Catherine burst into the room. “Get dressed,” she said, placing a stack of neatly folded clothing on the bed. “The master wants you.” Nicole recognized the clothing as the outfit she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped. Clean and freshly ironed, her jeans and sweater looked like new. The walking shoes, freshly polished, were barely scuffed at all.
Catherine gestured impatiently at the clothes. “Here now, put your things on and be quick about it. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”
As Nicole pulled on her jeans, she considered ways to disable the woman — a palm thrust to the nose might do it or a thumb in the eye. But her instincts told her the timing was all wrong. First, she had to map out an escape route. It would be useless running away if she had no idea where she was going. She’d end up cornered; they’d lock her up again, and she’d never have another chance.
Although her mind was clear enough to consider these matters, her hands were shaking so much that she was having trouble fastening her jeans. With a grunt of impatience, Catherine leaned forward and did it for her.
Outside the room, Catherine pulled her along, firmly gripping her arm. Meanwhile, Nicole was looking around, taking careful note of each corridor they passed, the location of doors and windows. On the way back to her room, she told herself, an opportunity would open up, and she’d make a run for it.
At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a large, wood-paneled vestibule, then stepped through an open doorway into a room that was almost dark in the waning afternoon. Once inside, Catherine pulled Nicole to a halt.
The room’s only occupant was a man leaning against the fireplace, his head bent in thought. He had narrow shoulders and graying brown hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Only when Nicole heard the door click behind her did she realize that Catherine had left the room. At that moment, the man looked up and noticed her. There was something repellent about his appearance — the thin, bony face and protruding eyes. With his thick, rimless glasses, he had the look of an intelligent lizard.
But when he saw her, his face lit up with a boyish smile that transformed him. He hurried over and held out his hand. Nicole didn’t offer hers, but he took it anyway, shaking it enthusiastically. Then, instead of releasing her hand, he turned it over to examine her bruised wrist. “My God,” he said, “look what they’ve done to you.” He picked up her left hand and studied that wrist, too. Then he released her, and his eyes met hers. He looked stricken.
“I want to apologize for the way my people treated you,” he said. “Their behavior was unforgivable.” His British accent was soft and pleasing, the unmistakable product of a good education. “I gave my people strict orders to make sure no harm came to you, and they — well — they completely botched it.”
Nicole stared at him, astonished not so much by the apology as by the assumptions behind it. He seemed to think it was all right for his goons to kidnap her, as long as they watched their manners and avoided leaving bruises.
She didn’t say anything. It’s his move, she decided. Let him do the talking.
Hayes was silent, too, apparently waiting for her response. Finally, he said, “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive us…” He hesitated. “What would you like me to call you?”
The question caught her by surprise. Who did he think she was? She still had the feeling Chazz and Kevin had mistaken her for Muriel Lowry. It was anyone’s guess what Hayes was thinking; his expression told her nothing.
If he did think she was Muriel, he’d try to get her to tell him where the money was. But he could see that Freddy had left her behind. She could say he deserted her and left her with nothing. That she was a victim, as much as Hayes, of Lowry’s greed. She decided to take a gamble. “Why don’t you call me Muriel?” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “Muriel, then. Can you put all this unpleasantness out of your mind so we can make a fresh start?”
“All right.”
He motioned for her to sit down. She chose a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair, one of a matched pair in front of the fireplace. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. As she got settled in the chair, Hayes went to the table and reached into a cut-glass bowl for a piece of candy.
“Like a mint, would you?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
He stood there, munching and regarding her with an enigmatic smile. The man was certainly creepy, and yet he seemed to be on his best behavior, even eager to please.
His appearance was anything but threatening. He was slightly built and hunched his shoulders in a way that was almost self-mocking. His manner of dress was odd and, in Nicole’s opinion, a little pathetic for a man pushing fifty — a bolo tie, Indian tapestry vest, and faded Levis. His white shirt, which appeared to be silk, had full, oversized sleeves gathered into large cuffs. The vest was adorned with heavy gold embroidery and appliqués inset with mirrors.
He tossed the candy wrapper into the fireplace, helped himself to another piece, and headed for the chair opposite hers. Meanwhile, Nicole glanced around the room. Books were everywhere — jammed untidily into shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. An overflow of volumes was stacked on the great library table, on the small round one next to her chair and on the floor. There was no desk in sight, nor any phone, fax, or computer. Clearly, this wasn’t the kind of study that doubled as an office, but a real library, a quiet place devoted to reading. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any surveillance cameras on the way downstairs. For an international crime ring, this was definitely a low-tech operation.
By now, Hayes was seated. “I want you to know that Chazz and Kevin will be punished,” he said. “Suspended from their duties and sent down to London. If we do take them back, we’ll never trust them with any real responsibility. I abhor the idea of violence—won’t employ anyone who uses it.” He considered this for a moment, then added, “Except, of course, in self defense.”
