He pursed his lips. ‘And as soon as I mentioned Cy…’
She nodded, taking from her purse a folded sheet of thick paper.
‘My birth certificate,’ she said. She leaned over and handed it to Ruth.
‘The entry for father is C. Stevenson, New York City,’ Ruth said to Jason.
Jason nodded. ‘What’s going on, Nan Luc?’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t see but I get vibes. Whatever your reaction was at the club, you weren’t overcome by joy.’
‘No.’
‘Why was that?’
‘There’s nothing romantic about my search,’ Nan said. ‘I had to find my father to bring him to justice for what he did.’
‘What do you claim he did?’ Ruth asked.
‘He betrayed his family duties,’ she said. ‘Where I come from there is no worse crime.’
‘Nan Luc,’ Jason said carefully, ‘such things are not necessarily serious felonies in the United States.’
‘There’s more than enough,’ Nan Luc said. ‘Even for American law.’
‘You plan to go to the law?’ Jason asked. ‘Or is it a police matter?’
Nan’s eyes dropped away from his sightless glance. ‘A police matter,’ she said briefly, aware that Ruth was watching her.
Ruth came forward, nursing her coffee. ‘The birth certificate entry; is that your only documentary evidence that Cy Stevenson is the man you’re looking for?’
‘There’s more.’
‘You know,’ Ruth said, ‘Stevenson is a hell of a common name in the United States, Nan Luc. I don’t know what led you to Meyerick but if it’s just the existence of a Vietnamese fund, you could be barking up the wrong tree.’
‘I’ve considered that possibility,’ Nan Luc said carefully, taking back the birth certificate from Ruth. ‘I came here tonight to ask Jason to help me exclude any doubt from the picture.’
‘How can I do that?’
‘You know Cahn Roc.’
He shrugged. ‘Been back and forth through there.’ He turned to Ruth. ‘A small province and capital of the same name, northwest of Saigon.’
‘I worked on the trial for corruption of a man named Quatch.’
‘Quatch,’ Jason repeated carefully.
‘This man had, among other things, been blackmailing an American for large sums of money.’
‘How large?’ Ruth asked.
‘Perhaps a million dollars or more over several years.’
‘What was Quatch blackmailing the American for?’ Ruth asked her.
Nan Luc hesitated. ‘The American was a maker of pornographic films,’ she said. ‘Some of them of a monstrously perverted type.’
‘And this American is now a respected family and businessman in smalltown USA?’ Ruth said.
‘The American is Cy Stevenson.’ Jason got up off the arm of the chair and walked a familiar path across the large room. ‘This is what you think, Nan Luc?’
‘What I think is that these sums are too large to have been private money. What I’m asking you, Jason, is to give me the final chip that will fall into place. Has the fund been sending money to Vietnam – under whatever pretext or for whatever reason?’ Jason’s face clouded. ‘I’m sorry, Nan Luc,’ he said. ‘You’re asking for the fund accounts.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re accusing Cy Stevenson of embezzling vast sums to pay his own blackmail.’
‘I’m asking you if that’s what was done, Jason.’
Jason walked back slowly down the room. ‘What’s my answer, Ruth?’ he said, stopping in front of the black girl.
She thought for a moment. ‘I guess your answer,’ she said carefully, ‘is to consult your colleagues on this accusation against the fund and its president.’
‘I need an answer tonight,’ Nan Luc said. Ruth looked at her, at the lines of determination in her face. ‘I can’t explain everything,’ Nan said. ‘But I am owed an answer.’
Jason crossed to the phone and pressed buttons. In the room no one spoke. ‘Hector,’ Jason said, ‘can you get over here, right away? I know it’s the weekend but this is more urgent than I can tell you on the phone. It concerns the fund. OK? I’ll call Mary. Will you call Oliver and the Anderson brothers?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Fin and the colonel are out of town. For reasons I’ll explain later I won’t be calling Cy for the moment. Make that clear to the others.’
He put down the phone. ‘It’ll take maybe half an hour to organise,’ he said to Nan Luc.
She nodded. ‘While we wait, do you have another phone I can use?’
Cy Stevenson finished his shower and dressed in a pair of slacks, shirt and sweater. He was feeling better now. His brain was still fuzzy but the shower had done the trick. The panic that had seized him had passed. Louise was dead. Nothing connected him to her or the motel.
He stopped, his hand on the banister rail. There was his secretary, Beryl. She just might recognise a picture of Louise on TV. He shrugged. Unlikely. What had she said? ‘I hate to say it, Mr Stevenson, but they all look alike to me.’ That’s what she’d said.
He continued on down the stairs. Where the hell was Sunny? The memory of the call from Mary suddenly hit him for the first time. Sunny knew! She knew about him and Mary! He ran down the stairs, stumbling, slightly out of breath as he reached the bottom. How had she found out? He couldn’t believe Mary had told her. He stood next to the phone trying to focus his mind on Mary’s call. Had she said Sunny had left? Did she say where?
He picked up the phone and called Mary’s number. His head seemed to rock and yaw like a rudderless ship. He looked across at the two empty bottles next to the armchair. Why the hell was Mary not answering?
At Page Corner someone picked up the phone. It was the house-boy. Mrs Page Butler had left fifteen minutes ago. No, he had no idea where she had gone.
Cy put the phone down. Did he dare have a drink? He crossed the room and picked up the bottles. Even that act, bringing his head below waist level caused his brain to reel.
He found some cigars and lit one. Persevering past the first rush of nausea, he blew smoke across the light from the table lamp. First he had to get rid of that suit. Police laboratories could match anything now, mud, carpet fibres, cotton fluff from a bedcover. He stopped. His mind seemed to drain of all other thoughts. He had killed her. He was safe now. He had cut all possible connection with Nan Luc.
He poured himself a small drink. Somewhere up on the road he could hear a car. He stood, drink in hand, listening to it slow down and turn through the gates.
His first thought was that it was Sunny. But the weight of the vehicle over the gravel made him think again. He walked into the hall. Through the uncurtained window he saw nothing at first but the falling snow. Then the white Range Rover and Mary climbing down from it. He opened the door. Her face, he saw, was set. She stamped snow from her fur boots and walked past him into the hall.
Alarm rose slowly through him. ‘How did Sunny find out?’ he said.
She walked on into the living room turning on more lights. ‘Forget Sunny,’ she said. ‘You’re in worse trouble than that.’
He looked at her, her face drawn by panic. What in God’s name was she talking about? She couldn’t know about Louise. But all his instincts told him to move cautiously. ‘Sit down, Mary,’ he said. ‘First, I’ll get you a drink.’
‘There’s no time for that,’ she snapped. ‘A Vietnamese girl came to the club today to meet Jason.’
‘So?’
‘She told Jason you’re her father.’
It was like a slap in the face. He knew she must have seen his reaction. ‘She’s lying.’
Mary shrugged. ‘More important, she says you were using fund money to pay your blackmail.’
‘She’s lying, I tell you, Mary.’