Hector read:
Dear Mr. Lassiter:
Now you become the quarry.
For you, it will be une longue et terrible souffrance.
La reine le veut.
— VL
Hector tried to brass it out. He shrugged and said, “N´importe. Let them hate, so long as they fear. That would make a fine motto, wouldn’t it? What would it be in Latin? ‘ Oderint dum metuant.’”
“I don’t regard this as an idle threat, my brash young friend.”
“You think he means it,” Hector said.
“Sans aucun doute.” Simon said, “That salutation, La reine le veut — ‘the queen wills it’ — who is the queen?”
Hector handed the note back to Simon. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, Hector? Or is it perhaps that you’re not yet sure?”
“Perhaps both.”
“Peu à peu, it comes. There is someone other than that prostitute you meant to protect. Another woman? That woman in the coach, perhaps? Mademoiselle Devlin? Is she the queen to whom Leek refers in this note?”
“Not her. I…I just can’t.”
“Then I’ll arrest you now. Compel you under authority to tell me. Don’t let others die for your misguided sense of loyalty, Hector. There’s enough blood on your soul already.”
“She can’t know I’m the one who told you.”
“It will remain between us. Who is this woman?”
“I think she’s an innocent…a target of someone trying to implicate her in these crimes. This coda on this letter left in there for me is just more of the same. We already suspect Leek is calling the shots. Why should he suddenly allude to the fact that he’s being directed by some mystery woman?”
“Who is this woman you’re shielding? Tell me now or I’ll arrest you…and I’ll charge you as an accomplice, as well.”
Hector sighed. “A young American poet. Her name is Margaret Wilder.”
“Ah, the hands of Jeremy Turner and your rather odd theory yesterday about them are now explained.” He patted Hector’s cheek. “Well, what’s left of your conscience can rest easy. That name is not new to me. I’ve been making inquires about Mademoiselle Wilder for some hours now, for reasons of my own. I, too, keep my own counsel at times, you see. There have been anonymous tips about a ‘Margaret W.’ So, you’ve betrayed nothing. At most, you’ve merely mildly intensified my interest in this poet. Oh, on that note, our friend Victor also left this on the body of one of the women back there.” Simon handed Hector another bloodied slip of paper:
LINES FOR LASSITER
The dark prince sounds his clarion
Sounds it from afar
Its song is carried on the night wind
Calling our numbers to arms
We descend, cunning wolves
Eyes on the too tender fold
Stalking, watching, waiting
Our minds cry for peace
Our heads ache with black pain
The voice in our heads crowds our thoughts
We say No.
Demanding, the man in our heads wrings his hands
We say No.
The dark man inside insists:
Exhorting. Accusing. Calling for his dues to be paid.
At last, unable to resist, we strike:
I strike.
Nameless, faceless, you cower
You surrender everything
Your blood is the claret that enlivens my tongue
I wash my hands with your heart
I make you small to make me larger
I see you grow small, taking the man with you
Until the next time
And the next time
And the next time.
Each time, the man calls again, stirring the beast
inside
And I seek the wine of another
And another
And another.
Each one is just like you
Each time a tribute to you
Each time, I cut you down again
Each time, you make me grow.
“What do you think, Hector? Of his poem, I mean?”
“Never much been one for poetry.”
“Oui. Nor am I. And where are the rhymes?”
Hector tried to tamp down his anger. “What’s next then?”
“You stay out of this now, Hector,” Simon said. “You’re no longer in my good graces. In time you might be again…if you behave. But no more secrets, d’accord?”
“No more. I understand.”
“How despondent you look. Don’t despair, Hector. Good may yet prevail. Gardons la foi .”
***
Hector settled back in the coach. Hem said, “What was all that?”
Hector said, “Un mauvais quart d’heure.” Hector told them everything. He told them about the murdered prostitutes and the letter left by Leek. “I sense everyone — every American in the literary community — is a suspect in that man’s mind now. He’s digging deep into individual histories. Researching us all, I sense.”
