The widows war, p.2
The Widow's War, page 2
He made it a rule never to dwell too long on any one client, and always to spread his charm in equal measure. Young people were rare at The Hermitage. Those that did appear were almost invariably girls. Ryan would size up each of them with the dispassionate expertise of a good housewife at the butcher’s, and if one pleased him, he would seduce her. Sometimes he entertained them in the sauna; more often on the rug in his study; and, in special cases, in his cork-lined bedroom.
The Hermitage offered Ryan a comfortable life, but a dull one. The arrival of Mr Sargas, and the negotiations over his unusual client, at least promised Ryan a slight diversion. As soon as the man had gone, he called his secretary. ‘Miss McKinley, bring me the particulars on Madame Achar. I don’t expect there’ll be many, but I’d like to know what doctor she may have in England. And make your inquiries with the utmost discretion. If the woman does have a doctor over here, I’d prefer you to pretend that you’re making a routine check on behalf of some official organization. On no account do I want The Hermitage mentioned.’
As soon as she had gone, Ryan began to make a number of phone calls — all person-to-person — some to London, some to the Continent; and by the time Miss McKinley returned, he was reasonably satisfied with his inquiries. He was also intrigued.
‘Well?’
‘Madame Achar has also been consulting a Dr Childs — Dr Ivor Childs, of Wimpole Street. As you know, he specializes in psychiatric problems.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes, sir. He was not helpful. In fact, he was most unhelpful. He asked if I was acting for a Dr Lopez. When I told him I was not, he became, sir, frankly abusive. He accused me of being impertinent. Then he hung up.’
Ryan stared at the desk-top. ‘Miss McKinley, what have you written up for Madame Achar?’
‘The usual night sedation, and ten milligrams of Valium three times a day.’
Ryan sat inspecting his thick knuckles. ‘She arrived this morning? And she still hasn’t left her room?’
‘She hasn’t even been down for a facial, sir.’
‘But she’s not on a strict regime?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Which means she is eating?’ Ryan asked, with a dull smile.
‘Her appetite is not good, sir.’
‘Miss McKinley, I think it’s time I had a little professional chat with our Madame Achar. But again I want you to be especially discreet. Our client appears to be unusually jealous of her privacy. So make it quite clear that it’s to be a professional call, entirely at her own convenience.’
The Scotswoman departed with a faint rasp of starch.
Hugh Dermot Ryan had drunk half a bottle of whisky — with no visible effect — when the house phone sounded on his desk. He spoke into it, glanced at the thick buff package still lying on his desk, then sat back to wait.
It was a full ten minutes before the knock come on the door. He called out and Miss McKinley opened it. Ryan stood up, smiling graciously.
The woman who entered was of medium height, fine-boned and slim, with copper-dark hair. With his practised eye, Ryan put her age in the early forties. Although her figure appeared to be exceptionally well cared for, with the ankles of a young girl, she was betrayed by her mouth. This had a hard downward line, set in an exquisite oval face, and her skin was slightly taut about the checks and impeccably varnished. She wore a plain black dress and large dark glasses.
‘Madame Achar, how kind of you to come!’ His big smooth hand crept forward and clasped hers, which was tiny and very cold. He went on, smiling: ‘I apologize for not having called in on you in your room, but I felt that this meeting would be better held officially, in my office. I confess,’ he added, as he led her to a black leather armchair, ‘that I’m a trifle embarrassed to know how to properly entertain you.’ As he sat down, his expression became grave. ‘I am afraid that it would not be entirely ethical of me — in my professional capacity, you understand — to offer you anything to drink. Except coffee.’
She had carefully crossed her legs so that Ryan saw just enough, but no more. ‘I am not interested in your professional capacity, Mr Ryan. You are not a doctor. You are an administrator, a bureaucrat.’ Her accent was distinct, with that sharp cosmopolitan inflection that can be heard in every bar from St Moritz and Cannes to Acapulco and Copacabana. As Ryan sat watching her, a series of imaginative speculations crossed his mind — of what he would like to do to her. He was not used to being insulted, even by rich spoilt women, however famous. Yet he was neither surprised by her nor angered. He already knew, from his various researches, enough of her past not to expect a woman of refinement.