She wondered about the disclaimer. Perhaps it explained the attack on Reinhardt, but what about Mr. McGiever? Or was Hayes even aware of the car bombing?
“Freddy seems to have vanished,” he was saying. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me where he is.”
“Don’t you know?” she said. “I mean, I thought you’d sent him away on business.”
“I have no idea where he is. Believe me, Freddy could fly to the moon and stay there, for all I care. Unfortunately, he’s gone off with a fair sum of my money. My people think he may not have succeeded in getting it out of the country. I want it back.” He paused to stare at her, head cocked. Nicole’s attention was diverted. On the other side of the fireplace, something she’d taken for an untidy pile of animal skins trembled into life. She watched in alarm as a huge canine head rose out of the heap, and a pair of yellow eyes stared out at her. It was an enormous, shaggy dog, she realized—no, two dogs—snoozing next to the fire.
She looked back at Hayes. “Maybe he hid it somewhere in the U.K.,” he was saying. “I was hoping that you, Muriel, might be able to fill us in on the details.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said quietly. “As a matter of fact, he emptied out our bank account. Left me without a cent. You can imagine the position that puts me in.” She was improvising, making it up as she went along.
He gave a smile. “Then you understand it’s in your interest to cooperate.”
“Honestly, Mr. Hayes …”
“Alex,” he said. “Please.”
“Look, Alex …”
“Excellent.” He nodded encouragingly.
“I really wish I did know something,” she went on. “Then I’d tell you and you’d let me go.” She licked her lips, then couldn’t help adding, “When are you going to let me go?”
“All we want is a little information,” he said, ignoring the question. “If Freddy didn’t confide in you, then we can put our heads together and work out where he might have put it. After all, you’re married to the man, and we men are such creatures of habit.”
Again, he paused to study her. “Perhaps you’re in need of pecuniary assistance. Well, I’m a very soft touch, always have been. It’s just that Freddy took a little more than I can afford to lose at the moment.”
“Really?” she said. “May I ask how much?”
“Nearly a million pounds.”
“A million?” she repeated, as if this were news to her. “Well, that is a lot of money to lose, even for someone like you.”
He stared at her. “Someone like me?”
“An international …” she hesitated a moment, then added “um—dealer.”
The word hung in the air. Then he gave a whoop of laughter. “What a load of rubbish,” he said. “I’m just a little pot peddler, and they insist on portraying me as an international bogeyman. I never sell hard drugs, you know, only cannabis, which isn’t nearly as lucrative as you might imagine. But at least I can live with myself. Cannabis has never hurt anyone in the 8,000 years that men…” he paused and gave a quick nod in her direction, “yes, and women, have been using it.”
The moment he said this, Nicole recognized the source of the odd herbal smell she’d noticed. It was marijuana. This explained the man’s garrulousness and his odd behavior. He’d been smoking weed.
“And look at the huge police effort they’re putting into apprehending me.” He chuckled. “Forgive me. You’re not amused, but it’s quite a joke. I suppose I should be flattered. They claim I have billions tucked away in banks all over the world when all I am is a glorified cashier. Money comes in, but it goes out.” His smile disappeared. “Believe me, it does go out. My overheads are staggering. And your Freddy …”
He got up and walked over to the window to stare out, his mood gone sour.
Time passed, and Nicole began to wonder if he’d forgotten her. “Look,” she finally said, “none of this makes sense. If Freddy really did take that money, why would he leave the country without it? Isn’t that what you think? That he went abroad?”
“That’s our best hunch.” He still had his back to her and was gazing out the window.
“Alex, I really don’t know anything. Why can’t you just let me go?”
He turned and looked at her. “Of course I’ll let you go. What did you think? That I was planning to sell you into white slavery?”
When she didn’t reply, he let out an exasperated laugh. “Christ, that look on your face. You really do think I’m some sort of monster. I assure you, I’m extremely nonviolent. Just look at this shooting lodge. Since I bought it, I’ve never permitted a single person to fire a gun here. I’m a bloody vegetarian, for heaven’s sake.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then shook his head. “Never mind, Muriel. Your opinion of me isn’t important. But you will have to cooperate. Otherwise I’m afraid I’m going have to take steps we’ll both find extremely unpleasant.
“If you choose not to be helpful,” he went on, “well, that’s your prerogative.” He said this reproachfully, as if it certainly wouldn’t have been his choice, or the choice of any reasonable person. “Now, I want you to go back to your room and think this over very carefully.”
He reached over to push a buzzer on the wall and then resumed his vigil at the window.
