The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘Making friends,’ Charlie said pleasantly, and flicked open a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Then make them somewhere else.’

  The cigarette packet was offered to him, the dollar bills protruding invitingly.

  The chauffeur’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s your game?’

  Charlie nodded in the direction of New York’s most exclusive apartment block. ‘Does Mrs O’Shaughnessy visit here regularly?’

  The chauffeur smiled craftily and made no move towards the dollar bills. These guys made thousands out of jealous husbands and he was supposed to part with information for the price of a bottle of bourbon.

  Charlie saw the expression and interpreted it correctly. He grinned.

  ‘This is only for openers. If you tell me what I want to know the pay-off will be in the hundreds.’

  ‘Peanuts,’ the chauffeur said derisively.

  Charlie shrugged and pocketed his cigarettes. ‘Perhaps so, but the gentleman in question doesn’t think the situation warrants more.’

  He pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears as protection against the biting wind. ‘Nice talking to you,’ he said and walked briskly back to the Ford.

  The chauffeur watched him through his driving mirror. Charlie slammed the car door shut behind him, revved the engine, and with a laconic wave did a three-point turn and began to motor speedily in the opposite direction.

  The chauffeur glanced nervously at the glass-fronted entrance. There was no sign of Mrs O’Shaughnessy. Decisively, he turned the key in the ignition and swung the car round after Charlie.

  Charlie saw him and grinned. He would have liked to have given the greedy son-of-a-bitch a run for his money, but it was cold and the sooner he had the information he wanted, the better.

  He pulled over and waited. He was damned if he was going to freeze to death again. The chauffeur had as little liking for the elements as Charlie and, uninvited, he opened the passenger door and slid in beside him.

  ‘It’s worth at least a thousand dollars.’

  ‘Then take it to someone who’ll pay that price,’ Charlie said disinterestedly.

  ‘The husband’s a mayor, isn’t he? It must be worth that price.’

  ‘Retiring,’ Charlie lied.

  ‘She’s giving him a real runaround. You won’t get the information anywhere else. What about eight hundred dollars?’

  ‘Five hundred. It’s for curiosity only, not divorce. I’ve strict instructions not to pay one cent over five hundred.’

  ‘Bog Irish,’ the chauffeur said disgustedly, and held out his hand.

  Charlie regarded him pityingly. ‘After the information, old son. I’m not paying five hundred dollars to discover Mrs O’Shaughnessy visits her hairdresser twice a week.’

  ‘He’s no bloody hairdresser.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Charlie swore silently. ‘If I knew, sonny boy, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you and paying for the pleasure.’

  ‘Ramon Sanford,’ the chauffeur said. ‘He’s as active as a tom cat. She isn’t the only one.’

  ‘I’m not interested in the others.’ It was all Charlie could do to keep his voice steady. For Christ’s sake, of all the men in New York the stupid little bitch had to light on a Sanford! Charlie’s last assignment for Chips had concerned a Sanford. It hadn’t been a pleasant one and Charlie was still trying to forget it.

  ‘Give me some dates and times,’ he said mechanically. Was it possible that Sanford had made a beeline for Gloria O’Shaughnessy on purpose? Did he know? Sweat broke out on Charlie’s forehead.

  ‘He was at Mrs O’Shaughnessy’s hotel suite yesterday – midday. She stayed over here the nights of the fifteenth and sixteenth. On the seventeenth the doorman said it was a real stunner. He’s too tight-lipped to give names, but some dollar bills might make him talkative.’

  ‘I’m not interested in a list a mile long,’ Charlie said brusquely. ‘Anyone else who can corroborate what you say?’

  ‘Like I said, the doorman. Sanford has a valet up there, but I doubt if you’ll get anything from him.’

  Charlie did as well. Sanford staff fell into the category of old family retainers. He handed the money over and the chauffeur grinned and tucked it into his breast pocket.

  ‘Has there been anyone else apart from Sanford?’ Charlie asked, almost as an afterthought. The shock of the Sanford name had robbed him of his usual efficiency.

