It was immense: two stories high, and shaped like an L, with the short arm cantilevered out over a sloping landscaped hill overlooking Menton and the sea. The short arm was only single-story, and comprised the living room, with the terrace right alongside; at right angles was the long arm, two floors of bedrooms, a dining room, and probably a study as well. Carr’s room was on the second floor, near the bend in the L.
The whole building was constructed from glass and metal, and he could see why it was called Le Scalpel—inside and out, it was sharp, clean, bare, and smooth. The unsparing, almost harsh quality of the lines was broken by the occasional use of bricks to add texture, and the low stone walls which ran around the house, screening it from the view of anyone on the drive.
Carr thought it was the perfect house for Liseau, a direct statement of his personality. He wondered if the doctor had designed it himself.
Still curious, he wandered down the drive. He didn’t get far before he saw the guard at the gate, sitting on the grass just inside the fence, playing idly with his gun. Carr’s gaze shifted to the fence. It was heavy iron, seven feet high, and laced with barbed wire. It took a careful eye to detect the small insulators, painted dull black like the rest of the fence. Probably they did not carry a large charge—just enough to stun a man…
But why bother? He was safe, for the moment, and reasonably comfortable. Roll with the punches, he told himself, and play it cool. He walked back to explore the grounds.
The villa seemed to be surrounded by at least twenty or thirty acres, most of it wooded. For about a hundred yards around the house in each direction the trees had been thinned, and lawns, shrubs, and flowers planted. It was a pleasing arrangement—and one which made it impossible for an intruder to approach the house without detection.
Abruptly he came upon a swimming pool. There was nobody about; the still water looked cool and inviting. He was about to strip down and go in when he remembered his nose and decided against it. Instead, he sat down on a wooden chair which stood beside an umbrella-shaded table at the edge of the pool. He lit a cigarette, and his glance fell on a telephone resting on the pool deck. The cord led off into the woods. Intrigued, he picked up the receiver.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hello?”
“May I be of service?” It was the maid; he recognized her voice now.
“No, I was just curious about the phone. Sorry.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Now, that was an idea, he thought. “As a matter of fact, yes. Vodka and lime will be fine.”
“Immediately, sir.”
Carr sighed. This might not be so bad, after all. He sat back in his chair and smoked. Roll with the punches—that was the answer to everything.
The maid came, bringing, to his amazement, a bottle of vodka, four limes, ice, a pitcher, and two glasses. “Dr. Liseau prefers his guests to mix their own,” she said. She had an interesting way of standing that was both stiffly formal and lasciviously inviting at the same time. “That way,” she said, “the guests are most satisfied.”
“I’m sure,” Carr said, “but why two glasses?”
“I thought you might be with Miss Crittenden,” the maid said. She seemed pleased that he was not. “Shall I take it back?”
“No, leave it, thanks.” The maid left, giving him a view of her mobile behind. He mixed up a stiff batch of drinks, telling himself it would dull the pain in his nose, which had begun to ache. He had forgotten the pills in his room. He poured himself a glass and sipped it experimentally. Sweet. He added more vodka, upending the bottle and listening to it glug-glug out. No point in being delicate.
“That’s it, bottom’s up,” a woman’s voice said.
Startled, he looked across the pool.
It was Anne.
Chapter XVIII
SHE WORE TIGHT WHITE slacks and a loose-fitting purple print blouse. Her hair was piled carelessly on her head; in one hand she held a large beach towel.
“Well, if it isn’t Delilah.”
“Do you always flatter yourself when you insult other people?”
Carr said nothing, but poured her a drink and gestured to a chair.
“Not speaking to me?”
“Oh, yes, I’m speaking to you,” Carr said. “And you’re going to speak to me. There are a few things you’re going to explain.”
She took the drink. “You won’t like it.”
“I couldn’t like it any less than I do already.”
She bit her lip, then said, “All right. I’ve known Liseau for two years.”
“Good friends, I’ll bet.”
“No—not for almost a year. I met him about eighteen months after my marriage broke up. It was a bad time for me until he came along, and I liked him. I thought he was cultivated and interesting, and I was attracted by his strength. My husband was a terrible weakling. Anyway, we started living together shortly after he built this house. It was months before I began to realize he was more than just a prosperous doctor.” She paused and looked at Carr, as if for approval.
“Go on.”
“Well, every few weeks, strange men would visit him. I’d notice lots of cars in the drive when I came back from the casino. On those nights, I was always told to stay in my room. The first few times, it just seemed odd to me. Later, it became different—sinister, and frightening. About that time, he and I stopped getting along.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?”
“I planned to. Then, one night I heard a noise outside my bedroom, which is on the first floor. I got up and looked out the window, and saw him with two other men, dragging something. At first I thought it must be a sack, or a trunk. Then I saw it wasn’t.”
She picked up her glass, and put it down again without drinking, and rushed on. “I was wearing a white nightgown, and I guess he must have looked back and seen me standing at the window. The next day I told him I wanted to call it off and move out, but he just said in that calm voice of his that I had better stay awhile. I was afraid, and I’ve been afraid ever since.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you just buy a plane ticket and leave? He gives you freedom during the day, doesn’t he?”
