Venom Business Page 20

  “I know,” he said, with a nervous laugh.

  “Then do not fight me. I cannot bear to be humiliated twice in one night.”

  Afterward she looked away from him. The rain had stopped, but the window was covered with a fine mist which scattered the light from the street lamp. He looked at her strong profile and her soft hair. He bit her earlobe.

  “Unhappy?”

  “No. Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About men, and what you can tell. You cannot hide anything here. It all comes out. He was such a bastard to me.”

  “Forget about him.”

  “I’m trying,” she said, “but you only made it worse. You were too nice.”

  “Maybe I should slap you around,” he said.

  “That’s what he did,” she said. “And the biting. He bites everything. Breasts, bottom, your legs. He even bit my toes until I screamed.”

  “But you didn’t leave.”

  “No,” she said. “Instead, I made excuses in my mind. His mother, his father, his uncle.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Oh, yes. I met them all.”

  “What did you think of Uncle John?”

  “He frightens me. The eyes, especially. There is no warmth to them, no feeling, no sense of humanity.”

  “Richard likes him.”

  “Richard would. They are two of a kind, with women.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It is a long story,” she said. “And you must be tired.”

  In fact, he was not. He felt relaxed and good, but awake.

  “No. A little hungry, maybe.”

  “Would you like some food?”

  “I’ll settle for a sandwich,” he said, “if you will tell me about Uncle John.”

  “A sandwich? I am insulted. Veal piccante.”

  “Too much work.”

  “No, it is easy.” She got out of bed, lightly, and stretched. “Besides you have made me happy. I owe you something.”

  “You owe me nothing.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “I think you believe that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then be careful,” she said, “or I will fall in love with you.” She went to the closet and pulled on a simple dress, not bothering with underwear. Then she padded in bare feet out to the kitchen. She moved with a simple, comfortable grace.

  “I could get used to it,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “It would never work.”

  While she cooked, he sat at the kitchen table. She was relaxed with him; he felt as if he had known her for years. There was a strangely appealing quality about it, sitting there in nothing and watching her cook. He felt close to her, and warm toward her. And then he looked at her face and saw the fine features, the beauty, the eyes that were made to stare into a camera, and knew that she was right: it would never work. And a part of him was astonished that she had known this so instinctively.

  “Uncle John,” she said, “is a psychiatrist, but he is very peculiar.”

  “He does research.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean he has strange tastes. There is a rumor that he has syphilis which cannot be cured. It is in his brain, they say. And he is famous in Bays water and Shepherd’s Market, with the girls. Though he has money, he goes only to cheap girls.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “His car. Many people have seen it.”

  “He’s not married?”

  “Not now. He was, a long time ago. His wife had money—not a lot, but some. She died under unusual circumstances.”

  “Oh?”

  “The official story is that she had a heart attack. She died a day later. It seemed reasonable; she was in the hospital when she died, and there would have been no question except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Her age. She was thirty.”

  “People can have heart attacks at thirty.”

  She shrugged. “Anything is possible. Aren’t you cold, sitting there?”

  “Are you saying she was killed?”

  “No. But people who know Doctor Black seem to die quite frequently. He was there in the car when Herbert Pierce died.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Doctor Black gave Herbert first aid on the way to the hospital, after he was hit by the car. Only Lucienne, who was driving, did not go to the nearest hospital, in Avignon. She went all the way to Aries.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know the nearest hospital.”

  “Shouldn’t she have asked?”

  “She was probably upset, confused.”

  “Probably. And then there was another rumor. You see, according to the inquest—which was held in France—the car had broken Herbert Pierce’s right leg and left arm and cracked five ribs. Yet he was dead on arrival in the hospital.”

  Raynaud shrugged.

  “There was a rumor here, at the time, that he had probably suffocated along the way. As if somebody had held an unconscious man, and pinched the nose and covered the mouth. A very nasty rumor.”

  “Any proof?”

  “None.”

  “Just a rumor,” Raynaud said.

  Whenever half a billion dollars died, he thought, there could be rumors. Sly rumors, amused rumors, vicious rumors. No man, even one so apparently outstanding as Herbert Pierce, could amass a fortune of half a billion dollars without making enemies who would pounce on him after death.

  “Yes,” she said. “There are always vicious rumors.”

  “You sound as if you believe it.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t, until three years ago. There was a scandal here. I was not in London at the time; I was shooting on location in Rome, but I heard about it. A prostitute, a call girl, very beautiful, specializing in unusual things. She was strangled in Mayfair. She was seeing a Minister, which was why there was a scandal. But then she was also seeing Doctor Black.”

  “And probably a dozen others.”

  “Probably.”

  Raynaud shook his head. “Sandra,” he said, “I agree with you that Black is an unpleasant character, but you can’t condemn him on this kind of evidence.”

  “Looking at his face, I could believe it. All of it. He despised Herbert Pierce, you know.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because Black was always poor.”

