The Road to Gandolfo (16 page)

“Oh yes. Don, he’s my husband—now—is so darned busy with his marinas and restaurants and all those other things that he just said to me last week in LA, he said, ‘Annie, honey, why don’t you get your pretty little ass out of the way for a while? This is going to be a heavy month.’ Well, I thought of Mexico and Palm Springs and all the usual places, and then I figured, damn! Annie, you’ve never been to London. So off I flew.” She nodded brightly to the Savoy doorman and continued as Sam gestured her through the entrance into the lobby. “Don thought I was crazy. I mean, who do I know in England? But I think that was part of it, you know? I wanted to go someplace where there weren’t all the usual faces. Somewhere really different.”

“I hope I didn’t spoil it.”

“How?”

“Well, you said I was a familiar face—–”

“Oh, my, no! I said familiar, but I didn’t mean
familiar
. I mean, one little short afternoon at Ginny’s isn’t
that
kind of familiar.”

“I see what you mean. The lounge is right up those stairs.” Sam nodded toward the steps on the left that led to the Savoy’s American Bar. But Anne stopped, still holding onto his arm.

“Major,” she began haltingly, “my feet are still screaming and my neck is sore from looking up and my shoulder’s aching from this darned purse strap. I’d really love to spend a little time straightening myself out.”

“Oh, sure,” replied Devereaux. “I’m being thoughtless. And stupid. As a matter of fact I was going to do some, er, straightening out myself. I left my shaving gear in Switzerland.” He held up the bag from the Strand Chemists.

“Well then, that’s
marvy
!”

“I’ll call you in about an hour—–”

“Why do that? Have you seen the size of those johnnies upstairs? Wow! They’re bigger than some of Don’s ladies’ rooms. In his restaurants, I mean. There’s plenty of room. And those big, groovy towels. I swear they’re terry cloth sheets!” She squeezed his arm and smiled ingenuously.

“Well, it
is
a solution—–”

“The only one. Come on, we’ll get some drinks from room service and
really
relax.” They started for the eleva
tor
.

“It’s very kind of you—–”

“Kind, hell! Ginny told us you called. She positively
lorded
it over us. Now it’s my turn. You were in Geneva?”

Sam stopped. “I said Switzerland—–”

“Isn’t that Geneva?”

Anne’s suite was also on the Thames side, also on the sixth floor, and conveniently no more than fifty feet down the corridor from his.

Switzerland. Isn’t that Geneva?
Several thoughts crossed Devereaux’s mind, but he was entirely too exhausted to dwell on them. And, for the first time in days, entirely too relaxed to let them interfere.

The rooms were very like his own. High ceilings with real moldings; marvelous old furniture—polished, functional—desks and tables and pictures and chairs and a sofa that would do credit to Parke-Bernet; mantel clocks and lamps that were neither nailed down nor with imbedded plastic cards proclaiming ownership; tall casement windows, flanked by regal drapes, that looked out on the river with the lights of small boats, the buildings beyond, and especially Waterloo Bridge.

He was in the sitting room, on the pillowed sofa, with his shoes off and a tall drink in his hand. The London Philharmonic was on BBC1, playing a Vivaldi concerto, and the warmth from a heater filled the room with a splendid comfort. Good things came to the deserving, thought Sam.

Anne came out of the bathroom and stopped in the frame of the doorway. Devereaux’s glass was suddenly checked on its way to his lips. She was dressed—if that was the word—in a translucent sheath that at once left little to, yet completely provoked, the imagination. Her Sloping yet Argumentative breasts swelled to blushing points beneath the soft, single layer of fabric; her long, light-brown hair fell casually and sensually over her shoulders,
framing her extraordinary endowments. Her tapered legs were outlined under the sheath.

Without saying a word, she raised her hand and beckoned him with her finger. He rose from the sofa and followed.

Inside the huge, tiled bathroom, the enormous Savoy tub was filled with steaming water; several thousand bubbles gave off the scent of roses and wet springtime. Anne reached up and removed his tie, and then his shirt, and then unstrapped his buckle, unzipped his trousers and lowered them to the floor. He kicked them free himself.

She placed her hands on both sides of his waist and pulled down his shorts, kneeling as she did so.

