The Players (23 page)

Quarter-finals. Eight of the best tennis players in the world remained to contest the men’s singles championship at Wimbledon. A full complement of reporters was on the scene now. Television coverage was beamed by satellite to all parts of the world. In the United States the events at Wimbledon were promoted from page three to page one of the sports section.

Shortly before two o’clock Mike Wilder sat in the Players’ Tea Room talking with an earnest young man from the BBC who wore a tie that identified his school.

“Do I understand that you want
me
to appear on television tonight?” Mike said.

“That’s right,” said the young man.

“I can’t imagine why. Reporters interviewing each other always struck me as a waste of time.”

“It’ll be just a short interview after we talk to today’s winners. A view-from-across-the-Atlantic sort of thing. How an American journalist looks at Wimbledon and the English people.”

“I’m game if you are, but I’d better warn you I don’t photograph well. I’ve got a dark beard that makes me look like a Wanted poster even when I’ve just shaved.”

“Not to worry, we can cover that with a touch of makeup. Oh, and wear something plain, will you. Stripes and plaids make too busy a picture. And a light blue shirt if you have one.”

“I have one,” Mike said.

“Splendid. Be at the studio at seven if you please.”

The BBC man flashed a set of perfect teeth and disappeared into the crowd. Mike looked after him, wishing he had got out of it somehow. The television thing would delay his dinner date with Paula, and he had come to resent anything that cut into their time together.

With a sigh he pushed himself up from the table and headed out to the courts where the quarter-final matches were about to begin.

• • •

On Court One, before seven thousand partisan fans, local boy Alan Doughty prepared to take on Ivan Kugarin, the Russian. Only a few years ago there were about as many tennis courts in the Soviet Union as polo fields. It was considered a game of decadent imperialism, unfit for the workers. However, when tennis began to attract international attention the Russians revised their thinking. They set out to master the game.

As with all their athletic undertakings, the Russians went into tennis with one goal—to be the best. The players were subsidized by the government twelve months a year. They stayed out of international competition until the mid-1960s, when they felt they were good enough to win. A couple of years ago a Russian player got as far as the finals at Wimbledon, but that was the year the world’s top players boycotted the tournament, so the achievement was tainted. Even worse, he was beaten for the championship by a Czech.

Ivan Kugarin was the best player yet to come out of the USSR. He had won several minor tournaments, and was seeded this year at Wimbledon for the first time. He played the typical Russian game—disciplined, dedicated, and grim. His muscular “trainers’’ were never far away. When he spoke to the press it was always through an interpreter assigned by the Soviet consulate, even though it was well known that he spoke excellent English.

Alan Doughty, playing at the very top of his form, soon found the Russian’s weakness, and began to attack his second serve. Kugarin had a booming first service that was difficult to handle when it was in. However, he missed with it sixty percent of the time, and his second serve lacked both speed and spin.

With the crowd cheering him on, Alan broke the Russian’s serve early in the first set. The two watchdogs stirred uneasily on the sidelines, and their player began to make errors. As they changed ends of the court there was a short, sharp exchange between Kugarin and his friends, and Alan knew he had him. He turned to wink at Hazel in the stands. She smiled back and gave him thumbs-up. Alan went on to win in four sets without extending himself.

As he walked off the court Alan stopped suddenly, listening. That drumming in his ears—could it be …? Trying to camouflage the gesture, Alan felt his wrist to check the pulse there. Was it faster than usual after a match? He could not be sure. Seeing that people were looking at him, Alan smiled, waved, and walked off the court.
Just two more matches
, he told his body.
Hold it together for two more matches, and then we’ll rest
.

• • •

On Centre Court Tim Barrett was having a more difficult time with his match than was Alan Doughty. His opponent was the likable American, Brian White. As he had all through the tournament, Tim was having trouble concentrating. He knew that as well as anyone, and he fought to keep his eye and his mind on the ball. However, he was acutely aware of the empty seat in the stands where Christy Noone should have been. She had promised to be there.