He sat back, steepled his fingers together, and gave the woman a non-committal stare. ‘Madame Achar, I must point out one thing to you. As proprietor of this establishment, I am directly responsible for the health and well-being of every one of my clients. There are, of course, no rules by which I can force you to follow medical advice. However, in your case, Madame —’
Her voice snapped at him, small and hard across the room: ‘All you doctors are charlatans, pill-merchants! I have no illusions about your establishment, Mr Ryan, but I have certainly not come here to be drugged. I have come here to be alone — and I am paying handsomely for the privilege.’
He smiled. ‘Very well, Madame. Under the circumstances, I will make a special exception. I have a well-chilled Krug sixty-four.’
‘I am bored with champagne. Have you any Château d’Yquem?’
Ryan moved across to a cabinet. He chose the wine reluctantly. He was not a mean man, but he had a decent respect for objects of value; and above all, he hated dispensing hospitality to people he did not like.
He opened the ancient bottle and poured the slightly misty yellow wine into two chilled glasses; he carried them both over and handed one to the woman with a mock bow. ‘You understand, Madame, that I take no responsibility for this?’
‘Who reported to you on me, Mr Ryan?’
‘I have my sources.’
The edges of her mouth tightened, then she seemed to accept the inevitable. She was too far from her home ground now, and even if her influence could be made to extend this far, she already knew — from her own researches — that the man behind the desk was not one who would break easily, and would be almost impossible to intimidate, even as a result of the most subtle and exhaustive pressures. Her only hope was that he could be bought.
She suddenly smiled, showing two rows of perfect teeth behind blood-red lips. ‘Mr Ryan, you are one of the most impudently self-confident men I have met for a long time. I am a foreigner. When things have improved back home, I shall enjoy inviting you to my country. You will at least have the opportunity to learn some manners.’ Ryan said nothing; her smile grew bleak. ‘I understand that you were extremely insulting to my friend and close adviser, Monsieur Sargas? I do not tolerate bad behaviour, Mr Ryan.’
Ryan drank his wine. ‘I was under the impression, Madame, that your friend Sargas is a man who is not unaccustomed to bad behaviour.’
She was sitting very straight. ‘Monsieur Sargas also informed me that you raised the agreed price for my stay here to $3,000 a week. That is exorbitant. $3,000 a week for a diet of lemon juice? A scandal! It should be exposed.’
‘You would be quickly exposed with it, Madame.’
She stood up in front of him and smoothed her dress. ‘What is there to expose about me?’
Ryan sighed; he got up and refilled her glass. When he sat down again, his eyes did not move from her face; and although her dark glasses were impenetrable, he knew that she was watching him just as closely.
He spoke now in his fluent Spanish: ‘You ask what I have to expose about you, Señora? May I assure you, with all respect, that in my profession I make it my business to be well-informed. I know who you are — where you come from — your whole history. Most of it is public property. Every newspaper office in the country has a thick file on you, and on your late husband. What I do not know is why you are here. But that is not my business. That is, after all, why you will be paying me $3,000 a week.’
She replied, also in Spanish: ‘And what have you heard about me — unofficially?’
‘That your identity is to be strictly concealed while you remain in my care. Also, that you are suffering from intermittent bouts of dipsomania.’
She flushed visibly under her careful maquillage. ‘Who told you that?’ Her voice was tight with fury.
‘Does the diagnosis offend you? It is not uncommon in my experience.’
‘Who told you?’
Ryan noticed that the hand holding her glass was not quite steady. ‘A gentleman called Dr Lopez,’ he lied.
