The girl leaned across the table. ‘You’re not high or anything, are you? Because there’s only one bed here and we haven’t a Massage Boy in the house, though Mikel’s been talking about getting them fitted.’
Grant glanced through the open door of his bedroom. It seemed impossible that he could have forgotten a three-quarter-size nineteenth-century tester bed with crimson and gold drapes centred against one long wall. ‘I only remember two beds,’ he said, ‘and a woman who looked like you. I think she tried to make some passes but I don’t remember detail.’
‘You think!’ Petra’s voice became hard as nails. ‘We had a ball last night. You simply can’t have forgotten. It was the night to end all nights!’
‘Maybe,’ said Grant quietly. ‘But I only remember a woman who looked like you, and she had problems.’ A thought crossed his mind. ‘Take off that dress. I’d like to check on something.’
Petra crossed her legs. ‘What something?’
‘Bruises,’ said Grant. ‘Something tells me that the woman I remember was you. So quit being funny and take off the dress. If we had a fight there should be signs.’
She unzipped her qaftan, allowed it to drop to the floor and turned round. ‘You make this sound like a major production.’
Grant’s memory was returning. She was still wearing emerald-green briefs, but they were of a different cut, and she was again topless, but her skin was clear apart from one crimson love mark on her left breast. ‘Thanks,’ said Grant. ‘Nothing there.’
‘What about yourself, David Grant?’ said Petra. ‘If you were in a fight shouldn’t you have bruises?’
He eased out his arm. ‘Sure. I’ve scratches behind my left shoulder.’
Petra looked at him suspiciously. ‘Try the other. Nothing there. In fact let’s see you properly. But what do you expect to find?’
‘I told you. Bruises. I got pushed around a lot! And scratches of course.’ He took off his housecoat and examined himself in a wall mirror. His body tan was wearing well but there were no marks. Not anywhere.
‘Well?’ Petra was unusually serious. ‘That seems to clinch my own diagnosis. So shall I tell you what did happen? I was here and we had wine together and I did tell you about some family problems, and after that we made love. But I felt that something was wrong, and I even wondered if you had got hooked on acid or pot because once or twice you acted real crazy. But it was fun when it lasted and I left about three o’clock. You were asleep before I’d switched the lights out, and the only music we had was a tape with some pop hits.’ She paused. ‘David, I think I know what could have happened.’
Grant was staring at her in disbelief. ‘You say we made love?’
‘And very good love too. I’ll give you a written testimonial any day you like. You were a maestro.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t play around. At least not casual like that.’
‘Well, you did,’ said Petra curtly. ‘And though you don’t sound flattering I think I can explain everything.’
Grant fumbled for his first cigarette of the morning. ‘That should be interesting,’ he said. ‘That should be dead, dead interesting.’
‘Peyote[*] extract could have made you go queer. I heard you talking about our cacti with Mikel and we grow a few in the tropical house, though not enough to matter. Now I know a little about peyote extract and it can give people hallucinations. Even make them feel that they’re living in heaven and experience all sorts of other fantasies. Next day there’s a hangover and loss of memory, but real trouble comes if another dose is taken soon after the first, because things then get worse and the drug destroys personality faster than LSD. From what you’ve said my bet is that somebody fed you a biggish dose and that would explain why you seemed high, why you didn’t mind screwing with me in spite of your Krystelle tie-up, and why you think you had a fight, or heard music and saw purple lights. It all adds up. Especially why you went kind of crazy and managed to teach even me a couple of new gimmicks.’
Grant was suspicious. ‘How do you know that? I didn’t think drugs were your normal line of country.’
The girl looked exasperated. ‘They aren’t. I only tried a reefer once and hated it, but I do know about peyote because I once bought some Huichol paintings in Mexico City. You’ll see them hanging in the library. They are semi-religious with abstract overtones but it’s peyote which switches the artist on. In fact, peyote is a religious thing for some people.’
‘Well, if they feel like I do,’ said Grant bitterly, ‘the pictures must cost a bomb, because I’m bushed. And anyhow what is peyote doing in your house?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Petra, ‘but have a sleep and I’ll see you after siesta. If you want anything ring and Bas will come up. But I must get to the bottom of what’s been going on.’