Also, there was the abrupt change that had come over his father. Jack Barrett, usually so free with advice and criticism for his son, had been strangely subdued ever since the dinner in their hotel room. After his match Saturday Tim had apologized for walking out, but Jack had insisted on blaming himself for the argument. That too was most unlike him. Tim was sure his father was keeping something from him. But what?

Brian White, meanwhile, playing his usual controlled game, took advantage of Tim’s mistakes and had him down two sets to one. Tim managed to wrench his mind back to the game long enough to win the next two sets and the match. He felt no joy when Brian congratulated him at the net. He knew if he did not get his head together, next time he would lose.

• • •

The entire Australian contingent turned out to cheer for Denny Urso, the last of their countrymen still in contention. There was a time when it was not uncommon to see two or three Aussies among the top four finishers. No more. The aging of the old champions and the rise of tennis in the rest of the world had ended the dominance of Australia.

For Denny Urso, the whole thing was a lark. He cheerfully admitted he had come this far only by being lucky and playing well over his head. Today that would not be enough. On this June afternoon Milo Vasquez reached into the past and came up with an echo of the devastating game that used to terrorize opponents before the drug did its work on the Mexican’s body.

Milo’s big serve exploded for one ace after another. At the net he was ten feet tall. Denny Urso went down in straight sets. To the gallery it looked easy. Only Milo Vasquez knew that he had drained the last drop of his vital juices in this victory. He was used up. After the final point was played he felt he could not have lifted the racket one more time.

While Denny joked with players and reporters at the edge of the court, Milo brushed past them all on his way to the dressing room. Although his body cried out in pain, he refused a massage and stood under an icy shower trying to freeze out the old hunger that was gnawing again at his guts.

• • •

The last of the day’s quarter-finals pitted Yuri Zenger against the new darling of the teenyboppers, Jean-Pierre Leduc. From the time they began warming up it was evident that the crowd was rooting for the French boy.

As though to show how little he cared for the cheers of the fans, Yuri began his act early—clowning, complaining, delaying, distracting. Jean-Pierre, who was used to playing according to the unwritten code of tennis etiquette, was unable to cope with the antics of the Hungarian. Before the end of the first set he was hopelessly confused and out of the match.

There was little doubt that Yuri could have beaten the French boy on sheer ability, but he chose to humiliate him, and at the same time show his contempt for the fans. His victory was received with cries of “Shame!” Yuri’s response, as he left the court, was to show the crowd an upraised finger.

• • •

The quarter-finals were over. And then there were four.

The quarter-finals at Wimbledon were of little concern to the people who lived in the big brick country house near Henley. They had other things to worry about. That evening the house was silent, except for the muted voice of a television set in an upstairs bedroom. Every minute or so Lady Teal would turn one of the big slick pages in
Country Life
magazine. Sir Oliver sat deep in his favorite armchair, a leather-bound book of prints unopened and ignored in his lap.

“It’s been ten days now,” said Sir Oliver, as though to himself.

Lady Teal looked up from her magazine. “What’s that, dear?”

“Ten days now that Eric’s lain up there in his room watching the bloody television, barely aware of what’s going on around him.”

“He’s had spells before.”

“Never one that lasted this long. I think we’re doing him a disservice by keeping him here.”

“Oliver, you’re not going to bring up the sanitarium again?”

“I don’t know but what he’d be better off there. Dr. Ruick can provide professional help for him.”

“Dr. Ruick can’t provide a family. What’s more, Miss Bellamy does an excellent job of looking after Eric’s medical needs.”

“As far as I can see, all she does is give him vitamin pills in the morning, sleeping pills in the evening, and shove a thermometer into him several times a day.”

“She’s just following the doctor’s instructions.”

“But you remember Dr. Ruick said it would be far better if Eric were to go to the sanitarium for a while.”

“Please don’t let’s discuss it any more. I want my son at home where he belongs. He’s spent enough time in hospitals and sanitariums.”

Sir Oliver sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I only hope he doesn’t do anything violent—to himself or someone else.”

“Are you talking about that Wilder person who came to the house last week?”

“The man made some grave accusations.”

“The man talked rot.”

“Ann, you know better than that. Eric had no explanation of where he’d been. You saw the dents in his car.”