Madame Achar’s mouth dropped open and her drawn, disciplined features assumed a slack, almost ugly appearance. ‘You cannot have talked to Dr Lopez. It is impossible! You talked to a Dr Childs in London. Didn’t you? That pompous little fool,’ she added; then went on, before Ryan could reply: ‘Perhaps you sweetened his tongue with some of my dollar bills?’
Ryan made a gesture towards the unopened package on the desk. ‘I made a few phone calls, Señora. They were sufficient to confirm your identity. Also, that your present condition is the result of extreme nervous exhaustion. Perhaps even fear?’
‘Fear?’ The word was spoken in a hushed tone. ‘What have I to fear?’
Ryan rose again to refill her glass, but she stopped him.
‘You are not, by any chance,’ she said, ‘playing a comedy with me, Señor Ryan?’
‘By no possible chance, Señora. I take my work seriously.’
‘I have no doubt of that. I would not have been fool enough to come to you in the first place.’
Ryan ignored the ambiguous compliment. He finished the last of the Château d’Yquem, then paused, thinking hard. What intrigued him was not so much the involvement of Dr Ivor Childs, but the relevance of the mysterious Dr Lopez. Ryan had floated the second name as a kite, and had been agreeably surprised by the response. He would like to know more about Dr Lopez, but felt he had pressed the woman far enough for the moment.
He decided to conclude the interview. ‘Señora, I think it is not yet time to exchange confidences. For my part, you may remain assured that your privacy is in good hands. Neither Dr Childs nor Dr Lopez are of any interest to me.’ He leaned across the desk, his eyes fixed on the black lenses which obscured half her face. ‘I can promise you that from now on your interests are mine.’
‘My interests?’
‘Señora, you may think me an impudent and arrogant man. But do not think me a stupid one. You are alone in this country. Your ultimate interests may differ from mine, but at least we both now have one common objective. You wish to remain incognita while in my care. I wish to be paid for my services for as long as possible. As I have promised Señor Sargas, I guarantee you total privacy — from the other clients, from my colleagues, and above all, from any hint of exposure to the public and the press.’
‘And the police?’
He looked at her. ‘Señora, I do not answer questions from the police. I assure you, in all honesty, that if I did I would not have you sitting here in this room with me, talking to you as I am.’
She put her empty glass down on the desk in front of him. ‘Señor, I answer you by saying that if I had thought it necessary to confide in certain people about you, you would certainly not be sitting here in this room, either.’
‘And you, Señora, would not be staying at The Hermitage.’
She took a step back. ‘Señor Ryan, it has been interesting meeting you. You are a hypocrite, but a charming hypocrite. We shall have the pleasure of meeting again.’ Before Ryan could reach her, she had opened the door and was halfway through. She turned, giving him a sharp white smile. ‘I am your client, Señor Ryan. Remember that.’
‘I shall remember it when Señor Sargas has paid me the balance of $6,000.’ He bowed to take her hand, but she flinched away from him.
‘Hijo de puta!’ she hissed; and he felt her fingers tremble and stiffen under his grip. ‘But at least,’ she added, ‘you are a man of character.’
Ryan drew back. He said in English, ‘Madame Achar, I am always at your service. Please contact me any time you wish.’ And as he watched her walk away, he thought again of how he would like to spend an hour with her in his secluded bedroom.
Half an hour later Madame Achar took her purse, which was heavy with ten-pence pieces, and made a long call to London from the payphone in the front hall.
Although every bedroom at The Hermitage had its own telephone, which went through the switchboard, Madame Achar did not want to risk having her call monitored — very probably by Ryan himself. The pay-phone was in a sound-proofed box, and she could be reasonably sure that it was not tapped. She took one further precaution, however: she spoke French this time, in a series of brisk euphemisms. Not once did she use the name of the man at the other end; nor did she name a third party who was referred to by both of them several times.
Although there was no hint of menace in the call, a suspicious eavesdropper might have noticed that the woman was not at ease.
An hour and a half later a short man, with moist features and a well-tailored paunch, left the Gothic entrance of the Eden Lodge Nursing Home near Swiss Cottage, got into his Rover 2000, and headed towards the Finchley Road. He had no reason to take more than usual notice of the traffic.
