“They don’t belong here.”
“Could they be some of your friends from the D.C. police?”
“No.”
“I thought you said they were baby-sitting me.”
“I lied. When you come to Santee’s farmhouse, keep going.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say.”
A.C. did. As they went by, he snatched a few quick glimpses of the farm. The front gate was still hanging open. There were no vehicles parked in front. The windows A.C. remembered as dark still were.
“Go on another mile or so,” Lanham said, “then do one of those quick turnarounds again.”
He kept on, fenced fields and ditches on either side, until at last they came to an intersection with a gravel road. A.C. muffed the turn and had to back up, but they were soon heading back toward Santee’s farm.
Nothing came toward them.
“Stop,” said Lanham, when the Santee house came into view again.
A.C. did, leaving the car in the middle of the road. Lanham lifted himself slightly and looked around.
“Okay,” he said. “Drive in.”
Everything seemed the same, just as deserted, just as silent, just as eerie. A.C. started to pull up under the porte cochere.
“No,” Lanham said. “Go around the back. I want to put the car where it can’t be seen from the road.”
Bumping along past the deserted verandah, A.C. steered the car around a clump of bushes and parked on the grass near the back door. By the time he had unfastened his seat belt, Lanham was already out of the car.
A.C. shut the door on his side, then halted. He stared down the lane at the stables. They looked as undisturbed as before, except for one significant difference.
“Someone’s been here,” he said. He pointed to the stables. “That big door there, it was open yesterday. Now it’s closed.”
“It rained last night. The ground’s soft. There should be tire tracks.”
“Unless they were washed out by the rain.”
“Maybe. Maybe the wind blew the door closed.”
“I’ll go take a look.”
“No,” said Lanham. “Let’s deal with the house first. Go around front and ring the bell.”
“What if someone answers?”
“If it’s your lady friend, your day is made.”
“What if it’s her brother?”
“I’ll be here to back you up.”
“If anyone’s in there, wouldn’t they have noticed us drive up?”
“I really don’t think anyone’s here. Go on.”
A.C. started walking, then looked back. Lanham was approaching the back door, taking a large pocket knife from his coat. A.C. hurried. No one looked at him from the windows along the verandah. No one answered the bell. He waited, listening to birds calling in the distance. There was mud on the stone steps, but he could not tell if it was old. It might have been there the previous day. He hadn’t been looking at mud.
He rang again, three times, sharply. When there was still no response, he went back to the rear of the house. Lanham had disappeared. The screen door was ajar. The wooden door behind it was fully open.
Perspiring despite the cool morning, A.C. stepped inside, finding himself at the end of a long narrow hall. He called Lanham’s name, but the detective didn’t answer. A boot-scraper and several pairs of riding boots stood along one side. They were quite dusty.
Farther along was a large pantry off to the left. Shelves, fully stocked with canned and packaged goods, ran along three of the walls. Two fifty-pound bags of dog meal, one of them opened, sat on the floor. He moved on, into a large old-fashioned kitchen. Two glasses were set upside down on the drainboard, but no other kitchenware or utensils were in view. The sink was dry.
Hearing a sound toward the front of the house, he pushed through a set of swinging double doors, entering a long, formal dining room with a table large enough to seat a dozen or more people. There were crystal decanters, pewter ware, and antique brass objects set along the tops of a sideboard and cabinets and corner tables. The chamber reminded him of rooms in old colonial plantation houses kept in a state of historical authenticity for the benefit of visiting tourists.
Another set of double doors at the far end of the dining room opened onto a long central hall. Immediately to the right was a sitting room with French doors facing the verandah. It was in the same state of pristine preservation as the dining room.
Along the left of the central hall was the main staircase, descending to the entrance foyer in the grand Southern manner. Opposite the foot of these stairs was the enormous living room he had glimpsed through the windows of the verandah the previous afternoon. Again, it seemed little disturbed, bereft of the little artifacts of everyday life. A.C. picked up a marble ashtray, finding it cleaned and polished. There was dust on the mantelpiece. The candles set in polished brass holders were new and unused; their wicks still white.
Beside the hearth, however, was a large, round woven basket filled with old newspapers. On the top of the pile was a copy of the Winchester, Virginia, paper. A.C. picked it up, noticing that it had been published the day before. He looked farther through the stack, finding a New York Times and a New York Globe from several days before—the day he and Camilla had left Bermuda. They carried stories of the murder of Belinda St. Johns and the others.
The sound he had heard repeated itself, and then again. Someone was opening and closing drawers. He dropped the papers back into the basket and crossed the hall, entering a smaller corridor that led perpendicularly from it. There were several rooms along it. Lanham had found the one that was the study. He was going through a large desk by the windows, taking papers from the drawers, setting them on the top, examining each carefully, then returning the stack to where he had found it. A.C. supposed he had gone through these motions thousands of times in his career.
“Where have you been?” Lanham said softly, thumbing through what appeared to be a stack of old telephone bills.
“Looking through the house. I found some New York newspapers. Very recent.”
The detective folded a sheaf of the phone bills into a wad and stuck them into a pocket of his sports coat. “It was a good idea, coming here.”
