing except the great rectangle of steel and three-quarters of the way up on the left outer edge a brass square plate, a six-inch square of metal.

  ‘His back’s to you but can you see what he does?’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t fiddle with keys or anything like that. He just puts up his hand and slides that brass square back.’

  ‘Which hand?’

  ‘Well, the right, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t suppose. Shut your eyes and see it. Which hand?’

  ‘The right.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The door opens.’

  ‘But you know it doesn’t. You’ve, slid the brass plate back yourself and nothing happens.’

  It was true, she had, on his instructions only a week before. Behind the brass plate in the six-inch recess there was nothing except a plain facing of metal, not steel, but some kind of chromium, highly polished. The pressure of her fingers had also slid this back to reveal the unmarked steel of the door behind. After a few seconds this inner plate had returned to its original position, probably activated by some hidden spring, she thought.

  ‘Well, he must slide the inner plate over, too. But I did that, you know. Then it just came back.’

  ‘I know. Go up to the wall, pretend it’s the door and go through the motions. His motions. Just let yourself be him, be what you’ve seen.’

  Obediently, she did as he said; moving up to the wall, imagining Sarling as she had once or twice seen him from behind.

  Raikes said, ‘When he walks up, does he feel in his pockets for anything … keys, anything?’

  ‘No. He just puts up a hand like this.’ She immersed herself in Sarling, was him, translating herself into the memory of the man’s movements, and she went right through the performance.… Slide the brass plate over, and then the chromium one. She finished the mime.

  From behind her, he said, ‘Do it again.’

  She went through the performance again.

  ‘All right.’

  She turned, to find him looking pleased and she knew something had happened.

  ‘What did I do?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No. Well, just what he did, I suppose. But I’ve gone through all this—’

  ‘Not before you haven’t. Not this way. You made yourself into Sarling. That was good. And you put up your right hand to slide over the brass plate. But when you pretended to slide over the plate beneath, do you know what you did?’

  ‘Just slid it over.’

  ‘You slid it over with your left hand.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘God knows. But it’s something to work on. Why not just slide it over with your right hand? It’s raised, ready for action. But he puts up his left hand.’

  He moved over to get a drink, his face thoughtful. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Try and watch him the next time he opens the door. Watch his left hand. It should be in your view. I want to know exactly what he does. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ she laughed, glad that he was pleased, glad that somehow she had produced something he wanted ‘—you could ask him yourself. He’s coming to see you tomorrow. He asked me to tell you today. Just before lunch tomorrow. Here.’

  To her surprise, he ignored her joke, saying, ‘Now, tell me the sequence right through from when he pushes that second plate over. The steel door slides back into the right-hand wall, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When he comes out, what happens? How does he close it?’

  ‘I’ve told you. There’s a kind of bell-push thing in the wall outside the door. He just pushes it and the door comes sliding back into place. And don’t ask me if I’ve tried pushing the thing when the door’s shut. I have. And nothing happens. What about a drink for me?’ This was the familiar, intimate, gentle bullying she could claim now.

  He began to mix her a drink and said, ‘ The procedure at Meon is the same?’

  ‘Exactly. Only his study is different. But he opens the strong-room door just the same.’ She took her drink from him. ‘Personally I don’t see how you’re ever going to get into either strong room. Why don’t you just play along with him until you’ve done whatever it is he wants? He’ll never bother you again. He’s given his word.’

  He said, angrily, ‘The bastard’s got to go! He’s got to go if either of us is ever going to have any peace. Can’t you understand? Sarling isn’t going to let go. Do one thing for him and then there’ll be another and another. Oh, he may give you a break in between, but not for long. He likes owning people and using them. Well, he’s not bloody well using me!’

  He came over and put an arm around her shoulder, the fingers tightening and crooking against her flesh. She had the feeling of everything in her of love and longing being drawn out, drained from her to him. She moved hard against him, seeking him, wanting to rouse him. He kissed her between the top of her jaw and her ear, then turned from her and said, ‘Two other points. If he were at Park Street or Meon, late at night, would it be unusual for him to make a change of mind suddenly and decide to motor up to or down from London? Out of the blue?’

