The second floor was quiet, insulated from the sounds of the party, which was after all a considerable distance away. Tapestries clung to the walls, hunting scenes perceived vaguely in the dark, a boar cornered against a great thick tree trunk, woodsmen in quaint caps and gear closing in. Shadows crossed them, brought them to life, and all that was missing was the anguished screech and snort of the beast.
A bathroom door stood slightly ajar. It reminded me of a locker room: a huge shower stall, a separate tub, a locked door leading to a bedroom, a toilet, a double basin, a bidet, a full-length mirror, a riot of towels. The light switch produced a dim, roseate glow and I sank onto the commode, leaned forward to hang my bleary-eyed head between my knees. Cary Grant, it occurred to me, had never had to use the bathroom in Notorious when he went to Claude Rains’ party. But I wasn’t Cary Grant and I was ten seconds from throwing up in Gunter Brendel’s bidet.
I didn’t know how long the voices had been going on when I finally calmed down enough to notice them. They were coming from the other side of the locked door.
“I ask you, what’s left for me to do with you? What?” It was Brendel, I was sure, and he was speaking English. He was trying to keep his voice under control and it was strangling him. “Answer me!” He was losing the battle: I couldn’t tell whether she was laughing or crying but she wasn’t satisfying him. My head throbbed: I was an alcoholic and Peterson had been right, I was perilously near drunkenness. “Goddamn you, answer me! Tell me what you want me to do!” A piece of furniture slammed against a wall, she screamed in sudden fright: “Don’t, Gunter, please—”
He hit her, the sound of the blow was punctuated by a grunt of exertion from him and a sob from her.
“You … you slut,” he gurgled. “You have everything, you have your lover, you have freedom, you have my adoration … and you are a slut in return. A disgrace. Rotten, perverted—” He ran out of breath.
There was silence and I could picture the scene: he was stung by guilt, he went to her, held her, his voice was soft, muffled in her hair. I could hear her faint sobs, and slowly they turned to a wacky land of giggle, as if there were something loose in her head.
“Lise—” He sounded fearful; he knew her well.
“Don’t touch me again,” she said through the compulsive giggling. “Be careful. Or I’ll kick you where your nuts ought to be. Fairy! Fucking old fairy—” She was hissing and laughing. She wasn’t the girl in the park.
“This has all happened too often, Lise. I’m lost. … Please, change your clothes, put on shoes, don’t take such pleasure in disgracing me.”
“How could I disgrace you? You disgrace yourself—did you have his brother murdered?”
“What did you say?”
“Did you have John Cooper’s brother killed?” She gulped back laughter and tears, half choked.
“You have spoken with him about this?”
“Of course. I met him in the English Park—he knows about you, he knows more than his brother did … if it’s true, of course.”
“This is not to be discussed. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And how could you thrust him upon me, here in this house? How, Lise?”
“I’m feeding him to you.” Ice tinkled in a glass. “He says you’re a wicked man—I told him you were harmless. Which is it? Really?”
“You know what I am, Lise.”
“No, I don’t know what you are at all. And I don’t know who I am. …”
“Nonsense—you’re drunk. You’re mad.”
“You’re the one who’s mad, Gunter. You’re the liar, the murderer, the disgusting pervert. …” She was working herself up. “You’re turning purple, quite purple.” She laughed loudly.
“Be quiet!”
“Fuck yourself, will you? For me?”
He hit her again. I heard her hit the floor. My legs shook uncontrollably.
“I loved you,” he said. “Now I want to throw you away. Garbage. …” He began to sob.
She was breathing hoarsely. I imagined her on the floor, shaking her head, blood running out of her nose. She sounded as if he’d broken her nose and she was trying to talk through blood and the pain. “Siegfried even hits harder than you do—” The voice was lost as her stomach turned and she retched, gagging on vomit, and I saw it gushing down her dress, across her pale boy’s chest, soiling herself. She gagged and tried to speak and couldn’t stop vomiting.