“I want us to leave Paris,” Brinke said, a strange and unfamiliar edge of urgency in her voice. She looked genuinely terrified. “That was about as direct a threat as could be made…that letter and that crazy poem. We’ll pack tonight, Hector. We’ll leave in the afternoon. Nothing is worth the risk. Not squared off against someone who would do what Leek did to all those poor women. Perhaps we could marry in the morning and honeymoon tomorrow night somewhere far from here. Milan…Madrid…Switzerland. Somewhere away from this bloody city. We’ll go to London. Go home and make our way down to Key West. Start our life together there. Please, Hector, promise we’ll leave this town before tomorrow night, as fast as we can.”
Hector looked to Hem.
Hem reached across the seat and squeezed Hector’s knee. “I’m with Brinke. And, hell, why not elope? You weren’t going to do this with family, anyway, right? Marry this beauty in the morning and vamoose, Lasso. If you go to Italy, maybe Hadley and I will come, too. Ezra sent us an invitation. I’m sick of this goddamn weather. And you’re right: I’m a target now, too, maybe, because of the fucking Transatlantic. The five of us will go to Italy. We’ll be safe from them there until the police can wrap this up. It’ll be far enough to discourage them following.”
Hector said, “There may be no place that far.”
Brinke squeezed his hand. Her ring glittered in the light. “I’m leaving Paris tomorrow, Hector. Come with me…” Her black eyes were besieging. “I don’t beg, anyone, not ever, Hector. Not for anything. But I’m begging you. Please come. Don’t gamble away this pretty life together you’ve talked me into.”
Hector took a deep breath, let it out. He decided. “Fine. You choose the church, Brinke. See if it can be arranged for the morning. Us…Hem and Hadley and Sylvia. And Germaine, of course. Then we run. I suppose we’ll consummate our marriage on some night train to somewhere.”
It was against all Hector’s instincts — beating a retreat. Then he looked at Brinke again, at her imploring, charcoal eyes. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said. “I’ve given you my word. Nothing will change my mind. Key West…you’re certain of that?”
“It will be our place…our place alone together,” Brinke said. “All ours.”
Cupping her chin in his palm, smiling, Hector said, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
30
“Two nights ago you had this embarrassment of riches,” Hem said, toying with his fine à l’eau. “Now you’re engaged to Brinke. How’d this come to be?”
Brinke was in a church a short distance away, seeing if she could find an amenable priest for a fast wedding. On the ride to the café, she’d vowed to lie she was “with child if it will speed the plow.”
“Night before last — and earlier that afternoon — was just something bizarre,” Hector said. “Brinke initiated it. Some crazy thing to try and give Molly some new preoccupation. Something to spark Molly’s interest in life again. Molly talke
d Brinke into sampling some cocaine on top of wine. Brinke drank more wine at my place. Then we all ate those cakes of Alice’s that Gertrude dropped off while you and Williams were at my place. Seems they were laced with cannabis. Inhibition, self-control…good sense…any sense, they all went out the window.”
Hem slammed his hand down on the table. “That explains that night last April. I had some of those damned cakes of Alice’s. Couldn’t figure out what hit me so hard. I’d had a few glasses of wine, but never been affected by the vino the way I was that night. And hungry? I ate a bowl of Gertrude’s pretzels that night.” Hem shook his head, this crooked smile on his face at the memory. Then he said, “Molly may take this engagement very badly, of course.”
“Hence the secret,” Hector said. “We’ll just beat out of town.” Hector hated that last as he said it.
Hem said, “You three already agreed to no repeats of the other day’s escapades?”
“Not in so many words. But both of them more or less told me individually they weren’t interested in ‘sharing’ me anymore.”
“I’m not liking the sound of any of this,” Hem said. “And frankly it’s cruel. Cruel to Molly. Running out on her tomorrow, I mean.”
“It is craven,” Hector said. “Well, we’re granted a reprieve for a time, in terms of her finding out. Yesterday afternoon, Molly took off. Claimed she’d been invited to some important dinner with some mystery woman. Said it was something that might change her whole life.”
“That doesn’t sound comforting, either, Lasso.”