There were three swords hanging on the wall behind the desk, one of them Turkish or Arabic.
“There are as many weapons in here as there are in the living room,” A.C. said.
“I know. The place looks like the fucking Tower of London. The trouble is, a couple of them may be missing.”
He nodded toward a glass-enclosed gun cabinet in the corner. It held four rifles or shotguns. There were spaces for six.
As Lanham opened yet another drawer, A.C. went over to the fireplace. There were a number of framed, standing photographs on the mantel, among them a large group portrait similar to the one he had seen in Camilla’s apartment in New York—the mother and father, Camilla, a younger, dark-haired girl, and the brother, dark and very handsome. Pierre Delasante was not in this picture.
A.C. stepped closer. The mother looked every bit the aristocrat. It would surprise no one to learn she was the head of Charleston’s most exclusive society. Queen Victoria could not have been so self-confident, or so arrogant.
The mother had light hair, though not so purely blond as Camilla’s, yet the others in the family were so very dark. Camilla bore a resemblance to the brother and the other girl, and certainly to the mother, but not at all to the father.
There were smaller photographs on either side of the group shot, all individual portaits. A.C. picked up one, staring at it.
“Here’s her brother. This is Jacques Santee,” A.C. said.
Lanham looked up, a little surprised. “I didn’t look at those yet.”
A.C. brought the picture over. “I can’t think of anyone else it might be. He was in another photograph she had in New York.”
Lanham pried open the frame with his knife and slipped the photograph out. The name “Jacques” was
written in pencil on the back, along with a date.
“This picture’s seven years old,” Lanham said.
“He couldn’t have changed much. She certainly hasn’t.”
“Don’t you recognize him from the Plaza? The man on the motorcycle?”
“I suppose I do.”
“The son of a bitch has nasty eyes.” Lanham put the photograph in his coat pocket.
A.C. went back to the mantel. Among the smaller portraits was one of Pierre Delasante and a lovely picture of Camilla in riding clothes. She was as beautiful as in any of the fashion layouts he had seen, but looked nothing at all like a model. He wished he had known her then.
“Since you’re collecting photographs,” A.C. said, tossing the one of Pierre on the desk, “this has to be the cousin, the man in the limousine. Pierre.”
“I know. The lover boy.”
A.C. put the one of Camilla into a side pocket of his blazer, frame and all. This was theft. They had broken into her house and now he was stealing her picture. It was one thing for the policeman to act this way. There was no excuse for him. But the compulsion was too strong. This could be the last memento he would ever have of her.
Lanham was removing Delasante’s picture from its frame when suddenly his hands stopped. He slowly turned his head toward the door. A.C. heard nothing, and then he did. A creak, a quiet thump, the click of something. Someone else was in the house. Lanham, with great caution, started moving toward the doorway. A.C. stepped ahead of him, wanting to lead the way in case it was Camilla, going down to the end of the smaller corridor. There was another noise, a little louder, but less defined.
Edging out into the main hall, A.C. peered up at the stairs. He heard two quick, heavy steps, coming from the wrong direction—not from the stairs, but from behind. He was turning when the blow struck. There was a sudden numbness. He fell sprawling, hitting the floor with his face.
But he was still conscious, aware of his assailant stepping over him, aware that it was a man, wearing thick-soled dress shoes. Light flared between the man’s legs. The front door was opening to the sun, the light darkening suddenly with the shadow of another man, who stepped inside.
The nearer figure started to move away. A.C. grabbed the ankle of his trailing leg, pulling and twisting. The man careened to one side, his arm thrust out, seeking balance from empty air. A.C. pulled again, sharply. His victim fell with a crash, the pistol in his hand flying loose, skittering across the polished wooden floor, bouncing off the woodwork and spinning to a halt. The intruder by the door started toward it.
A.C. began to rise, when an enormous, explosive, shattering, deafening roar eclipsed his sense of everything else, followed by a gigantic, crystalline crash and the ping and sting of flying glass and metallic fragments.
A.C.’s forehead was cut. He felt the pain and wetness running down to his eye. Lifting himself, he saw that the man by the door had fallen to one knee. He wavered there, his hands over his head.
What remained of the chandelier at the end of the hall by the door was swinging back and forth. Most of the fixture had been shot away, loose bits of glass flying in every direction, but the bulk of it had struck the kneeling man. Clumsily, almost slipping, A.C. got to his feet.
Camilla stood on the stairs, a long shotgun held expertly in her slender arms. She acknowledged him with a look, but there was no affectionate communion. Her eyes were hard. With a quick motion, she push-pulled the weapon’s slide, shoving another shell into the chamber. Her words, spoken angrily, were as sharp and explosive as what had come from the shotgun’s barrel.
“Get that pistol in his hand! There’s another on the floor. Get it!”
A.C. realized she was talking to him. He quickly did as she asked. The kneeling man had cuts on his face and hands. Bits of glass were stuck like little spears in the shoulder of his coat. A.C. took the fellow’s pistol away, noting that it was a Beretta automatic. The gun on the floor was the same model. With both in hand, held by the barrels, he turned back to Camilla.
“Put them on the stairs in front of me,” she said.