‘Who the hell is Bas?’ said Grant. ‘He looks like an El Greco martyr.’
‘He’s my man,’ said Petra abruptly. ‘He’s run every house I’ve ever lived in. And I brought him down from Manaos when I got married.’
Grant decided to forget about Bas for the moment. Memories were now trickling back fast, but he was still far from knowing all that happened since touch-down in B.A. and he was a strong believer in sleep being a cure-all. There were also things to do! Private things!
Petra lit her own first cigarette. ‘See you at seventeen hundred hours. Sleep it off and then we can talk.’
Grant lifted the pyjamas which he had ignored on the previous night. His fingers felt stiff as they buttoned the jacket and then he lay down. House service was faultless and the bed had been made while he was taking his shower. New sheets had been spread and as he stretched himself luxuriously Petra stooped beside him for a fleeting second. Her lips brushed his forehead and her fingers caressed his face. ‘It must have been peyote, David. So there’s no danger unless you get more. And this room is as safe as a prison. Nobody can harm you with Bas around. But stick to tap water or anything he brings. See you!’
Bas arrived shortly after 4.00 pip emma with black coffee, cheese and pineapple sandwiches, dry biscuits, preserves and a bowl of yoghurt. ‘The señora hopes that you will eat something,’ he said, and for the first time Grant wondered where he had picked up his English.
The man turned on a Lehar tape. ‘I learned it in a British jail,’ he said. ‘Two years for robbery.’
Grant raised his eyebrows. ‘Of what?’
‘The private house of a political.’ He opened the window drapes. ‘The señora will tell you my story if she wants you to know any more. It was a long time ago.’
‘Well, congratulations. You must have mixed in good company, because it’s almost accent free.’ Grant was feeling a new man. He still had a hangover of stiffness in one or two fingers, but he could recall everything up until the moment when Petra had begun to do her strip. After that there was only a mix-up of impressions and a fantastic sensation of having been loved by a very expert expert. But he did remember their conversation and reached for his Daks light-weight pants. The slip of paper in his hip pocket was safe, and as he re-read it while Bas drew his bath several things began to interest him.
What sort of woman would have an affair with a man who hadn’t only swindled her husband but been morally responsible for his suicide? Petra’s mother might be worth investigating! It was even interesting that Petra hadn’t given him the slightest clue as to what sort of woman she had been. Yet she must have known something: even from hearsay.
And this first hint that an unnamed fifth man had escaped to the Argentine? So many angles arose from that alone! Why had he not been given a name? What did they suspect him of knowing? Why should a statement from one man … supposedly poor and with no social background … be accepted by any of the authorities almost thirty years later? Especially when the complaint would be directed against one of his own country’s very top people?
Grant felt that he could ask questions for ever.
Had the Moreiros really kept private
investigators busy for half a lifetime, and if so who were they? But if so it would help everyone if he could interview an agency which had spent almost thirty years looking for one man. Surely if they were worth anything at all they would have dug up some sort of clue apart from a rumour that he had faded to Argentina!
Grant unwound for the first time in twenty-four hours and soaked in the bath, but when Bas served him with a second glass of black Brazilian coffee he realised that although he was living technically in Argentina conversation always drifted towards Brazil. Even the coffee came from Brazil. Which was understandable enough, but added up to one more point in establishing a public image. Petra’s side of the household had really organised a small Brazilian enclave a thousand or more miles from home. And for a so-called cosmopolitan with at least eight languages it still seemed odd!
He had also decided that Bas took his valet duties too seriously. The man was seldom further than a few paces from the bath. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘I can manage. Will you let Madame know I’m almost ready?’
Bas stared at him without expression, his pallor somehow emphasised by the bathroom light. ‘That won’t be necessary, sir. My mistress is due at five o’clock, which is in twelve minutes. Shall I give you a rub down?’
Grant hesitated but decided that Bas was acting under orders. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said briefly, and wrapped himself in a warm towel.
