Abrams yawned. “Ask Thoreau.”
“Henry Thoreau? He’s dead.”
“Really? I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“Stupid joke.”
“Right.”
“Who was that?”
“It was for me.”
She turned toward the stairs.
Abrams tried to fit this new information into a framework, but his mind was nearly numb. All he could make of it was that it signified a ruthlessness, and a willingness to murder, plus the wherewithal to carry out complex and daring international operations. Telexed death warrants and people in place to execute the warrants. KGB. CIA. O’Brien’s network. Could be anyone, he thought. It also signified a certain desperateness on the part of the killers, and that was the only bright spot in the picture.
26
Abrams followed Claudia up the tilted staircase. She turned to him on the landing. “Good night.” She started up the next flight of stairs.
Abrams was annoyed. He said, “I’m going downstairs to have a drink.”
She smiled.
Abrams stood on the landing, then approached the door to his room. He listened, then opened it, standing off to the side. He reached in and snapped on the light. There was no place a person could hide except under the bed, and he kept his eyes fixed there as he entered and retrieved his revolver from the top drawer of the bureau. He opened the cylinder, checked the six bullets, peered down the barrel to see if it was clear, felt the hammer and firing pin to make certain no one had done any filing, then dry-fired a few times. Satisfied he still had a lethal weapon, he reloaded and snapped the cylinder in place. Abrams dropped the revolver into his side pocket.
He walked downstairs and joined the Grenvilles in the sitting room. The fire was dead and the lights were out, but several candles lit the room. Abrams looked at Joan Grenville, half reclining on the couch, a drink in her hand. She arched her eyebrows in a quizzical look, as though to ask, thought Abrams, “Why aren’t you fucking Claudia?”
Abrams poured himself a glass of warm club soda. He noted that Tom Grenville was asleep in a wingback chair.
Joan Grenville said, “I love candlelight. Especially in a house built before electricity.”
Abrams sat on the couch and Joan had to move her feet. Abrams said, “There’s always been electricity.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sipped on her drink, then said, “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have an enjoyable evening?”
“Relative to what?”
She looked at her husband and called out, “Tom, wake up!”
Grenville didn’t stir.
Joan turned to Abrams. “He’s passed out. Other people sleep, he goes into a coma.”
Abrams looked at Grenville. He appeared to be really out, but his physical presence was inhibiting. Abrams said to Joan Grenville, “Are you a member of the group?”
She didn’t answer for some time, then said, “No.” She paused again, then said, “I’m into aerobics.”
Abrams smiled.
She added. “And tennis. Things that prolong one’s life-span. How about you?”
“I smoke, carry a gun, and get involved in dangerous situations.”
“You’d fit right in. I could give you a warning, but it would be pointless.”
“Does your husband belong?”
“I’m not at liberty to speak about any of that.”
“Are you afraid?”
“You’re damned right.” She stretched out her legs and one foot came to rest on his thigh.
There was, thought Abrams, a certain amount of sexual tension present in any houseguest situation. He remembered when his second cousin, Letty, slept in his parents’ spare room. After a week of clumsy signaling, unneeded nocturnal trips to the kitchen and bathroom, they’d finally made it on the couch at 3:00 A.M. Abrams nodded toward Grenville. “I’ll help him up, if you want.”
She didn’t answer but placed both feet on his lap. Abrams took one foot in his hands and massaged it.
“That feels good. I hate high heels.”
Abrams realized he had little physical desire for her, and what there was had to do with things far more complex than instinct.
Abrams glanced again at Tom Grenville, sprawled in the chair. It seemed, or perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, that Grenville was awake. He considered this for a moment, then a noise brought him to full alertness and he froze.
Joan Grenville heard it too, and she looked up at the ceiling. Someone was walking in Abrams’ room directly overhead.
Abrams got up from the couch and went to the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. He stood outside his door and listened. Someone was still inside. He drew his revolver, stepped to the side, and pushed open the door. He peered cautiously around the jamb.
Claudia was sitting on the bed, with her legs drawn up to her breasts, leafing through a magazine. She was wearing a loosely tied white silk robe. Abrams said softly to himself, “Jesus Christ. There’s no end to the madness.”
Claudia glanced at him. “Come in and close the door.”
Abrams stepped into the room and drew the door shut. He slipped his .38 into his pocket. He said tersely, “What makes you think I want you here?”
She tossed aside the magazine and sat up straighter. Her robe fell open and Abrams could see her breasts, olive-colored and full. She looked serious. “I am no whore. I don’t go with many men. I like you. I think you like me.”
Abrams turned and slipped out the door, colliding with Joan Grenville, who had obviously been listening. Abrams said, “Sorry, Mrs. Grenville. Look, I seem to have a calendar conflict… ”
Unexpectedly, she smiled. “If you can, come to me afterward. Third floor. Second on the right. I’ll leave it unlocked. Wake me. Any time before dawn.”
“Right.” He watched her mount the stairs, then went back into his room. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a drawer. His notebook hadn’t been moved, and neither had any of his other odds and ends.
Claudia was leaning forward. “Do you think I came here to steal from you?”
He walked to the bed. “I was looking for my prayer shawl.” He placed his revolver on the night table. Then he ripped off his tie and shrugged out of his dinner jacket. The shirt studs gave him trouble, and he ripped the front open, then tore the cuffs loose. “Damned stupid outfit…” He finished undressing, then climbed onto the high bed and knelt beside her, drawing her robe open. Her body was full, her hips wide. He caressed her legs, arms, and buttocks, and could detect her taut muscle tone. He wondered what kind of work she’d done in Rumania. “Do you do aerobics?”
“What is that? Flying? Why do I have trouble understanding you?”
“Beats me.” He leaned over and kissed her, then his mouth moved down her body.
Claudia suddenly pulled away and drew her robe around her. “Come. Follow me.” She rolled out of bed and gathered a heavy comforter from the footboard, draping it around her shoulders.
Abrams watched her as she walked to the window and threw up the sash. She turned back to him. “Come. There is a fire escape. The rain has stopped, and it’s a beautiful night. Have you ever made love al fresco?”
Abrams shrugged and looked around for something to wear. She called out, “Just bring the pillows. Come.” She slipped through the window and stood on the fire escape. Abrams grabbed two pillows, dropped his revolver into the pillowcase of one, and joined her on the fire escape.
A front was moving through, and a warm breeze blew from the south. The sky was clearing, and a half-moon was setting in the western sky. Abrams looked around at the surrounding buildings, all of which towered over the four-story town house. A few windows were still lit.
Claudia said, “This is beautiful. I love to make love outdoors.”