He did. Straightening up, he realized he was close enough to step inside the shotgun’s reach and grab her by the thighs and hips, shoving her back. But why would he do that?
“Step back, A.C.,” she said.
“Camilla …”
“Back!”
He could not believe this. He supposed she was only frightened. She would know they were on the same side once she calmed down.
Backing away, he saw Lanham crouched in the side corridor, holding his weapon forward in both hands.
“Come out of there!” Camilla said. She turned the shotgun toward the side hall, though Lanham was not quite in her field of fire.
“For God’s sake, Camilla!” A.C. said. “Don’t shoot him!”
“I won’t shoot anyone, sir, if he does what I say. Come out! Now!”
Lanham made a judgment. There was no confusion or fear on his face as he walked slowly into the hall. His eyes were fixed on hers. He held his revolver at his side, barrel toward the floor.
“Set it down gently,” she said, her voice more even. She had the shotgun aimed at Lanham’s belly, her finger at the trigger. She kept surveillance of the other two men with quick, careful glances.
Lanham placed his weapon on the floor without making a sound. He stood back up and sighed, folding his arms in front of him.
“Where’s your brother, ma’am?” he asked. “Where’s your cousin Pierre?”
“You never mind my brother. You have no right to be here. None of you. This is private property. You are the ones who have broken the law.”
She stood a moment, thinking, centering the shotgun now so it could be aimed at any of them in an instant.
“Is he all right?” she asked the uninjured intruder, nodding toward the other.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Stand up,” she said to the injured man. When he had done so, she moved slightly to her left. “Now, all of you. Empty your pockets. Everything. Now! You, too, A.C.”
Sadly, he did as she asked. Among the things he carried was her red scarf, neatly folded.
When all of the keys and coins and other objects had noisily fallen, she took a step forward, motioning with the shotgun to herd them closer together.
“Down the hall on your right is a door,” she said. “I want you all to walk toward it, slowly, single file.”
“I’ve got to talk to you, Camilla,” A.C. said.
“You said you’d keep him away from me, and here you both are.”
“Camilla!”
“Shut up!”
, The two strangers were moving. Lanham followed. With an imploring look back at her, A.C. did the same.
“Open the door,” she said. The first man did so. “Those stairs go down to the cellar. Go on. Move.”
She let them get ahead of her, then stood on the landing until they had all descended to the gloom of the lower floor. She spoke no further word and showed no interest in them. With one last glance at A.C., she vanished. They heard a key turn in the lock of the door. Her footsteps clicked and clattered on the floorboards above as she hurried about some business. A.C. was reminded of a woman getting ready to go out for the evening. A silence followed.
Their vision adjusted to the darkness, alleviated only by two slim shafts of sunlight coming from small rectangles of windows near the ceiling. The injured man hobbled over to stacked rolls of old carpeting and sank down upon them. His comrade went to him, removing his tie and daubing at some of his lacerations.
“Are you men cops?” A.C. said. “Federal agents?”
“Fuck you,” said the man who’d removed his tie.
“They’re not cops,” Lanham said. “They’re the opposite of cops.”
“He’s a police detective,” A.C. said. “New York City Police Department.”
“You’re in the wrong place, chump,” said the injured man.
A.C. found himself admiring the ma
n’s toughness. The pain he was suffering was doubtless outrageous. A.C. pressed his palm against his own forehead and it came away sticky with blood. There was a large swelling on the back of his head. Yet he felt no pain. He supposed it would come later.
“I don’t know any doctors around here, but there’s a veterinarian in Dandytown,” A.C. said. “He can take care of you.”
“Forget him,” Lanham said. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.” He began to poke around the basement.
“You were in the car we passed,” A.C. said to the others. “You were following us.”
They weren’t interested in conversation. Lanham moved farther away, into another chamber of the cellar. A.C. followed.
“So that’s your lady love,” Lanham said, with some disgust.
“She’s in trouble, that’s all.”
“We’re going to be in worse trouble if that brother of hers shows up.”
They were in deep darkness, feeling with their hands. Lanham fumbled along the wall, looking for a light switch.
“Who do you think they are, those two?” A.C. asked.
“If they still had their weapons, we’d be in a shitload of trouble right now. Maybe even dead.”
“They’re Perotta’s men.”
“Shut up, A.C.”
They had come to a door. Lanham swore, almost happily. Turning the knob, he pushed it open, then felt around the side. A moment later, a light came on, illuminating much of the cellar behind them and revealing a string hanging from a bulb at the ceiling. A.C. pulled it. Another light came on. It was now very bright.
“Ray,” he said. “I have a weapon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A forty-five automatic. My old army sidearm.”
“Where?”
A.C. patted his back.
“How long have you had that?”
“Since I left New York.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you use it?”
“Against Camilla?”
“Shit.”
An odd, distant rumble increased and defined itself as an automobile engine, an automobile moving in low gear. Lanham turned and ran back toward the first chamber. He leapt at the window, gripping the sill and lifting himself to look out. A.C. clambered up beside him. The car passed the house, scattering gravel. Its engine sound diminished, and then was gone.
Looker Page 34