“Molly claimed to know the mystery woman. She swore that there was no possibility of a trap or some other sort of subterfuge. Either way, it buys me a little time…time to maybe think of a way to break this to Molly.”
Hector hesitated, then said, “You think I’m doing the right thing, Hem? Marrying Brinke, I mean?”
Hem smiled. “Brinke’s a writer, but not competitive with you. Competition like that always sounds the death knell for love affairs between writers. Brinke understands the life. She’s beautiful, obviously passionate. Handles her liquor well. And she’s smart as a whip. I’m jealous as hell. I meant it earlier — bag Brinke before she wises up. You’ll never find another like her.”
“You’d really come to Italy with us?”
“Not tomorrow, but early next week, yes. Ezra really has been after us to do that. And we both are sick of this weather. There’s a lot of flu going around the city. Doc Williams said we should get Bumby out of Paris until all that passes. So Hash and I were already talking about Rapallo.”
“Sounds like we’ll have us a time, then.” Hector slowly shook his head. “Yeah… Certainly a better time than the last time we had together in Italy.”
“A damn fine time,” Hem agreed. “Be good to go this time as tourists. Bugs me though, and I bet you, too. Leaving so many friends here to the whims of those cocksuckers — to this Nada bunch, I mean. Goddamn that fucking Leek.”
Hector rubbed his eyes. “We’ve both now narrowly averted being arrested. I don’t think we can pull off a third dodge on that front. We’ve both pissed off Simon too many times.”
“True.” Hem smiled and nodded at Brinke. “God, look at her. She’s sublime.”
Brinke was returning, but frowning. Her black hair glistened with the melting snow. Her overcoat’s tails were flapping behind her; her felt hat was clutched in her hand. She shrugged off her coat and slung it over the back of an empty chair and balanced her fedora atop it. “We were almost set. Tomorrow, nine in the morning at Notre-Dame-des-Champs.”
She leaned in for a kiss. Hector kissed her and said, “I’m surprised they agreed to our crazy schedule.”
Brinke smiled. “It wasn’t that easy, I’m afraid. Connor Templeton was going to buy the church a replacement window. He was going to do that with his advance money from Murder in Milan.”
Hem laughed. “A window in exchange for a jiffy marriage? Christ, is there nothing that isn’t for sale anymore?”
Brinke said, “Well, they do call it ‘stained’ glass. But it seems you have to have a license, and there’s some time involved in all that. And I can’t believe I almost did this, and on a whim. Marriage has always been for other people. Never thought I’d take the plunge. One of you chaps buy me a drink and talk some sense into me before I almost sin again.”
Hector knew Hem’s money was tight. Hem never let anyone forget that. Hector raised a hand and ordered a bottle of Rioja Alta, a favorite of Hem’s from the previous summer’s holiday in Spain.
Brinke said, “Either way, we still leave tomorrow, Hector?”
“Agreed.”
Their wine arrived and Hem filled their glasses. He toasted, “To the Lassiters! Whenever it happens.”
They drank and Hector said, “Brinke’s keeping her maiden name.”
“Very modern,” Hem said. “And a sign of returning good taste. Prettier sounding than Lassiter. Maybe you should take the name ‘Devlin,’ Lasso.” Hem rolled that one around in his head, said, “Hector Devlin. Sounds like a good middleweight’s name. He’d be a secret southpaw — only thing that compensates for his being a habitual rummy.”
“I think we’re witnessing the birth of Hem’s next protagonist,” Hector said dryly. He winced suddenly. “Oh God.” He checked his pocket watch. “It’s five past noon.” Hector looked at Brinke. “Yesterday we told Molly we’d—”
“Meet her at the Rotonde,” Brinke finished for him, looking a little sick. She sighed. “I’ll call…tell her we’re running late.”
Brinke sighed again, sipped deeply of her wine, then stood and put back on her hat and coat. “I’ll go see if I can find a phone.”
Hem’s brow was furrowed. He stroked his mustache. “The Rotonde? That was a risky choice, wasn’t it, Lasso? That’s Philippe’s haunt.”