Her lower lip quivered. “Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting.”
“You don’t understand anything. You don’t know what kind of man he is. He has me followed, all the time. Sometimes I know it, sometimes I only suspect it. Some days, I suppose, he doesn’t even bother—he doesn’t have to. When he calls me in and asks me what I’ve been doing, I always tell him.”
“Did you tell him you’d met me? Or did he send you off especially to get me?”
Her voice was low and sad. “No. He knew I had met you on the beach that day. Until then it was an accident. Then he told me yesterday to spend the day with you. And last night, I got a note at the casino.” Her voice was so low he could barely hear. “Saying to bring you here.”
“So you did.”
“I didn’t want to,” she said. “I had to, I was afraid. I was sure they were going to kill you, like that man they dragged out. I tried to warn you at the gate—then I could have told him you were mad at me, and had refused to drive me in. But you were so damned stubborn. You fell right into it.” A tear rolled softly down her face, and his heart went out to her.
“I cried all night,” she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Anyway, now you know.” She sniffed and looked up at him. “What’s that cardboard for?”
“They broke my nose.” Somehow, it sounded very undignified.
“It’s all right,” she said, gulping her drink and rubbing her eyes again. “You were too handsome, anyway.” She put the glass down sharply. “My God! What’s in this, anyway?” She began to cough.
“I’m taking it as a painkiller,” Carr explained. He was no longer mad at her. He just couldn’t be mad at her, somehow.
“It must be a severe pain.” She tried a smile.
He went over to her and kissed her salty cheek.<
br />
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time,”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“How long do you think he’ll keep me here?”
“Don’t you ever think of anybody but yourself?” She seemed once again on the verge of tears.
“Keep us here,” he amended quickly.
“I don’t know, but not long. He’s getting ready to move out.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Just little things. He gets letters from real-estate agents in Hong Kong—he has, for the last several weeks. He sold a Modigliani sketch a few days ago; it was one of his favorites. And there just seems to be a general air of preparation—I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong, but I do know he’s planning something very soon. Those men come here almost every night; they never used to come so often. They stay in the living room and talk until late, sometimes two or three in the morning. And he’s become edgy as a cat—always hopping around, always tense, speaking abruptly. He wasn’t like that before.”
Carr recalled Liseau’s suave and collected manner, and wondered just how different the man had been two years before.
“Did you know they killed Perrani last night?”
Her eyes went wide. “Was he one of them?”
“Yes, didn’t you know?”
“I’ve never seen any of them, and I’m sure Perrani had never seen me. Why did they kill him?”
“I don’t know, but it had something to do with selling the villa to me.”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I.” Carr poured her another drink. “Do you know anybody named Morgan?”
She shook her head.
“How about Victor Jenning?”
She gave him an astonished look.
“You know who he is?”
“Of course,” she said. “Everybody around here has heard of him. He lives in Monaco, and has become a kind of legend: he’s handsome but getting old, and he likes race cars and women. He’s had six or seven wives, and they all come to watch when he races each year in the Grand Prix of Monaco. They all hope he’ll get killed. At least,” she said, “that’s what I’ve heard.”
Carr frowned. “Is he a professional driver?”
“I don’t think so. Nobody really knows, but he seems to have a big source of income from guns. I’ve heard he sells them legitimately—but then, I’ve heard he makes them, and I’ve heard he runs them. You know how stories go. Why?”
“They asked me about him in the police station, out of the blue. And when I was at the consulate, people kept thinking I was Morgan.”
He struggled to put together the pieces, to make sense out of things. He had one brilliant flash of insight—that little man, the one with short hair and dirty hands, might have been a mechanic. Jenning’s mechanic? It was possible. But what did that mean?
He hit a dead end. Every way he tried it, a dead end.
“It’s all terribly complicated,” Anne said. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing much. Just that we’ll be safe right here, at least for the time being.” This was all none of his business, he told himself, and in the long run he’d be better off not worrying about it. “If what you say is true, he will finish what he’s doing and release us both in a few days. After all, we can’t do him much damage if he’s in Hong Kong.” He smiled. “Until then, we’re trapped here, so there’s no sense fighting it. Another drink?”
“Please.” She watched him pour. “I hope you’re right.”
“So do I.”
Any alternatives were depressing. Carr changed the subject. “Are you going swimming?” he asked, pointing so her towel.
“Yes,” Anne said. “Am I going alone?”
“Afraid so. I’d better keep my nose dry for a few days.”
“You may drown right there, if you drink any more.” She stood up. The white slacks were bright in the midday sun, but Carr was more interested in the blouse, which was loose yet clinging. He couldn’t help staring. She laughed. “Acrilan. It always does that.”
He took a quick swallow of vodka.