“Those could have happened in any number of ways.”

“Wilder had no reason to fabricate a story. It was we who lied to him, if you recall.”

“If it’s true, then the man must have done something vile to Eric to cause him to react that way.”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless, Wilder was quite decent about it all. He could have gone to the police instead of coming to us.”

“The police would have sent him packing in a hurry if he went to them with a story like that.”

“Yes, I daresay they would.” Sir Oliver opened his book, then closed it again and set it on a table beside his chair. “I think I’ll go up and see how he is.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Sir Oliver and Lady Teal left the oak-paneled room where they had been sitting and climbed the broad stairway. They followed a hallway on the first landing past the room where Miss Bellamy sat at a writing desk, and continued to the door at the end of the hall. Behind the door they could hear the rich voice of a BBC announcer summarizing the day’s activity at Wimbledon.

Miss Bellamy came out of her room and joined them. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“No, thank you. Just thought we’d pop in and see how the boy is,” said Sir Oliver.

The nurse checked her wristwatch. “It’s almost time for his sleeping pill.”

“Does he
have
to take those?” asked Lady Teal.

“Yes, ma’am, until Dr. Ruick decides otherwise. Without the sedative Mr. Eric doesn’t sleep at all.”

“Yes, well, if you’ll hold off on the pill for a few minutes, we’d like to go in and talk to him first.”

“Of course, Sir Oliver.”

The old man knocked lightly on the door, then opened it. He and his wife walked into the bedroom. Eric lay in bed with several pillows propped behind his back. He watched the picture on the television screen without apparent interest. On the bed table sat a tray of food, barely touched.

“Well, son, how’s it going?” said Sir Oliver with false heartiness.

Eric rolled his head on the pillow to look at them. “Hello, Father. Mother.”

“Anything of interest on television?” Sir Oliver asked.

“Just Wimbledon.”

“Ah, yes. I understand our chap Doughty won again today.”

“Yes.”

“Be good to see an Englishman make it to the finals for a change. Whom does he play next?”

“Some Mexican.”

“Milo Vasquez, eh? It’s rather a surprise to see him playing so well again. He’s supposed to have contracted some mysterious illness after he won here … what was it, three years ago? Seems longer.”

Eric turned back without answering to watch the screen again.

“Wasn’t your dinner all right?” his mother asked. “You haven’t eaten much.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You should really try to eat more, you’re becoming quite thin.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Sir Oliver rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, then, is there anything we can do for you, son? Anything you’d like?”

“No, Father, there’s nothing.”

Sir Oliver glanced at the television screen. A BBC commentator was interviewing a good-looking young American player who had won his match today, and would face Yuri Zenger in the semi-finals. The player seemed distracted as he answered the questions.

“Very well, if you’re sure there’s nothing your mother and I can bring you …”

“Thank you, no.”

“We’ll say goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

Lady Teal bent over the bed and kissed her son’s cheek. “Sleep well, dear. I’ll come up and have breakfast with you in the morning.”

“That would be nice.”

His parents went out of the room, and Eric lay listlessly watching the people on the television screen.

How many days had he been lying here now trying to remember something? Surely it had been several days, but time was all out of focus. He knew there was something terribly important he had to do, and the time in which to do it was running out, but he could not think what it was. Every time he was about to grasp whatever it was, he was overcome with drowsiness. He did not want to sleep, he wanted to remember. The one feeling that kept returning was an overpowering sense of loss. Something had been stolen from him. Something very dear. If he could only think what it was. Or who had stolen it.

The television commentator had finished interviewing today’s winners. Three of them, anyway. The Mexican fellow, it seemed, had been “unavoidably detained.” Now the BBC man was talking into the camera.

“For something just a bit different, we’ve asked a noted American journalist to come on this evening and give us his evaluation of the play thus far, and perhaps add a few of his own impressions of Wimbledon and the British in general.”

The camera pulled back to include a second man in the picture. The commentator went on smoothly:

“It is my pleasure now to introduce Mr. Michael Wilder.”

The camera moved in for a closeup. The man’s mouth moved and he spoke, but Eric Teal did not hear the words. Because suddenly he remembered.