“God, I loved you,” he said, almost moaning.
“I never loved you. …”
“You have loved only yourself.”
“No, you’re wrong. As usual. I hate myself, too.”
I heard the bed groan. He was helping her onto the bed. She had begun to weep by then, steadily. “Wipe me off,” she said. “Clean me off, I can’t stand the smell. …”
“No. You wear it well, Lise. It suits you.”
I heard the door close softly and I slipped the bolt on the locked door and pushed it open. A bedside lamp cast deep shadows across the room. She lay huddled on the bed, knees drawn up, her back to me. The smell triggered a flashback in my overloaded memory and I saw Milo Keepnews lying by the filthy toilet, slowly dying in his own stink. I shut the door and went back to the hallway door on tiptoe, switched off the light, and opened it a crack.
Brendel stood at the railing at the top of the stairs, holding to it with both hands extended before him, leaning slightly forward. His head had slumped forward as if he were studying the crease in his trousers.
Finally, he moved to the stairway and began to descend. I slipped out of the bathroom, crossed to the far wall, and made my way cautiously along in his footsteps, praying that no one would find me and shoot me to death for the sport of it. It was a madhouse. But fear was sobering me up.
I stood in the deep shadows by the tapestry at the top of the stairs. It was quiet, only the string quartet sawing on a long way off. Brendel stood on the immense landing, passed a hand across his forehead. Candlelight reflected on his stiff white shirt and cuffs. With exquisite grace and sorrow he slumped onto the huge couch, rested his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.
A movement caught my eye on the stair below the landing. A man—another watcher—stood in his own shroud of shadows, them moved slowly into view, a tall man, stooped, tired. He climbed the few stairs to the landing. He must have spoken: Brendel’s head came up slowly and nodded his recognition. The stooped man went to him, sat down beside him, and put his hand on Brendel’s shoulder, a consoling gesture.
It was Gerhard Roeschler.
The bond between them was almost visible, two men with so much of their lives behind them, so many secrets shared and hidden in the shadows of decades. Roeschler offered him a cigar and a match flared, smoke billowed upward. I couldn’t hear a word, only a faint rumble of deep, guttural voices, and I thought that it would have been nice, better than nice, a godsend, to have such a friend to comfort me in my own time of trial.
At last Roeschler levered himself out of the deep couch and touched Brendel’s shoulder. Brendel’s head hung down and I could hear Roeschler’s voice, soothing him, as if he were telling him a bedtime story.
Slowly Roeschler’s left hand came out of his coat pocket. He was patting Brendel’s back with one hand and there was something in the other, something I couldn’t quite make out. He reached forward, slowly, pressing something to Brendel’s temple and I heard a muffled coughing sound from their shadowy tableau and only then, remembering the sound in the Glasgow hallway, in the shadows where I’d found Alistair Campbell, only then did I realize that Doctor Roeschler had just put a bullet in Gunter Brendel’s brain.
Brendel jerked sideways, collapsed against the back and arm of the couch. Methodically, Roeschler hoisted the inert body into his arms and rolled it over the back of the couch. I watched it disappear between the couch and the window seat. It took perhaps thirty seconds from the sound of the silencer coughing to the last of my host slipping out of sight. Roeschler straightened
his coat, sat back down on the couch, and I saw the tip of his cigar flare in the darkness. I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t blink, I felt my eyes drying out and I couldn’t remember how to make a sound. But I didn’t want to make a sound. I stood paralyzed, leaning against the tapestry, the dying boar’s golden eyes peering into my own.
Roeschler came up the stairway toward me. I smelled the cigar. He stopped beside me and looked into my eyes. We might have been alone in the world; the wind howled beyond the high window where Brendel rested.
“You saw?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.
“It had to be done. There were a great many reasons. There was revenge, for one thing. He had used me for a very long time, had blackmailed me for such a long time that he thought I was his friend—and I was, I was his friend until the time came when I could turn on him and my hate was stronger than our friendship.”