  ‘No all-nighters, though Mrs O’Shaughnessy likes to enjoy herself and who can blame her, married to a man of seventy.’

  ‘Sixty-nine,’ Charlie amended, and lit a cigarette. It was no longer just a case of surveillance to give Chips the upper hand where his pretty young wife was concerned. There could be far more to it than that and, if there was, then he himself would be deeply involved.

  He was hardly aware of the chauffeur’s jaunty departure. Ramon Sanford and Gloria O’Shaughnessy. Was it coincidence or something far more sinister? Whatever it was, he was going to find out a lot more about it before he returned to Boston.

  Chips left City Hall at midday and led his cavalcade down to the docks. The fishermens’vote could usually be counted on and Chips was courting it assiduously. At two o’clock he was breezing through the city’s largest hospital and at four o’clock he was addressing an open-air meeting in the North End. He returned to his Beacon Hill home at six-thirty in fine fettle for the evening rally and was exuberantly pleased to find his wife waiting for him.

  ‘I suppose Newport and Palm Beach won’t be enough for you now the Winthrops have bought a villa at Cap Ferrat,’ he said, vigorously soaping himself down as he sat in his bath, a cigar firmly wedged between his teeth.

  Gloria paused from the delicate task of plucking her eyebrows into non-existence. ‘I do like the Riviera,’ she said, reflecting that Ramon spent most of his time in Europe. The Riviera was within easy access of Paris and London: and Portugal and Madeira. She put down her tweezers and walked through the partitioned dressing room and into Chips’bathroom.

  ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying,’ Chips said, throwing water over his back like a water buffalo.

  ‘I said I do like the Riviera and a house there would be nice.’

  ‘And how would I keep my eye on you with the Atlantic between us?’ Chips asked good-humouredly. ‘It’s bad enough wondering what you’re up to in New York.’

  Beneath her rouge Gloria was unusually pale. Chips was too busy anticipating the evening ahead to notice. She leant forward and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘Silly thing,’ she murmured, and was glad he could not see the expression in her eyes.

  Chips tossed his cigar into a giant ashtray on the bathside and squeezed her breasts. Sean Flynn could keep his hot cocoa; he had married Gloria for expediency but it was turning out to be far more of a success than he had envisaged.

  ‘Put your glad rags on and let’s shake our tailfeathers,’ he said, stepping out of the bath and reaching for an outsize towel. Despite herself Gloria giggled. Chips’opponents and detractors were always pointing out that he was second generation Irish and had no breeding whatsoever. Chips had not been even slightly offended. He had worked hard at being second generation Irish and had carefully cultivated his image of outrageous flamboyance. From an early age he had been aware that political power for an Irish Catholic lay in the Catholic vote. Instead of putting his background behind him as speedily as possible, he had capitalized on it.

  He was the only person she could truly relax with. He knew her background and didn’t give a damn about it. She wished she could feel so at ease with Ramon.

  ‘Did you see Nancy while you were in town?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know she was there.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference if you had?’ He was zipping her into her frock and enjoying the sight of her supple spine. His first wife had always been heavily corsete
d and the sight of Gloria’s nearly naked body slipping into silks and satins never failed to arouse him.

  ‘Of course it would,’ Gloria tried to sound indignant and failed.

  Chips laughed. ‘Why the hell you two can’t like each other more, I’ll never know. Come on. I can hear half the town waiting for us downstairs.’

  ‘They’d better not be,’ Gloria said with a spark of gutsy humour, ‘or Faneuil Hall will be half empty!’

  Chips roared with laughter, slapped his wife lightly on the bottom and went down to meet his supporters.

  Faneuil Hall was packed to capacity. The cheers were deafening as Chips and Gloria mounted the platform. Gloria blew lavish kisses and the crowd went wild. Chips was ebullient. Gloria was the best vote-puller he had ever had. Brought up without a political thought in her head, she had become a dedicated Democrat with consummate ease. There were even times when Chips thought his fluffy-haired wife was more naturally political than his daughter.