He sat on the edge of the warm tub while she pulled off his socks; and she held his left arm as he slid over the side, his body disappearing under the steaming white bubbles.

She stood up, undid a yellow bow at her neck, and the sheath fell to the floor on top of the thick white rug.

She was utterly magnificent.

And she got into the tub with Sam.

“Do you want to go down to dinner?” asked the girl from beneath the covers.

“Sure,” replied Devereaux from under same.

“Do you know we slept for over three hours? It’s nearly nine-thirty.” She stretched; Sam watched. “After we eat, let’s go to one of those pubs.”

“If you like,” said Devereaux, still watching her, his head on the pillow. She was sitting up now, the sheet had fallen to her waist. Sloping yet Argumentative were challenging all they surveyed.

“Gosh,” Anne spoke softly, a touch awkwardly, as she turned and looked down at Sam, who could barely see her face. “I’m being real forward again.”

“Friendly’s a better word. I’m friendly, too.”

“You know what I mean.” She bent over him and kissed him on both eyes. “You may have other plans; things you have to do or something.”

“Things I want to do,” interrupted Devereaux warmly. “All plans are completely flexible, subject only to whim and pleasure.”

“That sounds sexy as hell.”

“I feel sexy as hell.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you
.” Sam reached above and beyond her soft, lovely back and pulled the sheet over them.

Ten minutes later (it was either ten minutes or several hours, thought Devereaux) they made the decision: They really did need food, preceded, of course, by short, smoky drams of iced whiskey, which they had in the sitting room, on the pillowed couch, under two soft, enormous bath towels.

“I think the word is ‘sybaritic.’ ” Sam adjusted the terry cloth over his lap. BBC1 was now playing a Noel Coward medley and the smoke from their cigarettes drifted into the sprays of warm orange light from the fireplace. Only two lamps were turned on; the room was dreamed of in a thousand ballads.

“Sybaritic has a selfish meaning,” said the girl. “We share; that’s not selfish.”

Sam looked at her. Hawkins’s fourth wife was no idiot. How in hell did he do it? Had he done it? “The way we share, it’s sybaritic, believe me.”

“If you want me to,” she answered, smiling and putting her glass down on the coffee table.

“It’s not important. Why don’t we dress and go eat?”

“All right. I’ll just be a few seconds.” She saw his questioning expression. “No, I will. I don’t dawdle for hours. Mac once said—–” She stopped, embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I’d really like to hear.”

“Well, he once said that if you try to change the outside too much, you can’t help but mix up the inside. And you shouldn’t do that unless there’s a goddamned good reason. Or if you really don’t like yourself.” She swung her legs out from under her and rose from the couch, holding the towel around her body. “One, I don’t see any reason; and two, I kind of like me. Mac taught me that, too. I like
us
.”

“So do I,” said Devereaux. “When you’re finished, we’ll go down to my room and I’ll change.”

“Good. I’ll button your shirt and tie your tie.” She grinned and dashed through the foyer door into the bedroom. Devereaux got up naked, throwing the long towel
over his shoulder, and went to the side table where the bar was set up in a silver tray. He poured a small quantity of Scotch and thought about Mac Hawkins’s barroom philosophy.

Change the outside too much—you mix up the inside.

It wasn’t bad, all things considered.

The tiny white light shone between the red and green bulbs on the small panel beside Devereaux’s door. Sam and the girl saw it simultaneously as they walked down the corridor and approached his suite. It was the sign that a message was at the front desk for the guest. Devereaux swore under his breath.

Goddamn it! Geneva had not been erased
that
quickly. Or so completely, either. The least Hawkins could do was to let him get a decent night’s sleep!

“One of those lights was on for me this afternoon,” said Anne. “I came back to change my shoes and found it; it means you have a phone call.”

“Or a message.”

“Mine was a call. From Don in Santa Monica. I finally got him back; you know, it was only eight o’clock in the morning in California.”

“Nice of him to get up and phone.”

“Not so. My husband owns two things in Santa Monica: a restaurant and a girl. The restaurant’s not open at eight in the morning; forgive my bitchiness. I think Don just wanted to make sure I was really seven thousand miles away.” Anne smiled up at him naīvely. He was not sure how to respond, all things considered.