Anne undressed, slipping out of her clothes with her usual effortless grace. He watched as the slacks came off, revealing her long brown legs; then the blouse went. He sighed. She was wearing a very brief bikini. Above the halter, her breasts swelled magnificently. Her stomach was flat and hard, and her hipbones were clearly visible, running down to disappear beneath the fabric.
“Sure you don’t want to come in? It’s pretty hot here.”
“Yes,” Carr said, “very warm.”
“When I was a little girl, I was taught not to stare.”
“You’re no longer a little girl, and I’m not staring. I’m just fascinated by your talent for understatement.”
She patted her flat stomach. “Do you think I’m getting fat?”
“I can’t really tell, you have so many clothes on.”
“You’re a hard man to please.”
“Oh, I’m pleased.”
“Good.” With scarcely a ripple, she slipped into the water, and came up smiling. “It’s marvelous, you really should try it.”
She floated on her back, kicking lazily; then she submerged, raising one firm leg, toes pointed, the smooth muscles in her thigh and calf outlined. With her body under water, she turned full circles, so the leg rotated above the surface. Carr stared at the leg, which glistened wetly in the hot sun.
When she surfaced, her hair glossy behind her head, he said, “What’s that called? ‘Periscope’?”
“I used to do underwater ballet. It’s harder than you think.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“It’s the control, that’s what’s hard.”
“Control, yes. Very hard.”
“Here, watch this.” She lay on her back, paddling rapidly with her hands, then brought both legs straight up. Dropping her head back, she allowed the weight of her legs to push her down in a slow, controlled dive; her ankles went into the water without a ripple. Somehow, it struck Carr as one of the sexiest things he had ever seen.
She surfaced with a grin.
“Your legs are your best feature,” he said, thinking: something must be done about this girl.
“You’d be surprised,” she said, “about my best feature.” She ducked underwater again, before he could reply.
Yes, he thought, something must definitely be done.
Later, she went to lie in the sun and dry. Carr joined her, drink in hand, watching her body move. His throat felt sticky and he had trouble swallowing, but he attributed it to the vodka. Anne stretched out on her stomach on the warm green grass and looked up at him.
“Would you undo me?”
“What?”
“My strap. I’m trying to get rid of the white mark on my back.”
“Oh.” He had trouble with the catch, since the bikini was wet. That was the trouble: the bikini was wet. He finally worked it free, and straps fell away, revealing a thin white line across her back.
“Awful, isn’t it?” she said.
“Very unsightly.”
He leaned over and kissed her between the shoulders. She rolled over on her back, her top falling away and her arms coming up around his neck, drawing him closer.
“Hey,” he said, feeling her cold against his chest. “You’re all wet.”
“The breaks,” she said, biting his lip.
“My nose,” he said. “Be careful.”
“I’ll try,” she promised, and she kept her word. He didn’t notice his nose for the rest of the morning.
Chapter XIX
THAT DAY AND THE next were like a dream to Carr. He wandered around the villa grounds, hand-in-hand with Anne. Sometimes they talked, but often they spent hours without passing a word; it was as if they had no need to speak to understand what the other was thinking. The sun was hot, the days gloriously clear, and they spent every waking minute together. Liseau was at the villa only rarely, and he never in
truded; he seemed, in fact, pleased that they were preoccupied with each other.
At night, Anne went off to the casino, and returned very tired—the summer show was scheduled to open in two weeks, and the pace of rehearsals had picked up. But she never showed her exhaustion, and it didn’t seem to matter. Carr was blissfully, peacefully happy with her. He felt as if he had found something he had needed for a very long time.
The confinement did not bother him. They walked, listened to Liseau’s excellent record collection, or read, or swam—Carr decided on the second day to stop worrying about his nose. In fact, he no longer worried about anything. He cut down on his smoking, slept well, and felt better than he had in years.
Anne seemed to him continuously and radiantly beautiful. He was constantly surprised at the naturalness of her beauty; he could do nothing to lessen it, to disarrange it. He once tried—he rumpled her hair, scrubbed off her makeup, and made her put on some of his clothes. She took his breath away, sitting there with disheveled hair in an oversized man’s shirt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“You’re handsome,” she replied. “So what?”
He gave her a cigarette for that. “You must have been a lovely child.”
“I was fat. Horrible, ugly fat. Rolls of fat all around my hips. Quadruple chins. Puffy knees. You wouldn’t have liked me.”
“You’ve made a remarkable recovery in your old age.”
“Considering.”
She honestly didn’t seem impressed with her looks, and Carr was unable to get even a flicker of vanity or conceit out of her. He kept trying, out of a sort of perverse curiosity, and finally she said, “Listen, you’re infatuated.”
“True,” he said, “but it’s not your fault. It’s your thighs.”
She pouted. “You just like me for my body.”
“I admit it.”
“It’s not so good. Every night, I get dressed with fifty girls, and they’re all better-looking and better built than I am. Some of them are smarter, too.”
“Introduce me.”
“Not on your life.” She rubbed her nose in his ear. “I know a good thing when I see it.”
“It strikes me as an unfair monopoly.”
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