“You don’t have to explain to me,” I said. My tongue had turned dry, sticky.
“Well, there’s something you should know. I didn’t simply decide to kill him on my own. It wasn’t murder—a fine distinction. …” We had turned at the railing where Brendel had stood, steadying himself. “It was an assassination. Do you understand?”
I shook my head blankly.
“I am Ivor Steynes’ man in Munich, Mr. Cooper. I had my orders, he told me to expect you and told me to help you.” He inspected his cigar carefully before going on. “He made it clear to me that I was to reveal my identity only after the mission was completed.” He sighed. “Now I feel much better. But I’m afraid we have a long night ahead of us. We must be very careful.”
Roeschler. … We had never had the slightest chance of protecting Brendel: everyone always knew so much more than we did, we were always floundering, groping, playing fools.
“Cheer up,” Roeschler rumbled. “It’s not so bad—you could be an old man like me, nothing left to fear, but little left to live for.” My mind was rewinding like a tape recorder and I heard St. John telling me that I’d miss so little if I died before morning. Everyone was so philosophical about my death.
“Your friend Peterson—he’s downstairs. He was watching me for a while as if he expected me to suffer a stroke imminently. Go and get him, Mr. Cooper, and bring him to Lise’s room.”
“They just had a fight. I heard it—I was in the bathroom.”
“I know, he told me. He was distraught. In a way, he wanted to die just then. He really loved her, you know. Now I’m going to go speak to her, tell her what has happened.” He stopped on the verge of moving away. “You do understand that Steynes was right, that Brendel had to be stopped—”
“Stopped from what?”
“I’m not absolutely certain, Mr. Cooper. But something is about to happen, something very … important. I don’t know if this will affect it, but it won’t help it. Now, I must see to Lise.”
Alone on the landing I felt faint and was drawn ghoulishly to the couch; what if he were still alive? I couldn’t help it. I knelt on the couch and leaned over the back. Brendel’s remains lay unnaturally bent, barely visible in the darkness, no vista of blood and brains, just a lump of dinner clothes.
“What in the name of God are you doing? Puking in the window seat?”
It was Peterson. It was always Peterson at times like those.
He peered over the back of the couch.
“Oh, God,” he whispered at last. “There’s a body back there. …”
“Our host,” I said. “Steynes’ man got to him about fifteen minutes ago. I watched it happen.”
Peterson looked at the body again. “Who killed him?”
“Roeschler.”
“He was Steynes’ man?” Incredulous, the realization dawning painfully.
“Yes. He told me.”
“And he shot him here on the couch?”
I nodded. “Well, son of a bitch,” he whispered.
“He’s upstairs now with Lise. He sent me to find you and bring you up.”
“And I naturally discover you with another stiff.” He sighed at length. “Well, I guess we’d better go see him, then. But I’m beginning to wish this thing would stop moving for a minute.” He jerked his compact little head at the couch. “Christ, nobody’s going to find him till they nose him on the stair, right? That’s Hamlet, Cooper, a literary allusion.”
He started off up the stairs, teeth bared like Bogart in the old days.
Lise was standing before her dressing table mirror. I could still smell the vomit but it was losing ground to her perfume. A wet towel lay at her feet. Roeschler sat in a wicker chair. We stood in the doorway. Nobody moved, the wind scraped at the windows.
She was wearing slacks and a brassiere, the strap narrow and white across her thin, fragile back. She reached down, picked up a sweater, and slid it over her head, rolled the turtleneck beneath her chin. Her black hair lay like a dead rat on the rumpled bed. Her black dress was wadded up and thrown halfway into a wastebasket. She ran a long comb slowly through her own hair, which hung limply shielding her face.
She finally turned. She had changed back into the woman I’d met in the park. Her gray eyes connected with mine and she wet her dry lips, spoke as if she were dehydrated. Her voice was furry.