  Nancy had been steeped in politics since babyhood. He had carried her around the hustings on his shoulder before she was old enough to walk. As a little girl she had handed out prizes and received bouquets. He had involved her in every political decision he had made, discussing ideas with her that she could barely understand. He had seen to it that she had met and spoken freely with all the well-known figures he had come into contact with. There had been no dismissal to the nursery for Nancy. At eight years old she had sat at dinner parties attended by men who were shaping world events. He had been preparing her to fulfil a dream he hadn’t dared put into words, even to himself. He was a young man and he was mayor of one of America’s greatest cities. He wanted to be more, much more. And when he arrived there he wanted Nancy to be at his side. It was a dream that Duarte Sanford had crushed with bitter finality.

  Ten years later it had sparked into life again when Nancy had married Jack Cameron. If he could never occupy the White House, there was still a possibility that his daughter could.

  With that hope had come bitter dissatisfaction at his own thwarted ambitions. The dissatisfaction had lurked until he had met Charlie Daubenay and taken fate into his own hands. He hadn’t regretted it. He never took any action that wasn’t perfectly justifiable in his own eyes. Only occasionally did he remember the past; as when he had opened the newspapers and seen the familiar dark eyes and satanic brows of Sanford’s son.

  It was far from his mind now as he stepped up to the microphone and began to preach to the converted.

  Gloria sat bathed in a spotlight, showing enough leg to arouse envy in the bosom of Chips’band of political guerillas who had choice front seats. She didn’t hear a word her husband said, but her fixed smile parted in laughter at appropriate moments. Flashbulbs popped and she knew the morning press would carry reports on how vivacious young Mrs O’Shaughnessy was out campaigning with her veteran husband.

  She had to tell him about herself and Ramon and she had no courage to do so. There was applause and cries of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’; then the band struck up and Chips, a wide beam on his face, started the singing of ‘The Wearing of the Green’.

  All the way home she tried to phrase the right words and failed. Chips hummed happily, helping himself to a large slice of cheesecake the minute they entered the house, and carrying a bottle of Irish whiskey up to the bedroom with him.

  Gloria removed her diamond earclips and two broad silver bracelets that had hidden the bruises on her wrists. She undressed hurriedly and slipped on a loose-sleeved negligée as Chips strolled from his bedroom into hers.

  ‘It was a good evening,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Not one single catcall.’

  ‘I should hope not.’ Chips poured two large measures of whiskey into squat tumblers. ‘Tonight was a vote clincher, not a vote catcher. The Back Bay set will be a very different proposition.’

  ‘But you’ve no real opposition, have you?’ She slipped into bed, her hands hidden beneath the rose-scented sheets.

  Chips swallowed his whiskey, his eyes thoughtful. ‘There’s old Monihan. Any man who has been mayor before is always a danger.’

  ‘And disadvantaged,’ Gloria said. He looked like an ageing lion, his mane of steel-grey hair springing back from his forehead in thick, dense waves.

  ‘After all, people will remember what he didn’t do, as well as what he did.’

  Chips grinned and slid his empty tumbler across the glass-topped surface of Gloria’s dressing table. ‘That goes for all mayors, me included.’

  ‘You’ve carried out your election promises. Who else is there for you to worry about?’

  ‘Not the Republicans, that’s for sure.’

  She laughed. She was beginning to feel better already. Chips always had that effect on her.

  ‘My old enemies are clanning together and supporting a new candidate. His face is as bland as a baby’s bottom. He’ll get nowhere.’

  He had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Now he leaned towards her, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Talking of bottoms,’ he said and to Gloria’s relief he turned off the light before slipping his square, capable hands down beneath the sheets.

  The next morning at six o’clock he was eating a breakfast of ham and eggs and preparing for the day ahead. He had municipal business to attend to; two luncheons, a radio broadcast and was booked as principal speaker at three banquets in the evening. It had also occurred to him that Gloria was looking a little peaky and he was toying with the remarkable thought that she might be pregnant.