Minutes later he was organised into slacks, shirt and bush-jacket. The small breakfast-salon had been cleared and he stood by a window staring over the lawns. It occurred to him that a heavy acreage of groomed turf surrounded the house and that it would be difficult for anyone to reach it without being spotted. A doorman was on constant duty where the entrance drive opened into approaches to the front door and a car park. He knew that a so-called house-steward was continually on post at the servant and tradesmen’s entrance and he suspected that the grounds were patrolled by guard dogs after dusk.
Petra had said that he would be safe as in a prison!
He began to wonder if he really was in prison. With Bas the head jailor!
Petra arrived on the third stroke of five. She was wearing flare-bottom trousers and a fitted jacket with side vents, a yellow shirt and wet-look shoes with Spanish heels. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I hear you’ve eaten well. How’s the memory?’
‘Back, I think.’
‘In detail?’
‘More or less.’
‘So I don’t need to go over all that stuff about Cyp again? You’ve got it clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve news for you. I reasoned that anything you took must have been in the wine, or else in the water-jug, so I sent what remained for analysis and peyote extract it is. But in terrific concentration. I was on whisky-soda as usual, so I missed out, which is just as well, because if we’d both been high our party might have got out of control! Though frankly, David, if you’ve forgotten what really happened and only remember hallucinations you’ve got my sympathy, because last night was special. If not even extra special.’
‘Where did you get the analysis done?’ asked Grant.
He fancied that her eyes flickered slightly. ‘The University. I know a man who knows a man.’
‘And you didn’t notice that the wine had been interfered with when you pulled the cork?’
‘We were talking. Remember?’
‘I remember. Now another thing. Does Mikel know I’m off colour?’
‘I told him you had gone to B.A. on business.’
‘And when do I come back?’
‘Tomorrow. This part of the house is really mine and I do what I please.’
‘He has his own guest rooms?’
‘David,’ said Petra quietly. ‘There’s something about you which is prickling, and it’s infectious, because I’m beginning to prickle too. Why can’t you unwind?’
Grant ignored the question. ‘How old is Mikel?’
The girl thought for a moment. ‘About forty. He says thirty-six, but I think that’s just vanity. Men are funny about their age. Worse than women at times! Call it forty-one.’
‘You didn’t check on his dates, but you went to a lot of trouble to have your own in order.’
‘So what?’
‘So didn’t it occur to you that he must have made his pile real early? A millionaire at around thirty isn’t all that common, even in Brazil!’
Petra seemed to be indifferent. ‘Cyp hired people to look him up and their report tallied with what he had told us.’
‘Which was what?’
‘Parents also died when he was young. He inherited an immense sheep farm, sold at the right time, got in early with oil in the south and opened a hotel as a side-line at Bariloche. The hotel went like a bomb and he followed with another in B.A. Then he started an earth-removing business, got hep on machines which could do the preliminaries for motorways or new roads, and spread his capital around. He once told me that it was a mixture of hotels and oil which made his first million, new roads which made his second, and a mixture of all three which did the rest.’
‘That being?’
Petra shook her head. ‘Four years ago he went into shipping so that he would have his own tankers for the oil thing and a lot were bought on mortgage. Then he’s got shares in two airlines and maybe a dozen motels or restaurants. In fact I doubt if he knows himself what he’s worth. And by paying off mortgages out of profits his actual capital increases daily.’
‘Yet he’s only thirty-seven at best or fortyish at worst?’
‘As I see it, yes.’
Grant decided to go in at the deep end. He had mulled over the facts in his bath, which was always a favourite thinking place, and decided to pick the Petra-Cyp story to ribbons. ‘Do me the favour of asking your father up. He wants to see me and it’ll save going over things twice.’
The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t want him worried.’
‘Then the best way is to let us have a chat together.’
‘I don’t agree. Tell me what you’ve got in mind and I’ll decide when Cyp enters the picture.’
‘Better still,’ said Grant coldly, ‘I’ll tell you when he did enter it. Last night in the tropical house.’
‘Well, you told me that he hadn’t said much. So you must have been lying?’
‘And haven’t we all told lies at times!’ Grant cleared the last of his sandwiches and relied upon silence to stretch the girl’s nerves. ‘The trouble really is,’ he said at last, ‘that you in particular aren’t a good liar.’
‘Lying is a woman’s special privilege. But the story I gave you is true.’
