Then he grabbed a steel sculpture, perched on a nearby pedestal. It was a statue of a man, and it seemed quite heavy.
Luke’s eyes widened as he saw. His body tensed.
“Little fart,” Pierce said again. He approached cautiously, holding the club in his left hand.
Raynaud stepped back. The girl said, “Stop them.”
Raynaud shook his head.
“You must stop them.”
“They wouldn’t like it. Either of them.”
Pierce moved closer, swinging the club slightly, getting the feel of the weight. Luke stepped back and Pierce seemed to gain confidence. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, glanced at it, and smiled grimly.
Luke’s face was expressionless. His eyes were fixed on Pierce’s hands.
Pierce lunged.
Luke stepped aside smartly, a maneuver that almost succeeded. As he fell, Pierce swung desperately, the hands flailing wildly, and he caught Luke on the forehead. Luke fell.
Pierce recovered, saw Luke on the ground, and threw himself on him. He raised the club, swung, raised it again, covered with blood.
Raynaud moved forward.
He caught the club in midswing and tore it away. Pierce looked startled, then angry.
“What the hell…”
“Leave him alone.”
Luke was lying in a crumpled ball on the floor, not moving. He was unconscious; his hair was mixed and matted with blood.
“What the hell.”
“It’s over. It’s all over.”
Cora ran over and threw her hands over Luke protectively. Raynaud pulled Pierce away. Pierce was in a daze; he looked at his blood-covered hands.
“I hope I killed him,” he said.
Cora was bent over Luke, sobbing.
“You don’t,” Raynaud said.
“I do. I hope I killed him, the little fart.”
“Better get out of here.” Raynaud steered him toward the door.
“The fuck. I want to see if he’s dead.”
“Better get out of here.”
“The bastard,” Pierce said, wiping his hands on his jacket. “Did you see? He knew karate.”
“If he knew karate, you wouldn’t be alive now.”
“He knew karate.”
“Judo,” Raynaud said, with a sigh. “And not even that, very well.”
As they went out through the door, stepping into the cool night, Pierce said, “So you’re the expert on judo now, is that it?”
“They taught us in the Army,” Raynaud said.
They walked to the end of the block, where there was a taxi rank. They climbed into the first one.
“Anyway,” Pierce said, “it was no thanks to you.”
Raynaud shrugged. “I was hired to protect you from other people, not from yourself.”
“And if I had been losing? What would you have done then?”
“But you didn’t lose.”
“You’re goddamned right,” Pierce said. “I won. Didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Raynaud said. “You won.”
Pierce chuckled. “I feel like having a woman.”
“You look like hell,” Raynaud said.
“I know where we can get a pair of beauties. Real beauties. And cheap, too.”
In reply, Raynaud gently pushed Richard’s nose with his finger. Pierce yelped in pain and fell back against the seat.
“All right,” he said, frowning. “All right.”
Raynaud gave directions and they returned to the flat.
9. ANTIDOTE
THE NEXT DAY, PIERCE got slowly out of bed, surprised that his body was stiff and sore. For a while, he couldn’t remember why, and then the evening came back to him. Scruffy Luke, with his scruffy bird. Putting on airs, when everyone knew she’d plumped her tail down for every guy around, and played the flipside for some of the dollies. Inventive, she was, very inventive.
He walked over to the dresser and saw three crumpled pound notes. They reminded him that he was running out, and would have to see Lucienne. He’d been putting it off, trying not to think about it. Bloody old Lucienne. Wonder if she still got her periods. Great convenience for the boyos if she didn’t; open season, round the clock. Or maybe they didn’t care.
Christ.
Head throbbing like an unhappy dangler. And that bitch Pet, slooping along in her frilly see-throughs, showing the crotch all around, and pretending it wasn’t there. Talk about the son—the son, for Christ’s sake, what the hell. All for Raynaud’s benefit. Crafty little Pet. No fool.
He went into the kitchen and mixed himself a martini. Raynaud wasn’t up yet; the clock on the wall said two in the afternoon. Pierce turned on the television over the fridge and switched it to Raynaud’s room. Blank. Fucker must have blocked it. Better not have damaged the camera; they cost two hundred quid each. Japanese coming up in the world. Who said labor was cheap?
He poured the martini into a glass, swirled it, and gulped it down. Chilled piss, that’s what it was. But necessary. It was the only thing that made any difference the morning after.
And it was always the morning after.
Back to the bathroom, stumbling twice, almost falling. Chilled piss sloshing around in his stomach, but going to work. He began to feel better. He knew he shouldn’t drink so much, Uncle John always said so, but it was after noon, for Christ’s sake. Everybody drank after noon, even the stuffy ones.
He turned on the shower and got in. As the water struck him, he realized he was still wearing pajamas. Shit. He climbed out and stripped them off, then got back in. The water felt good, steamy and clean; he breathed deeply.
Raynaud, that fucker. No fool. Imagine, blocking the camera. Dirty trick. Just what you’d expect. He had even liked what’s-her-name, the phony redhead in Paris. You’d think if a girl was going to dye her hair in that line of work, she’d be thorough.