  This surprised Raynaud. He had somehow assumed that Black was as rich as everyone else in the Pierce family.

  “His whole side of the family was poor, though well educated. Pierce was poorly educated but wealthy. He was lucky in business. Black always thought of his cousin as a lout who had gained a fortune he did not deserve.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Black was intensely jealous—rather odd, in a psychiatrist—but that is why, I think, he had the affair with Lucienne.”

  “Black?”

  “It was a slight scandal at the time. Another of your rumors. But people were interested, because he was related to Lucienne’s husband.”

  “When?”

  “It began shortly after the marriage, and it continued, on and off, for years.”

  “After she became a widow?”

  “Yes, even then. It lasted for nearly ten years, I think.”

  “And now?”

  “Nothing. They are friends. Lucienne’s old lovers are always friends. She has the knack.”

  “I see.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Yes,” Raynaud said. He did not explain more.

  “Then perhaps you can see why. She is still beautiful, and still very French. Her list of lovers is endless—she has learned to handle men.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “You can be sure of it. She can get a man to do anything she wants.”

  The veal was finished, and she served it sizzling to him on the table.

  “She has endless lovers,” Sandra said. “There is something wrong with her, I think. She has had so many. All the famo
us actors, all the famous politicians, all the famous artists. She has had them all, for a time. Richard hates her, you know.”

  “I gathered.”

  “He talked to me about her quite often. He thinks she ruined Herbert’s chances of becoming knighted, and receiving a Ministerial position.”

  Raynaud shrugged.

  “I can believe it,” Sandra said. “Even now, you will occasionally meet a middle-aged woman who can talk of nothing but Lucienne’s shocking affairs.”

  “Do they bother you?”

  “Me? No. But for Richard it was different. It was something to live with. He was always close to his father.”

  Raynaud almost said, “He hated his father,” but caught himself in time.

  “Richard used to tell me about her constantly,” Sandra said, “in the old days. He would get very excited, very angry. Once, he even said he made love to her himself, but I did not believe him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Something about the way he said it. He is upset about her, now especially. He thinks she is trying to have him killed.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “I don’t know. But he is convinced she wants to kill him. He has even seen Black about some poison-antidote pills.”

  “Richard likes Black.”

  “Yes. Black helped him, in fights with Lucienne. Straightened things out, smoothed the way. Richard appreciated that, since the fights were usually about money, and since he usually got his way in the end.”

  “Black interceded?”

  “I think so.”

  Raynaud was slowly beginning to see that things were not so simple as he had once believed. These people and their motives, their drives, were all intertwined in a very complex way.

  “How did you meet Richard?” he asked.

  “At a party.” She finished the veal, and wiped the sauce with a piece of bread. The peasantlike simplicity of the gesture contrasted oddly with the aristocratic beauty of her face. “Everyone meets everyone else at parties. Richard liked me, took me home, and practically raped me before I could beat him away. After that, he was fascinated; he dated me constantly, and I continued to refuse. I was quite astonished when he asked me to marry him.”

  “Why did you accept?”

  She shrugged. “I come from Naples. The poor part of Naples.”

  She gave him a shy, questioning smile.

  “I understand,” he said.

  They both arose early. Sandra had to get to the studio, and Raynaud was eager to be off as well. He had slept little during the night, but had lain awake, tossing and turning, thinking about what she had said. At breakfast, they were awkward and formal until he got up and kissed her on the cheek.

  A car honked outside.

  “That’s the studio limousine,” she said. “I must run.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  She grabbed a raincoat, then stopped. “What will you tell Richard?” she said.

  “About last night? Whatever you want.”

  “What would you prefer to tell him?” she asked.

  “That I slept on the couch, in the living room.”

  She smiled. “As I thought: you are too kind. All right.”

  The car honked again.

  “I wish,” she said, “that I was still a student at Naples, and I had just met you. You would sweep me off my feet, and take me to Mexico…”

  “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I would have,” she said. “Then.”

  He kissed her, but it was brief and impersonal.

  “Thank you for listening to me,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “And come see me again.”

  “I will.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and held him for a moment. The studio car outside honked a third time, long and irritably.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel all alone.”

  Then she ran for the door, and was gone.

  12. POLICE

  IT WAS ELEVEN IN the morning when he unlocked the door to Pierce’s apartment and let himself in. The living room was dark, the shades drawn, the room quiet.

  The first gunshot startled him.

  Raynaud dived behind the couch, seeing the bright yellow-white light from the barrel of the gun, and catching a glimpse of two figures sitting on a couch in the far corner: Pierce, with a shotgun in his hand, and Dominique, standing in a nightgown.

  He dropped to the ground, and heard the sound of the gun being cocked.

  “Hey,” he said, “listen to me—”

  The second shot roared within the confines of the room. There was now dense, acrid, smoke.

  “Hey, Richard, listen—”

  Raynaud stuck his head up over the couch.