‘Last night: possibly,’ said Grant. ‘But this afternoon: no.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that you didn’t go to University. Because you didn’t need to. You doped my drink and you know where the stuff came from. Which is one lie to be going on with. Now will you bring Cyp along and we can talk business?’
She sat for upwards of a minute before reacting. ‘It’s quite impossible for you to know what I did today.’
‘Because, as you told me, this room is safe as a prison? But you really meant safe for yourself. Didn’t you?’
Her voice became very soft. ‘If you put it that way, yes.’
Grant felt that he had begun to have the advantage and tried to press it. ‘I tailed you and you went direct to a hairdressing salon in Florida. You were carrying nothing and you left carrying nothing. The woman who fixed your shampoo and set is called Carmencita Peña. She’s married and her husband is a waiter at El Ceibal. After your set you had tea, alone, at Queen Bess in Santa Fé, collected your car from the parking lot near Plaza Britanica and drove straight home. Any comment?’
She pressed a bell. ‘Did Dr. Grant leave this house today, Bas?’
‘No, señora. He slept until four o’clock.’ The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I checked that everything was exactly as you wished, and he didn’t leave the suite.’
Grant stared
at him curiously. ‘You examined the bed?’
Petra’s eyes sparked with understanding. ‘Bas,’ she said softly, ‘did you go right over to the bed and check properly, or did you simply look in?’
The man stood to attention. ‘I looked in. His body was outlined against the sheets.’
The girl stood up. Her hands flashed and Grant almost winced as he heard the vicious double slap which she drew across his face. ‘Get out,’ she said. ‘And I’ll see you later in my room. Understand?’
The man bowed formally and turned without a glance in Grant’s direction. Crimson weals marked the deep pallor of his face, but though his eyes were flat dead he walked tall.
‘Back to your Amazon days!’ said Grant. ‘I forget whether it was yourself or Cyp who said you used to have the power of a medieval French duke. Or was just now an old Spanish custom?’
‘How did you get out?’ The girl’s voice was almost quivering with rage.
‘By the windows. It’s part of my job to be able to walk out of prisons.’
‘You expect me to believe that you climbed out of this room and walked across these lawns to the garage, waited till I collected my car, and then followed in another without anyone interfering?’
‘No comment,’ said Grant. ‘Your details aren’t quite right. But no other comment. Now suppose you call Cyp.’
‘David Grant!’ Petra was white with anger. ‘So help me God if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind I’ll have Bas and Roca wring it out of you.’
‘Then call your father,’ said Grant. ‘And I’m not saying it again.’
The girl seemed to have been taken off-balance and Grant’s apparent quiet confidence was hypnotic. She lifted the house phone while he lit a cigarette and waited. She was pulling herself together but he knew that she was frightened.
The small transmitter and aural receiver which he had used to contact Krystelle had worked faultlessly and he had established contact within minutes of Petra leaving the room that morning. Her car had been tailed from the grounds and Krystelle’s hourly reports on progress had been picked up on schedule. His last message had been received in the toilet after his bath, and with Bas less than ten yards away. The department boffins who worked under Professor Juin were very much on the ball and the whole apparatus had been built into the sole and heel of a sports shoe. A metal line of decoration on his trouser belt served as aerial and when brought into contact with the lower eyes of his shoe connected up with the apparatus. A spare set of equipment had also been built into his small automated-type camera holding a spool turned to exposure five. It was long odds against anyone opening the thing, but if they did the spool might side-track them away from any detailed examination. The camera was carried in a well-used leather case which he hung over a hat-rack. Both instruments had a range of up to twenty kilometres on an ultra-high frequency band, which, so far as was known, no other people used. They both carried enough power for one hour of conversation and had been given first priority once the department had accepted that on this occasion Grant would work only with Krystelle hovering in the wings. Her own equipment had been fitted inside the ornate handle of her handbag, with a spare inside a home-movie camera. But from Grant’s angle it was important to remember that Krystelle would not only have kept the department advised, she would also be alert outside with everything pricked for immediate action. And where Krystelle was concerned, immediate meant measurements in split seconds.
Crimson Jade Page 6