The frogs were a dirty race.
Old Raynaud, he was a frog. At least partly. But you had to hand it to him, he was quick. So damned quick. Hands like a flash.
Pierce grinned. He thought about Luke and laughed aloud. Raynaud had been impressed by the way he handled Luke, the dumb bastard. Pierce could tell Raynaud had been impressed. Raynaud had even worried that Pierce might kill him. Marvelous. The look on Raynaud’s face when he had reached for the club. Marvelous.
And Raynaud was useful, a good sort to have around. Raynaud was well paid; the Americans expressed it directly: money talked. So long as Pierce was paying, Raynaud would stick around. And do what he was told.
Pierce smiled again. It might be amusing to really make Raynaud earn his money. Really make him put up with hell. It would be amusing to see how far he could push Raynaud. He suspected he could push him quite far indeed.
Still smiling, he climbed out of the shower and thought of Lucienne. Then he thought of his pills. He must not forget them. The daily schedule was crucial. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out the dispenser, removed the pill marked 8, and swallowed it. The taste was nothing special—rather flat and chalky, like aspirin. But Uncle John had assured him it was the real thing, real arsenic. Thank God for Uncle John.
Pierce had gone to Uncle John two months before, after an especially bad fight with Lucienne. At the end of the fight Lucienne had been furious, purple with rage. It had scared Pierce to see her that way, though it had never scared him before. He suddenly realized that she was a desperate woman. She had only a few months left before he would inherit the estate and dump her.
She might try to prevent that.
He had gone home frowning, and thought things over. The more he thought, the more worried he became. He broke into a cold sweat, and went to see Uncle John. As usual, John was friendly, glad to see him. Pierce had said, “If you wanted to kill someone, how would you do it?”
John just laughed. “I wouldn’t advise killing Lucienne.”
Pierce shook his head. “No, I’m serious.”
John mixed him a drink, watched
as he sipped it, then said, “Why do you ask?”
“Curious.”
“Tell me why.”
“Answer the question first.”
“How would I kill someone?” John shrugged. “Poison, I suppose.”
“Why poison?”
“It’s readily available, and difficult to trace. Much better than a knife or a gun.”
That was exactly what Pierce had already decided. He said, “What kind of poison?”
“Arsenic, I imagine.”
“Why?”
“Cheap. Readily available.”
Pierce nodded. “In rat poison, things like that?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Is there an antidote?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“Fast acting?”
“Quite. A few minutes and it’s finished.”
“Does it have a taste, or an odor?”
“No, not really.”
“Could you put it into a drink? Disguise it?”
“Probably.”
“How about food?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Christ,” Pierce said. “And there’s no antidote?”
“No. Why?”
Pierce had then explained about his fears, and the argument with Lucienne. Black listened to it all, then said, “If you’re really worried, there’s one thing you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Take graduated doses, to build up a tolerance.”
“It won’t hurt me?”
“No, not if it’s correctly graduated. You start with very little, and then build up to larger doses.”
“And that will protect me?”
“There are no guarantees. But it will help. Only, Richard…”
“Yes?”
“If I may say so, you’re being very foolish. Lucienne may dislike you, but she wouldn’t think of hurting you.”
“She would.”
“No, you’re wrong.”
“I tell you, she doesn’t want me to inherit the estate. She’ll do anything to stop me.”
Uncle John had sighed. “Will you feel better if I write a prescription for graduated arsenic doses?”
“Yes.”
“All right then, I’ll do it.” He sat down at his desk and wrote it out. Pierce found it absolutely illegible. “Now then,” Black said, “the pills will be stamped from one to forty. They’ll all be the same size, because they will contain different quantities of neutral packing. Don’t let the size throw you. And be careful to take them serially. If you start with number forty, you’re a dead man.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Let me know if you have any trouble,” John had said. “And, uh…”
“Yes?”
“…I’d suggest you keep this private.”
Pierce had kept it private, and he had been careful to take them in order. The first ones made him sick, but now, nothing. He was obviously building up tolerance. It gave him a good and secure feeling to know that Lucienne couldn’t hurt him.
A very good feeling.
He dressed in slacks and a sweater and went into the kitchen to make another drink and eat a sandwich. His thoughts turned to the party tonight, and Sandra. Sandra was a queer bird, a real odd one. Her Italian background, no doubt. The way she kept shoving his hands away, just as they were touching softness, it was really quite maddening. She had Old World ideas about things, a sense of propriety that appealed to him, though it was maddening.
And she had promised. As soon as they were engaged…
Tonight.
He would take her away, away from her bitch friends, from everyone. That would clinch it.
But he needed money. That meant facing Lucienne. He glanced at his watch—he could probably buzz over and see her this afternoon. Or later, at the party.
He decided the party was better. There would be other people there, and she couldn’t make a scene. The very idea of a scene terrified Lucienne. A scandal was all right—she almost seemed to enjoy a scandal—but never anything public, never a scene.
He’d talk to her at the party.
An hour later, Raynaud wandered in, looking sleepy.
“’Lo, lad. Good rest?”