  ‘No. He’s like all rich men are. Changeable. Suddenly wanting something quite different. Not caring a damn what trouble it puts people to. He’d leave London at midnight … sometimes without telephoning ahead to Meon. I’ve known him even start to make a late journey like that and then change his mind halfway.’

  ‘Would he always be chauffeur-driven?’

  ‘Not always. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to drive him. Either in the Rolls, or my car, or one of the others.’

  Later, in bed, satisfied, Raikes sleeping heavily alongside her, as she stared into the darkness she could hear him saying, his voice bitter and angry, ‘He likes owning people and using them.’ But it was true of him, too. Whatever he had thought of her originally, no matter how much their present relationship had been forced on him, he was now at the point when he liked owning and using her. She belonged to him now in a way that Sarling had never possessed her. He and Berners were going to murder Sarling. They were going to set themselves free. That would be freeing her, too. When she had freedom? What then? Would he still want to own her? She had enough common sense to realize that he would never marry her. He had a life down in Devon. There had to be—or would be eventually—someone down there who would become his wife. Well, so what? He wasn’t the kind of man a wife would satisfy completely, surely? She could have him still. He would want her, want some part of his life to be hers. Like Sarling, he wouldn’t give anything he owned away. He might not use it for weeks, months, but he would never give it away.

  Sarling sat in an armchair by the window, his legs wide apart, his body thrust forward, hands resting on the top of his walking stick. Sometimes he lowered his square, blunt, ugly head until his chin rested on the knuckles of one hand, a gargoyle pose, fixing Raikes with his brown eyes, the lemon sunlight through the window rinsing through the greyfluff of his hair.

  Raikes, after a few minutes, had seen that Sarling was in a completely different mood from any he had known before. He was easy, confidential, talking as though they were boon companions.

  Sarling said, ‘ I was the seventh son of a seventh son. Maybe that should mean something.’

  ‘In Devon it means that such a man has the power to charm fish, but if he ever kills one then the power is lost.’

  ‘Intere
sting. Four of the other sons died before they were twenty. I left home when I was sixteen and I’ve never been back. It was a small village in Huntingdonshire. This’—he let one hand flow contemptuously down the stubby length of his body—‘I got from a runt of a father and a scarecrow of a mother who’d had all the juice sucked out of her by my six brothers. And this’—he touched his face—‘happened when I was twenty-one. I’d made my first fifty, thousand. I celebrated with drink and a beautiful titled woman I wanted—who cost me five hundred pounds before she would even go through the bedroom door. She left a cigarette burning on top of a box of matches on the dressing table, and the room caught fire. I woke up thinking I was in hell, literally in a bed of flames. Since that time I’ve never touched alcohol or tobacco. Surgeons played about with my face for years. They produced a grotesque. I’ve been living with him ever since, grown fond of him, and wanted to do everything I could for him. You know why I tell you this?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be trying to get sympathy, would you?’

  ‘From you?’ Sarling laughed.

  ‘Perhaps you’re trying to justify yourself with me. That also would be a waste of time.’

  ‘Would it? A psychoanalyst would assure you that the rest of my life since this’—he put his fingers against his face—‘has been no more than a compensation for being small of body and ugly to look at. Frankly that is all nonsense. The only thing that happened to me at twenty-one was that my face got mucked up and I learned that life was better without drink or smoke. If we could change bodies, I would be sitting here still, telling you about myself, the truth about myself.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That any ordinary way of living bores me and leaves me dissatisfied. I’m a gambler. I have to put myself and my ideas at risk in order to feel that I am alive. After you’ve made your first fifty thousand you have to be an idiot not to have a million in ten years and all without stepping outside the law. I did that and it wasn’t enough. So, every so often, I began to step outside the law. I put myself at risk in all sorts of ways and I got satisfaction and I got money. In a way I’m like a man who has a compulsion he doesn’t understand to expose himself in public every so often. With me—well, each time I want to take bigger risks. This time it’s going to be an audacious risk. That’s why I need you. One which in years to come—when we are both dead—will make us both legends—if the truth is ever known.’