“Hello, John.” She looked around the room at the mess and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to—” She swallowed dryly, produced a clicking sound. “I’m sorry about—” She shrugged and picked up the towel and walked very slowly, one hand out to touch bits of furniture for balance, toward the bathroom with it. I smelled it as she went past me: Brendel had said it suited her, his last words to his wife. Her face was terribly pale, her lower lip split at its center, her nose cut across the bridge where he’d hit her. Her breath whistled unhealthily in her clogged nasal passages. She said, “Excuse me,” as she pushed slowly past Peterson. She went into the bathroom and left the door open a few inches.
“Did you tell her?” I asked.
“I gave her an injection, a very strong tranquilizer,” Roeschler said. “I told her that Brendel was dead, that’s enough for now. She’s very sedated, really sleepwalking, but the fact is registering in her brain right now—but she’s much too exhausted to react.” He stood up and looked out the window. “She’s fully aware of severe changes and the tranquilizer will allow her to go along with whatever we must do yet this evening.”
“Will you stay awake?” Peterson was stroking his mustache.
“As long as we keep her awake, yes. She’s had a great ingestion of chemicals in the past twelve hours or so, getting herself speeded up to handle the stress of the party. Oh, she brings it on herself, setting up confrontations between all the concerned parties, utterly self-destructive, egocentric, not caring who gets hurt as long as she satisfies her own curiosity.” He saw our disconcerted expressions, and turned back to the window, spreading the curtains. “It’s so complex … but you must try to understand that she is not like the rest of us, that she is obsessed by her own identity. Or lack of it. The result is that she is unpredictable—or that all you can predict is her inconsistency, her lack of concern for the consequences of her acts. She really doesn’t see anything particularly wrong with what she does. She has no self-pity.” He finally turned back and blew his nose. “But she has no pity for anyone else either. She just doesn’t give a damn about anything but finding out what in the world is the point of her own existence. It’s still snowing outside, gentlemen, and we’ve got to get you out of here.”
“I don’t give a damn how crazy she is,” Peterson growled, “she’s coming with us. Finding their master stuffed behind the couch is going to make some of these people very angry. There’s always the chance that his wife will be some kind of insurance for us. She’s valuable to both sides, Brendel’s and Siegfried’s, right?”
“Oh, yes, she’s valuable. She has her protectors. You’re right in wanting to take her with you. And what’s kidnapping compared to your other crimes?”
“Which crimes are t
hose?”
Roeschler smiled bleakly. “The murder of your host, for one. They’re obviously going to hold you responsible for that. They certainly won’t think I did it, will they?”
“So, the crazy lady comes with us, then,” Peterson said.
“I’m not crazy, Mr. Peterson.” She was leaning heavily in the doorway. “I’m terribly tired but I’m not crazy.”
I led her across to a chair. “Thank you, John.” Her eyes were closed, her face battered, the words forced their way past her puffed, dry lips. She folded her hands in her lap, her lashes fluttered. I stood beside her, watching her. She leaned back in the chair, breathing with difficulty. Peterson and Roeschler were conferring quietly across the room.
“Could I have some water … John, please, some water.” She opened her eyes but couldn’t focus properly. She touched her breast again, as if seeking proof that she was still there. I held the glass to the cut lip but she didn’t open her mouth and it ran down her chin. I held a tissue to her, soaking it up, covered my fingers with water, and moistened her split, parched lip. She was almost out. I remembered the touch of her mouth in the park, the snow drifting down on her face.
Peterson was standing over us, impatient.
“We’re going out now,” he said. “The four of us are going down the stairway, across the foyer, and out the front door. Roeschler says he can get us past the storm troopers at the door. If he can’t a lot of people are going to get hurt. But crazypants here is coming along like the hostages in the movies. She’s our ticket out of the madhouse. Now get her up and let’s haul ass.” He went to the door and looked into the hallway.
Roeschler brought a sheepskin coat from a closet for Lise. “We’ve got to keep her warm,” he said. “She has no resistance to anything right now.”
Peterson came back, snapping his fingers.
The Wind Chill Factor Page 31
