Costa stood and went to the telephone. The knees of his trousers were sticky with blood. Costa picked up the receiver and stopped.
“He’s dead, Costa,” I said.
Costa didn’t answer. He stood with the receiver in his hand. I went to the window. There was blood in the snow, and a trail of trampled snow led to the dirt road at the side of the house.
Costa said, “He never could handle women. Funny, a big guy like Strega. The women, they always ruined him.”
I went and picked the pistol out of Strega’s dead hand. It was a long-barreled. 38. It had just been fired. It showed the marks where a silencer had been fitted.
“A sucker for women,” Costa said. And he began to cry.
I began to search the room. I wrapped the. 38 in one of Strega’s T-shirts and put it into my coat pocket. I searched some more, and finally found the knife, the kris, hidden under some shirts. It was wrapped carefully in tissue. There was a. 45 caliber automatic with it. The. 45 had been fired recently. I wrapped the. 45 in a T-shirt, too, and put it in my pocket. The pocket sagged. I put the kris in my inside jacket pocket.
Costa was kneeling in front of the dead man again. Big tears poured down his dark, handsome face. I left him, and the house, and walked through the woods to my car. I saw that the red Fiat was still parked in the lot.
As I drove from the lot, a police cruiser passed me on its way in. It had North Chester markings. They were not going to worry about technicalities like town lines when they had a favor to do for Mrs. Radford. They were after me, but they would find Strega and Costa sooner or later.
I drove as fast as a one-armed man can drive with control.
27
There was light downstairs in the Radford house, and the Jaguar was parked in front. I walked up the front steps with my pistol in my hand. The front door stood open. MacLeod was not in sight. The living room was deserted. I went along to the library.
George Ames sat in a leather wing-back chair. He held a glass, and an almost empty bottle stood on the table beside the chair. His quick eyes were numb with whisky, or numb with something else. He was not drunk.
“Have a drink,” he said.
“Where are they?”
He drank, licked his lips. “I think I’ll sell the apartment, go and live at the club. I never was much good at this kind of reality. I’ve been sitting trying to think of what I can do, but there isn’t anything. I don’t want to do anything.” He drank again. “Our fault, I suppose. Jonathan and Gertrude mostly, but the whole family. Something missing in Walter. No control, no judgment, just his desires.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How much did you know?”
“Nothing, but I had wondered. Vaguely. About the marriage. The idea of marriage had never come up, as far as I knew. I’d not heard it mentioned. Walter wanted Deirdre, yes, but I hadn’t thought that she wanted him. She seemed so uninvolved, toying with him. I would have said that marriage had never crossed her mind. She seemed too, well, mature for Walter. Too cool.”
“Until Monday.”
“Yes, Monday. You know, Jonathan did like her, but marriage is another matter. Deirdre is modern, free. She made no secret of her, shall we say, independence. I don’t think Jonathan would have liked the marriage. I’m not sure Gertrude would have before it… happened.”
“But it looked like a neat way out of trouble, and maybe Deirdre would have been a good wife for Walter,” I said. “Where are they, Ames?”
“In her cottage. Have one drink. I’m waiting for a taxi. I really can’t do anything here. I need my routine.”
“No, thanks,” I said.
I went out and along the hall to the front door. Outside, I looked into the Jaguar. The front seat next to the driver’s seat was a mess of blood. I walked around the house. Morgana’s cottage was dark. The other cottage showed low, muted light. I walked toward it through the snow. The wind had dropped, and a deep silence filled the cold vacuum of the night.
Music came to meet me from the cottage, the massive tones of a symphony. I knew it: Sibelius’s Second Symphony. The last movement, the theme that always carries for me the vision of a solitary horseman riding from far off across a frozen wasteland. A man alone in the universe.
Inside, the cottage was identical to Morgana’s cottage. The music came from a stereo in the far corner. One light burned in the elegant living room. Deirdre Fallon lay on a couch, her eyes closed, and her delicate face intent on the music. She wore the long sable coat, and no shoes or stockings.
She opened her eyes. “I had a feeling you would cause trouble. Paul should have killed you.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“Just enough to unbalance it,” she said. Her finishing-school voice was speculative. “It’s odd, but I’d still like you to tell me about your arm. We never change, do we?”
“Where’s Walter?”
She closed her eyes and lay back. “In the bedroom.”
I walked into the bedroom. A lush bedroom not at all like Morgana’s monkish cell. She was there, Morgana, slumped on the floor with her head on the bed. She was crying. Mrs. Radford was not crying. She sat erect in a chair, her smooth face calm under the perfect white hair.
Walter lay on the bed. He was dead. He looked like a boy, but he did not look golden. There was terror in his eyes, and pain. He had been shot in the stomach, and he lay curled up like a punished infant. There was a lot of blood, even with all he had left in the Jaguar.
“A job well done, Mr. Fortune?” Gertrude Radford said.
“No,” I said. “I wanted him alive. He’s no help dead.”
Her pale eyes moved to look at Walter. “I couldn’t protect him from his own stupidity. No mother can.”
“Your deal killed him,” I said.
She shook her head. “I’m not responsible for my son being a fool over a woman. I made a logical arrangement, and he ruined it. I’ll make you an offer. I’ll pay for your silence, and for any evidence you may have. I’d rather Walter’s mistakes remained as unknown as possible.”
“Don’t waste money on me,” I said. “With a little pressure, the police will keep it quiet for free. Everyone’s dead.”
I thought I saw a tear trickle down her face, but I wasn’t sure. She’d have a lot to bury in routine and coffee. She’d bury it. She’d bind her wounds, and blame everyone but herself. I wasn’t so sure about Morgana. The girl had not moved. She knew more about pain, and she had lost more. In her crusade to save Walter, she had been right. She had opened the eyes of her golden boy, and had killed him by it. Coffee would not help her.
I went back to the living room. Deirdre Fallon had not moved. The music was building to its conclusion. The solitary horseman rode toward his destiny.
“Answer some questions?” I said.
“Quiet, please,” she said, her eyes closed.
I waited. I like Sibelius. It’s hard music, austere, like a man alone on a giant rock asking questions of the sky. There are no answers, but the questions make us men.
The music faded away in a long, hovering note. She opened her eyes. “What questions?”
“You and Baron planned to blackmail Jonathan all along. Walter never knew. He thought you were his girl, not Baron’s partner. Baron made his pitch on Sunday, and on Monday you and Walter went to Jonathan to get the money. He had it there. What happened? He changed his mind? He refused the money?”
It was hard to think of blackmail and murder when I listened to her soft voice, watched her beautiful face.
“He said Walter could rot in jail. He called Walter a corrupt infant. He pushed Walter, he slapped him. Walter picked up the knife. It was over in seconds. Poor Walter.”