  His principal advisers were still in bed when Chips made his speedy way to the magnificent pile of bricks and mortar that was City Hall.

  ‘A Mr Daubenay for you on line 2,’ his secretary said shortly after nine o’clock. For the briefest of moments Chips wondered what the devil Charlie wanted, and then he remembered.

  ‘Hello there, Charlie. Earning easy money again?’

  ‘No.’ Charlie’s voice was humourless.

  Chips grinned. Charlie never did like wild goose chases, even when he was paid for them.

  ‘Forget it,’ Chips said easily. ‘I’ll put a cheque in the post. Did you see the Faneuil Hall reports this morning? Gloria’s legs give me more press coverage than Douglas Fairbanks.’ He chuckled.

  Charlie said, ‘Is this line private?’

  Chips stopped smiling. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because what I have to tell you isn’t for anyone else’s ears.’

  Chips’zest ebbed. ‘Out with it, Charlie. I don’t like mysteries.’

  ‘The answer to what you wanted to know is yes, and the name is Sanford. Ramon Sanford.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Charlie asked. ‘I said …’

  ‘I heard you!’

  Charlie flinched physically at the other end of the line.

  ‘Are you still in New York?’

  ‘Yes, I …’

  ‘Then get the hell up here. No more telephone calls. And Charlie …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Make quite, quite sure you’ve got all your facts right.’

  ‘I have, Chips. I swear …’

  Chips didn’t care whether he swore or not. He had slammed the receiver back on to its cradle, and was staring into the middle distance, his body rigid. Sanford. The very name made the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle like the rising hackles of a dog. Sanford. Of all the men in the world Gloria had chosen a Sanford: as Zia had done.

  His big hands clenched and unclenched on the leather-topped surface of his desk. Or had she? Like Charlie, he was immediately suspicious. Perhaps Sanford had done the choosing and if so, why? The answers were numerous and not at all pleasant.

  Very slowly he lifted the telephone receiver. ‘Put me through to my wife,’ he said in a flat, expressionless voice that his secretary barely recognized.

  For forty years he had never let a woman get close enough to him to hurt him. Not his wife, nor the scores of girlfriends both before and after her de
ath. He had regarded Gloria as a pretty toy; something to show off and enjoy. Something to add to his prestige. With bitter surprise he realized she had become something more. He felt suddenly old and painfully cheated as he waited to speak to her …

  Chapter Five

  ‘When will Mr Cameron be returning to the Cape?’ Henry Harding of Harding, Harding and Summers asked, after a pleasant but lengthy day at Ocean View.

  ‘Not for some time.’

  A faint shadow crossed the senior Mr Harding’s face. ‘But I understood you were very anxious to have these formalities completed.’

  ‘I am.’

  The will lay on the table between them.

  ‘Then I’ll see to it that the documents are sent to Mr Cameron by personal delivery and …’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Nancy was unable to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‘It’s my will. Why does Jack have to see it?’

  ‘Well, of course he doesn’t have to,’ Henry blustered. ‘It’s just that he’s always taken a great interest in your business affairs and …’

  ‘My will is of no concern to anyone but myself.’

  ‘But as you haven’t made your husband a beneficiary, then there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be asked for his comments.’ Henry Harding’s voice held a note of pain. In his opinion wives should be obliged to bequeath their estates to their husbands. Children were far too feckless to handle money unless it was sewn up tight in trust funds.

  ‘I wish to sign the will now, Mr Harding,’ Nancy said firmly. ‘My housekeeper and maid can act as witnesses.’

  Mr Harding took off his rimless glasses and polished them furiously. He thought Nancy’s haste extremely unladylike.

  Nancy rang for Mrs Ambrosil and when she entered, said to her, ‘I’d like Maria as well, please.’

  ‘Certainly, madame.’

  Mrs Ambrosil’s sharp eyes had seen the green-ribboned documents on the table and she was filled with anticipation. Mrs Cameron’s financial advisers had been at the house for two days and when they had left Mr Harding had arrived. The conclusion to be drawn, especially with the tell-tale vellum documents on view, was obvious.