“Seems like a lot of trouble for, well, for checking up.” Sam snapped on the light switch in his foyer. Beyond, the sitting room lamps were on, as he had left them five hours ago.

“My husband suffers from a mental illness peculiar to cheap strayers. As a lawyer, I’m sure you’re familiar with it. He’s paranoid about getting caught. Not morally, you understand; when he’s juiced up, he flaunts
that
part. Just financially; he’s scared to death some court will make him pay big if I opt for out.”

They walked into his sitting room; he wanted to say something but, again, all things considered he was not
sure what it should be. He chose the safest. “I think the man’s out of his mind.”

“You’re sweet, but you didn’t have to say it. On the other hand, I suppose it’s the safest thing you
could
say—–”

“Let’s find another subject,” he interrupted quickly, indicating the couch and the coffee table with the Savoy-supplied newspapers on it. “Sit down and I’ll be with you in a minute. I haven’t forgotten: You button the shirt and tie the tie.” Sam started for the bedroom door.

“Aren’t you going to call the desk?”

“It can
wait
,” he answered from the bedroom. “I have no intention of letting anything interfere with a quiet dinner. Or for that matter, showing you a pub or two, if they’re still open when we’re finished.”

“You really should find out who’s trying to reach you. It could be important.”

“
You’re
important,” shouted Sam, removing a tan double-knit suit from the awkward hanger in his suitcase.

“It could be something vital,” said the girl from the sitting room.

“
You’re vital
,” he replied, selecting a red-striped shirt from the next layer of clothes.

“I can’t
ever
not answer a phone, or check for messages, or call back even a name I never heard of; that’s being
too
casual.”

“You’re not a lawyer. Ever tried to get a lawyer the day after you’ve hired him? His secretary is trained to lie with the conviction of Aimee Semple McPherson.”

“Why?” Anne was now standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Well, he’s got your money; he’s scrounging around for another fee. What the hell, your case probably entails an exchange of letters with the opposing attorney, other explanations notwithstanding. He doesn’t want complications.”

Anne approached him as he slipped on the red-striped shirt. She nonchalantly began buttoning it. “You’re a very cool Clyde. Here you are in strange country—–”

“Not so strange,” he broke in, smiling. “I’ve been here before. I’m your tour guide, remember?”

“I mean, you’ve just come from Geneva where you obviously had a bad time—–”

“Not so bad. I survived.”

“—and now someone is desperately trying to find you—–”

“What’s desperate? I don’t know anybody so desperate.”

“For Christ’s sake!” The girl yanked his collar as she fastened it. “Things like this make me nervous!”

“Why?”

“I feel responsible!”

“You shouldn’t.” Devereaux was fascinated. Anne was very serious. He wondered.…

And the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Samuel Devereaux?” asked the precise voice of a male Britisher.

“Yes, this is Sam Devereaux.”

“I’ve been waiting for your call—–”

“I just got in,” interrupted Sam. “I haven’t checked my messages yet. Who is this?”

“At the moment, merely a telephone number.”

Devereaux paused, annoyed. “Then I should tell you, you would have waited all night. I don’t return calls to telephone numbers.”

“Come, sir,” was the agitated reply. “You’re not expecting any other caller of consequence.”

“That’s a little presumptuous, I think—–”

“Think whatever you like, sir! I’m in a great hurry and quite put out with you. Now, where do you wish to meet?”

“I don’t know that I want to. Fuck off, Basil, or whatever the hell your name is.”

The pause was now on the other end of the line. Sam could hear heavy breathing. In seconds the telephone number spoke. “For God’s sake, have pity on an old man. I’ve done you no harm.”

Sam was suddenly touched. The voice had cracked slightly; the man was desperate. He remembered Hawkins’s last conversation. “Are you—–”

“No
names, please
!”

“All right. No names. Are you recognizable?”

“Extremely. I thought you knew that.”

“I didn’t. So we meet someplace out of the way.”

“Very much so. I thought you knew that, too.”

“Stop saying that!” Devereaux was as much annoyed with Hawkins as he was with the Englishman on the telephone. “Then you’d better choose it, unless you want to come to the Savoy.”

“Impossible! That’s kind of you. I have several apartment buildings in Belgravia. One’s the Empire Arms; do you know it?”