“What time is it?” Raynaud asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Four. Want a drink?” He held out the pitcher of martinis. “They’re good.”
“No. Christ. Is there any coffee?”
“You’ll have to make it yourself,” Pierce said.
Raynaud put the water on to boil. He rubbed his eyes, then said, “Maybe I’ll have a drink after all.”
“Good man.”
Pierce poured him a glass. Raynaud sipped it and winced. “What’s in this, arsenic?”
“No. Just gin. But I soak the olives in vermouth first.”
“Strong as hell,” Raynaud said, gulping it back. “What time’s the party tonight?”
“Nine. Plenty of time.”
“Will I meet Sandra?”
“Indeed you will. And I’ll thank you to keep your hands off her. It won’t be easy, I assure you. One wants to touch.”
“Is she so spectacular?”
“Wait and see.”
“And your mother will be there?”
“Stepmother. Yes, I imagine so.”
Raynaud watched Pierce carefully as they finished dinner. They ate in an excellent Hungarian restaurant on Frith Street, in Soho. The food and wine should have made Pierce expansive, but they did not; he tried vainly to tell amusing stories, but he was tense.
After dinner they walked along the dark streets, past the twenty-four-hour strip joints, the restaurants, the book stores, the theaters showing “Gay Lusts” and “Whip of Desire.” Pierce remained tense.
“Worried about the party?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You seem jittery.”
“Well, it is a bit unusual. Engagement.”
“But you don’t intend to stick to it.”
“Still,” Pierce said. He walked along, looking in the shop windows.
“I used to come down here a lot,” he said.
“Not anymore?”
“No, not much.”
“Why not?”
Pierce shrugged. Then he said, “Oh, have you seen these adverts?” He pointed to a tobacconist shop window. The window was filled with small, hand-printed ads. “The tarts have always advertised here. Cost you sixpence a week for a legitimate card, and a guinea for the usual.”
Raynaud looked at them. Mostly, they advertised massage, or Swedish and French treatments. A few for language lessons. Some were more original.
“YOUNG GIRL SEEKS EXCITING NEW POSITION” Bayswater phone number.
“OWNER wishes to sell or rent sports model, soft pink upholstery, convertible.”
“FUR MUFFS for sale.”
“Model offers accommodation in picturesque setting.”
“Rear-view mirrors for sale. Easy attachment to all makes.”
“TRAINED BEAVER for hire.”
Pierce said, “Believe it or not, they’re getting more subtle. You’ll notice most of the numbers are in Bedford Hill. That’s the new area. And Epping Wood.”
They walked on, passing several girls lounging in doorways.
“Never fool with these,” Pierce said. “Terrible, all of them. Cost you a fiver—that’s because you’re American—and she’ll milk you in three minutes and toss you out the door. Bad show. And they all expect flag.”
“What?”
“Flagellation. They expect it. Most of the customers come here specially. Clerks from the City, they’re the worst, slinking about with their bowlers and umbrellas, and you know they’re itching to get the whip into their hot little hands.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Pierce lit a cigarette. “You want a decent girl, you’ve got to go through the proper channels. So to speak. But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing one of the service stations of the Hou
se of Parliament. One of the finer pumps, as they say.”
He laughed. They came down to Shaftesbury Avenue but it was theater time, and all the cabs were taken. Pierce waited impatiently at the curb, smoking the cigarette quickly, then said, “Let’s walk on a bit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Your hands are trembling.”
“No, they’re not. Well, yes they are. Look: this sounds foolish, but I think we’re being followed.”
“Followed? But why?”
“I don’t know, but we are. We’ve gone along for four blocks, and there’s a man still behind us. Tan mac and a brown hat.”
Raynaud smiled. “And you think he’s following us?”
“Yes.” Pierce lit another cigarette, holding it tensely in his fingers. “I do.”
“Why?”
“I tell you, I don’t know.”
“All right,” Raynaud said. “Take it easy. We can handle it simply enough.”
“Don’t look back,” Pierce said.
“I wasn’t going to,” Raynaud said. “You see that music shop up ahead? When we get there, stop and shake hands with me. Wave goodbye, and walk on. I’ll wait there.”
“All right. But remember. Tan mac and—”
“A brown hat. I know. Just take it easy.”
They walked on a few yards, until they reached the music store. Guitars, sitars, and sheet music were displayed in the window. They shook hands, and Pierce walked on. Raynaud lit a cigarette, glancing back as he did so. He saw the man Pierce had described. A short fat man, trundling along, looking harmless. Raynaud waited until the man was quite close, then turned.
“Say, friend—”
The man looked up, startled.
Raynaud grabbed him by the collar and flung him into the doorway, out of sight.
“I say—”
“Shut up,” Raynaud said. He frisked him quickly, felt a weight in the left pocket. He drew out the gun, a snub-nosed revolver, and saw Pierce coming back.
Raynaud dropped the gun into his own pocket and Pierce, coming to the doorway, said, “Who is he?”
“Don’t know.”
Raynaud lit his lighter and held it near the man’s face. By the yellow, flickering light, they saw a chubby, ruddy, innocent-looking face.
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