Hector said, “Molly first suggested Magots. Brinke countered with the Rotonde.”
Hem said, “Given what you said they both said about the cessation of the ménage à trois, I guess maybe Brinke figured to force matters to a crisis. I mean, by arranging to maybe run into Molly’s beau there. Precipitate some break.”
“Makes sense,” Hector said, “but smacks of Machiavelli.”
Hem smirked. “You may just have defined womankind.”
Brinke plopped back down in her seat. She sipped her wine, poured in a little more. “Talked someone from the neighboring telegraph office into running next door and asking after Molly. Seems the dear little poetess stood us up. Molly left word she couldn’t make it for our rendezvous, but instead said that we were to catch up with her at Joan Pyle’s around eight.” Brinke nodded at Hem. “She asked you be there, too, Hem, with Hadley. Asked if we could alert Gertrude and Alice…Sylvia. You know, all the usual faces.”
Hector said, “To what possible end?”
“Molly said it is a surprise.”
Hector realized he’d spilled a little wine on his hand. He dabbed at it with a napkin. “We going to go?”
“I don’t want to,” Brinke said. “But I think we better. We should leave town on the best note we can with her, don’t you think?”
Hector nodded, feeling Hem’s gaze on him. “Sure. Swell.”
“Let’s finish up,” Brinke said, “then I’m going home to begin packing at least some of my stuff. For our getaway, I mean. When things cool down here we can return from Italy and do the deed and finish closing out our apartments.”
“She who must be obeyed has spoken,” Hector said to Hem.
He smiled at Hector, raised his glass. “Better learn to love it, Lasso,” Hem said. “It’s your brand-new beautiful life.”
***
Hem said, “How’s that stomach, Lasso? Dreading getting those women in the same room in a bit?”
Hector hoisted his glass. “It’s the artist’s curse, maybe. Sordid lifestyles, I mean. If I was an homme d’affaires, perhaps I wouldn’t find myself in this predicament.” Hector shrugged, said, “Nous verrons ce que nous
verrons.”
Hem snorted into his glass. “Right. Oh, Christ, look there. It’s the fucking ‘Master.’ I knew this place was a mistake.”
Hem and Hector had settled on a café close by Brinke’s apartment. They had dropped her there for a couple hours of packing for the next day’s hasty escape.
Ford Madox Ford saw the two young writers, waved and shuffled their way. Hector groaned and rose and shook the old British novelist’s hand. Ford’s mustache was stained with something Hector thought might be the detritus of onion soup. Ford’s never-pleasant breath also strongly attested to that possibility.
In his muttering, wheezing voice, Ford said, “Ah, the young…Yankee Turks.” Ford helped himself to an empty chair, said, “This weather…hell on my lungs. Reminds me…of a winter’s weekend…nearly snowed in at the offices…of the English Review. Henry — James — dropped in. Henry and I…we became…quite trapped. We—”
Hector began to lose the thread, almost immediately. Hector remembered something that Gertrude had once told him H. G. Wells purportedly said in describing Ford: “A copious carelessness of reminiscence.”
As Ford droned on, Hector watched Hem. His friend had this indolent half-smile on his face. Hem’s brown eyes looked attentive — Hem’s eyes at least looked that way to Ford, Hector figured. But knowing Hem as he did, Hector could see the contempt in those quick brown eyes.
“— and so today…was like that day,” Ford said. “And tomorrow? Commitment piles upon commitment…chore upon chore. Lads, the French…have a phrase. Do you know it?”
Hector shook his head, said, “Not until you say it. There are, after all, so many phrases.”
“The French have a…phrase,” Ford said again, as if Hector hadn’t spoken. “La semaine à deux jeudis. It means the week…with two Thursdays in it. I sense this…is such a week. I remember…Conrad remarking that—”
Tuning him out again, Hector reached for his cigarette pack. A rotund, balding man with slicked-over strands of black hair and a black mustache and beard was standing a few feet away, looking over the busy café for someplace to sit. He seemed familiar to Hector. After a moment, Hector placed him — Molly’s hero poet, Léon-Paul Fargue.
One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1) Page 22