The other car kept a skilful distance, closing in only when a set of lights was about to turn red. The man in the Rover had switched on the radio and was listening to a Brahms concert. He enjoyed music, especially at the end of the day. His hands still smelt of ether; and he reflected that it was strange, even after a scrubbing with carbolic, that the pervasive odour of the Treatment Corridor still lingered, like the smell of premature death.
That afternoon, Dr Ivor Childs had administered electroconvulsive therapy to a total of fourteen patients at £30 a head; and this evening, as he drove back to his house in South Audley Street, he had nothing much on his mind. Business at the three private hospitals he attended, as well as his own private practice in Wimpole Street, was thriving; and his relationship with both his bank manager and his patients was excellent.
The only thing which might have disturbed the doctor’s peace of mind was the phone call he had received shortly before leaving the nursing home. It had been a request from one of his most recent clients, a Mr Sargas, who wished to see him at 9.00 p.m. sharp. The man had said only that he had urgent business to discuss.
To the doctor it was more of a bore than a worry, because he himself had other business to attend to — a potentially profitable dinner-party on the other side of London. The thought of being delayed distracted him, and he failed to notice the reflected cube-shaped headlights swimming in his mirror.
He parked in his reserved doctor’s space in South Audley Street and locked the car, carefully checking each door before taking out his house-keys. He was a fastidious man, and in this neighbourhood he had taken the usual rigorous precautions against burglary. The stout panelled door was fitted with three patent locks, and the window-catches were all attached to an alarm system wired up to the local police station.
He let himself in and collected the evening newspapers from the hall table, where his houseboy had left them before going off duty at six o’clock.
It was now 8.43 p.m. The carriage-clock on the mantelpiece in the drawing room was three minutes fast. Dr Childs adjusted it, mixed himself a drink, then prepared to wait for Mr Sargas.
The two men in the car, parked fifty yards up the street, also waited.
At exactly 8.58 p.m. one of them reached into the back and picked up a leather bag. Both then got out and walked leisurely down the street. They reached the panelled door under the Georgian fanlight as the drawing-room clock inside was striking nine.
Dr Childs was just finishing his gin when he heard the chimes of the front door. He was accustomed to punctuality, a virtue he admired. He did not bother to fix the chain before opening the door, and was almost knocked over as the heavy timber swung against him and the brass latch struck him a painful blow in the chest.
He felt himself lifted off his feet, rushed backwards, his arms strapped to his sides by a pair of massive hands. The door closed. In the stillness he heard himself trying to shout. A strip of thick clammy tape was stretched across his mouth, and he felt his lungs contract in panic as he began to breathe through a congested nose.
Neither of the men spoke. Their expressions were vacant and businesslike.
They went to work in a silent, methodical manner which, in a wild moment of terror, reminded Dr Childs of his own profession. They had pinned him on his back, spreadeagled on the Aubusson carpet. One of them removed his shoes, while the other opened the leather bag and took out a hammer and three stout six-inch nails.
The first nail was driven through Dr Ivor Childs’s left wrist, just above his Patek Phillipe watch, biting through the carpet and at least two inches into the floorboards. Dr Childs made a choking noise and mucus streamed from his nostrils; but he had lost consciousness before the second nail had crunched through his right wrist. They hammered the third nail through both his stockinged feet, slightly buckling one leg above the other. The blood was quickly absorbed by the carpet.
The man with the hammer replaced it in his bag, and the two of them let themselves out, just as the doctor’s carriage-clock showed 9.06 p.m.
Next morning, Ryan learned from Miss McKinley that Madame Achar had ventured into public for the first time. During the eleven o’clock coffee-break, she was sitting downstairs in one of the chintz armchairs. Most of the clients were reading newspapers and magazines, but she had open on her lap a morocco-bound copy of the I Ching; and while the others were dressed in towelling gowns and slippers, she wore the same black dress and high-heeled shoes.