  The third blast sent him ducking again.

  “You son of a bitch,” Pierce said, “I ought to kill you. Maybe I will kill you.”

  Still another shot, and then a metallic snap as the breech was broken open.

  Raynaud leapt for the door. It would take Pierce a few moments to reload, and perhaps…

  To his surprise, the stock of the gun struck him on the shoulder, knocking him against the wall. Pierce had thrown it. The gun clattered to the floor and Raynaud stopped, pausing at the door.

  Pierce was laughing, and Dominique tittered girlishly.

  “What the hell?”

  Pierce continued to laugh, clutching his stomach. He walked to the couch and collapsed on it, doubled over in mirth.

  Then Raynaud noticed. No bullet holes. No buckshot scatter. Nothing. The apartment was unmarked. With the laughter ringing in his ears, he picked up the gun and ejected the shells.

  Blanks.

  “Did I scare you?” Pierce said, still laughing. “Did I?”

  “You scared me,” Raynaud said.

  “You poor bastard, you ran like a rabbit.”

  Pierce’s eyes were filled with tears. He continued to laugh.

  “You jumped like you’d been goosed. Jesus. Jesus.”

  Raynaud held the gun in his hands. “It wasn’t funny.”

  “Funny? Christ, it was hilarious. If only you could have seen…” Pierce sat up and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Jesus, if only you could have seen yourself.”

  “It wasn’t funny.”

  Pierce stopped laughing and sulked. “It was.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “But they were only blanks, for Christ’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t funny.”

  “You’ve been too long in the jungle, lad.”

  “Don’t call me lad.”

  Pierce got up. He walked over to Raynaud, and took the shotgun out of his hands.

  “All right,” he said. “I won’t.” He hefted the gun in his hands, feeling the weight. “Like it?”

  “Beautiful,” Raynaud said.

  “I got it from Harrods. On sale.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Did you have a good time last night, Charles boy?”

  “Don’t call me boy.”

  “Did you have a good time last night?”

  “Not very.”

  “How strange,” Pierce said. “She’s usually very good in bed. Was she tired?”

  “She was upset.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “She didn’t care for your little display.”

  “A shame. Bloody shame.” He smiled. “And did you comfort her?”

  “Some,” Raynaud said.

  There was a knock at the door. Pierce opened it and said, “Come in, officer.”

  A bobby stepped hesitantly into the room, and looked around at the thick blue smoke.

  “Sorry, sir, but we heard shots…”

  “That’s quite all right,” Pierce said. “You were right to investigate.”

  The bobby stared at Pierce, then Raynaud, and finally Dominique curled up on the couch. Nobody said anything.

  “Is there, ah, something wrong, sir?”

  “Not at all,�
�� Pierce said. “I was merely shooting at my good friend, Charles Raynaud. You see, he spent the night with my fiancée.”

  Raynaud said nothing. His early, furious anger was cooling; he watched Pierce, trying to understand what he was doing.

  “Shooting at him, sir?” the bobby said.

  “Yes. Blanks, of course.”

  “That’s illegal, sir,” the bobby said. “You should be aware that any use of a deadly weapon—”

  “Oh, I know that,” Pierce said. “But in this case nobody is going to press charges. Mr. Raynaud is my house guest. He is visiting here from Mexico for a few days. We are old friends, you see.”

  The bobby frowned and sniffed the smoke. He continued to stand hesitantly by the door, not really stepping into the room. He was being circumspect; this was, after all, Belgravia. One couldn’t treat Belgravia residents like Cheapside riffraff.

  “Do you mind, sir, if I ask the gentleman about that?”

  Pierce stepped back. “Not at all.”

  “Sir,” the bobby said to Raynaud, “if you wish to press charges on this matter, you will have to—”

  “No charges,” Raynaud said grimly.

  “You’re quite certain, sir?”

  “Quite certain.”

  The bobby nodded and shook his head, bewildered. “Very good, sir. Sorry to disturb you all.”

  He touched his cap and left. Pierce closed the door behind him, leaned back, and smiled at Raynaud.

  “Expertly done,” Raynaud said.

  “I thought so.”

  “What was the point?”

  “No point,” Pierce said.

  Raynaud said nothing. He realized quite clearly that Pierce had used the incident to make certain the police knew a lot about Raynaud. It was a bizarre incident; there would be talk among the police; everyone would soon know that there was a strange American friend of Richard Pierce who had allegedly slept with Pierce’s fiancée and at whom shots had been fired from a shotgun.

  The police would keep that in the back of their minds. Pierce had seen to that.

  Why?

  Raynaud said, “I have a business meeting this morning. You’ll have to do without me.”

  “Charles, I’m paying you to be at my side.”

  “You’re also shooting at me,” Raynaud said. He walked to the door and left, while Richard stood there and watched. As he walked down the stairs he paused for a moment to listen. Quite distinctly, he heard Richard and Dominique laughing.