"A hundred thousand will only support me for four years."
"After which?"
"I'll think of something by then."
"I have no doubt of it. But a hundred thousand dollars is out of the question."
"Oh, no, it isn't. I have listened patiently while you described the pressing need for the sanction, and your need for me—and no one else—to handle it. You have no choice but to pay what I ask."
Dragon was pensive. "You are punishing us for Miss Brown. Is that it?"
Jonathan flashed angrily. "Just pay the money."
"I have been expecting your withdrawal from our organization for some time, Hemlock. Mr. Pope and I were discussing the possibility just this morning."
"That's another thing. If you want to keep Pope intact, keep him out of my way."
"You are striking to the right and left in your rage, aren't you." Dragon considered for a moment. "You have something more on your mind. You know perfectly well that I could promise the money now, then either fail to pay or get it back from you by some means."
"That will never happen again," Jonathan said coldly. "I shall receive the money now—a cashier's check sent to my bank with instructions that it will be paid to me on my appearance or your further instructions, not before seven weeks from now. If I fail to make the sanction, I'll probably be dead, and the check will go uncashed. If I make it, I take the money and retire. If I don't, you can instruct the bank to pay the money to you, on proof of my death."
Dragon pressed the thick pads against his eyes and searched the blackness for a flaw in Jonathan's case. Then his hands dropped to the black sheets. He laughed his three ha's. "Do you know, Hemlock? I think you have us." There was a mixture of wonder and admiration in his voice. "The check will be sent to your bank as you have directed; the painting will be in your home when you return."
"Good."
"I imagine this is the last time I shall have the pleasure of your company. I shall miss you, Hemlock."
"You always have Mrs. Cerberus here."
There was a flat sadness in the response. "True."
Jonathan rose to leave, but he was restrained by Dragon's last question. "You are quite sure that you had nothing to do with the disappearance of Miss Brown?"
"Quite sure. But I suspect she'll turn up sooner or later."
LONG ISLAND: That Evening
Mauve and pewter skies at sunset; the leaden skin of the ocean undulated in low furrows, alive only at the thin froth edge that the tide had languidly carried up close to his feet.
He had sat on the hard sand of the lower beach for hours, since his return from the city. Feeling heavy and tired, he rose with a grunt and batted the sand from his trousers. He had not yet been in the house, having chosen instead, after a moment of indecision at the door, to roam the grounds.
In the vestibule he discovered a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He assumed it was the Pissarro, but he did not bother to examine it; indeed, he did not even touch it. As a matter of principle, he had insisted on its return from Dragon, but he no longer had a taste for it.
The nave was cool and thick with shadow. He walked its length and mounted the steps to his bar. He splashed half a glass of Laphroaig into a tumbler and drank it off, then he refilled his glass and turned to face the nave, leaning his elbows on the bar.
A dim arc of light caught the tail of his eye—the firefly trail of a cigarette.
"Gem?"
Jonathan crossed rapidly to the dun female figure sitting in the greenhouse garden.
"What are you doing here?"
"Making myself available, as usual," Cherry answered. "It that for me?" She indicated the glass of Scotch.
"No. Go home." Jonathan sat in a wicker chair opposite her, not so displeased with the idea of company as he seemed, but feeling the sick adrenalin collapse of vast disappointment.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Dr. Hemlock," Cherry rose to get the drink he had refused her. "You're always trying to butter me up," she said over her shoulder as she walked up to the bar. "I know what you're after with all that sweet talk about 'No! Go home.' You're just trying to get into my pants. Maybe the only way to get rid of you is to finally give in." She paused to allow him to respond. He did not. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she continued, still covering her initial sting with a balm of words, "I guess that's the only way I'll get any peace. Hey! Is there such a thing as a Freudian pun?" Her next pause drew no response either. By now she had returned with her drink, and she slumped petulantly into her chair. "All right. How do you feel about the films of Marcel Carne? Do you believe the advantages of nonstick cooking with Teflon justify the expense of the space program? Or what are your views on the tactical problems of mass retreat should there ever be a war between the Italians and the Arabs?" Then she paused. "Who's Gem?"
"Go home,"
"By which I infer she is a woman. She must be something else, considering how fast you got over here, from the bar just now."
Jonathan's voice was paternal. "Look, dear. I'm not up to it tonight."
"The evening sparkles with puns. Can I get you another drink?"
"Please."
"You don't want me to go home really," she said as she went again to the bar. "You're feeling bad, and you want to talk about it."
"You couldn't be more wrong."
"About your feeling bad?"
"About my wanting to talk about it."
"This Gem person must really have come at you. I hate her without even knowing her. Here." She gave him the tumbler. "I'm going to get you all liquored up, and I'm going to make you on the rebound." She produced her best imitation of a witch's cackle.
Jonathan was angry, therefore embarrassed. "For Christ's sake, I'm not on the rebound!"
"Liar, liar, your pants are on fire. Say, I'll bet they really are."
"Go home."
"Was she pretty good in bed?"
Jonathan's voice chilled instantly. "Now you'd better really go home."
Cherry was cowed. "I'm sorry, Jonathan. That was a stupid thing to say. But gee-golly, pal, how do you think it affects a girl's ego when she's been trying to make a man for ever and ever, then some other woman with an unlikely name just takes him—like that." She tried several times to snap her fingers, but produced no sound. "I never could do that."
Jonathan smiled in spite of himself. "Listen, dear. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."
"For how long?"
"Most of the summer."
"Because of this girl?"
"No! I'm going to do a little climbing."
"You just happen to suddenly decide on that after you meet this woman, right?"
"She has nothing to do with it."
"I really have to doubt that. All right. When are you leaving?"
"Dawnish."
"Well, great! We have the whole night. What do you say, mister. Huh? Huh? What do you say? You going to set me loose before you go? Remember, it's going to be a long summer for us virgins."
"Will you look after the place while I'm away?"
"Gladly. Now, let's talk about return favors."
"Drink up and go home. I have to get some sleep."
Cherry nodded resignedly. "OK. That woman must really have come at you. I hate her."
"Me too," he said quietly.
"Oh, bullshit, Jonathan!"
"There's a new facet of your vocabulary."
"I think I'd better go home."
He walked her to the door and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll see you when I get back."
"Hey, what do you say to a mountain climber? You tell an actor to break a leg, but that sounds kind of ominous for a mountain climber."
"You say you hope it's a go."
"I hope it's a go."