Wilder
. That was the name. And the face on the screen was the one in the picture he had found in Paula’s flat. Michael Wilder, stealer of other men’s wives. Despoiler of marriages. Eric knew now what it was he had to do. Kill Michael Wilder.

He threw back the covers and got out of bed. He had to put out a hand and steady himself as a wave of dizziness passed. Then he was all right. Thank God he had remembered in time. Wilder must not get away.

Eric found some clothes in a drawer and put them on quickly. He must lose no more time.

“Why, Mr. Eric, what are you doing out of bed?”

Who was this large woman barging into his room asking questions? “Get out of my way,” he snapped.

“You mustn’t get yourself all upset, sir. Why do you have those clothes on?”

“Damn you, I said get out of my way!”

The woman stayed where she was, shaking her idiot head from side to side. When Eric started around her toward the door, she stepped in front of him. He thrust his hands out suddenly, hitting her in the chest. Taken by surprise, the woman stumbled backward. Her heel caught in an electric cord and she fell heavily to the floor. Her head hit with a thump, and she lay still.

Stupid cow, Eric thought. I told her to get out of the way.

Downstairs Eric’s parents heard the noise. They exchanged a quick look, and Sir Oliver hurried out of the room, closely followed by his wife. They reached the foot of the stairs just as Eric started down from the top.

“Son, what are you doing?” said Sir Oliver.

“What day is this?” Eric demanded.

“Why, it’s Tuesday.”

“Then I have four days left.”

“Four days for what?” Lady Teal asked, fluttering her hands helplessly.

“Four days to settle matters with the man who’s stolen my wife.”

“Eric, that’s nonsense,” said his father.

“Don’t try to stop me,” Eric said. “This is between him and me.”

Miss Bellamy appeared shakily at the top of the stairs, one hand holding the back of her head. “He’s not rational, Sir Oliver,” she said. “He knocked me down.”

Eric continued to descend the stairs.

“Son, come and sit down,” said his father in a calming tone. “Let’s talk about it.”

Eric reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sir Oliver moved between him and the door.

“Stand out of my way, Father,” Eric said.

“Eric, don’t do anything foolish.”

The butler appeared from the rear of the house. Behind him, looking uncomfortable, came the husky gardener. The butler spoke to Sir Oliver. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“What the hell is this?” Eric snapped. “Have you set the household staff against me?”

“I sent for no one,” said his father.

“I could not help overhearing, sir,” the butler said, “and I took the liberty of smnmoning Haines.”

“Get out of my way, all of you!” Eric shouted.

“Son, I can’t let you do this,” said Sir Oliver.

Eric seized his father by the shoulders, and with surprising strength hurled him sideways against the wall.

As Eric started for the door, Sir Oliver signaled to the butler. “Stop him, Davidson.”

The butler stepped forward and grasped Eric’s wrist.

“Let go of me, you bloody fool,” Eric cried.

Davidson struggled to pin the young man’s arms behind him while Eric thrashed about wildly. When it became clear that the butler could not hold him, Haines the gardener moved closer and looked questioningly at Sir Oliver. The old man hesitated only a moment, then nodded.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Eric,” said Haines. He stepped forward and hit him with a short, crisp right-hand punch on the point of the chin. Eric grunted and went limp in the arms of the butler.

“Take him up to his room,” Sir Oliver said.

Haines picked him up like a sack of feed and carried him up the stairs.

“Davidson, pack a bag for my son.”

“Yes, sir.” Davidson followed the others up the stairs.

When they were alone, Lady Teal spoke to her husband. “Why did you tell him to pack a bag?”

“Eric’s got to go to the sanitarium, Ann. You must see that.”

“I suppose there’s no other way.”

“The boy needs more help than we can give him here. For his own sake it’s best that he be kept under close supervision, at least until this Wilder fellow is out of the country. I imagine he’ll go back to America after Wimbledon.”

“I should have listened to you earlier,” said Lady Teal.

“It’s all right, Ann. No permanent harm done. You run along upstairs and see how he is. I’ll call Dr. Ruick.”