He didn’t speak again. Nor did he look around, even when she got up and made her way to the door. As she was turning the doorknob, she paused to look back. Hayes, still staring out the window, didn’t seem to notice she was leaving, but over by the fireplace, one of the dogs was rising to its feet.
Hastily, she stepped out into the hall and shut the door. Before she had a chance to turn around, someone grabbed her. Her heart dropped to her shoes as he shoved her against the wall, then pulled her around to face him. It was the man from the hotel, the one who’d struck Reinhardt with the gun. She drew in a big gulp of air and screamed.
The library door opened. “That’s all right, Ben,” Hayes said. “Catherine will see her back to her room.”
“Catherine isn’t here, sir,” the man said.
“She’s on her way. Just give Mrs. Lowry a seat out there. Oh, and Ben ?”
“Yes, sir?”
“While she’s waiting, I strongly suggest you keep an eye on her.”
On the way back to the room, Catherine walked beside Nicole with a firm grip on her arm. As they climbed the stairs, Nicole stopped, resisting Catherine’s determined pull, for a look at something she hadn’t noticed on the way down — the skin of a leopard that was hanging like a tapestry on the staircase wall. The creature had been slit down the belly and hung to display its luxuriant, spotted back. The legs were splayed outward, the tail sadly flattened and drooping toward the floor. The animal’s large, majestic head, the only part that remained three dimensional, pointed upward. Nicole couldn’t see its eyes, and for that she was grateful.
Once again, she thought of Hayes’ disavowal of violence. Even if she’d believed him, the creature’s remains were proof that he was lying. No self-respecting vegetarian would leave something like this hanging on the wall, even if it had come with the house.
As they reached the third floor, she heard voices. The door to her room was standing open; inside, two young women were busy cleaning. They were dressed in matching cotton dresses of the same gray fabric as Catherine’s smock. One girl was vacuuming the rug while the other pulled fresh towels from a cart. They both looked up and stared as Catherine steered Nicole into the room. Then, after a nervous exchange of glances, the two returned to their tasks.
As Catherine helped her back into her nightgown, Nicole’s eyes fell on the cleaning cart, parked near the foot of the bed. A set of keys dangled from the handle.
Once she had Nicole changed, Catherine busied herself folding up the jeans and sweater. Nicole could see the woman planned to take the clothes away. This was another way of controlling her, making sure she didn’t escape.
Nicole concentrated on the keys, trying to think of a way to get her hands on them. Then it came to her. She turned to Catherine and said, “I have a terrible headache. Could I please have some aspirin?”
Catherine patted the pockets of her smock and, finding nothing, turned and went into the bathroom, where a cleaning girl had just disappeared with fresh towels. Now only one girl remained in the room.
Nicole made an anguished face at her, silently mouthing, “Help me, help me,” over and over. The girl’s eyes grew very wide. She gaped at Nicole for a moment, then turned on the vacuum cleaner and steered it into the opposite corner, where she busied herself running the machine back and forth over the same spot.
As soon as the girl’s back was turned, Nicole moved to the supply cart, grabbed the keys and tossed them under the bed. Just as she’d hoped, the roar of the vacuum cleaner covered any noise they might have made hitting the floor.
She’d just straightened up when Catherine reemerged from the bathroom, carrying a glass of water. She handed the glass to Nicole along with two white pills. Then she stood and waited for Nicole to swallow them. Nicole prayed they were nothing stronger than aspirin.
Catherine and the other two gathered their cleaning gear onto the cart and wheeled it out of the room. The door closed behind them, and there was a long silence. Nicole held her breath, picturing the three of them searching the cart, then going through their pockets for the missing keys.
Then a key turned in the lock, and Nicole realized that the job of securing the door would have fallen to Catherine, since Catherine was in charge. Even when the cleaning crew noticed their keys were missing, they might not report it for fear of being fired.
When the hallway was quiet, Nicole retrieved the keys under the bed. She worked her way through them until she found one that unlocked the door to the hall. She opened it a crack, peered into the empty hallway, then closed and relocked it.
She remembered Hayes’ threat: “If you choose not to be helpful, that’s your choice.” What would they try next? Torture? Putting a gun to her head?
She had to get away before they came back for her. But first, there was the matter of clothes. She couldn’t leave the house dressed only in a thin nightgown.
Nicole went over to the armoire; after trying several keys, she found one that worked. Inside, an assortment of garments was neatly arranged on hangers. The clothes, mainly black evening wear in a number of sizes, seemed intended for the use of houseguests who might have forgotten something essential for a weekend in the country. This, she realized, also explained the cache of makeup in the vanity table.
She pulled out the most promising item: a lightweight wool jersey jumpsuit studded with rhinestones. It was too big, a size eight, but after rolling up the sleeves and pant legs and cinching the middle with the belt from a cocktail dress, she decided it would do. Draped over a hook was a royal blue maillot swimsuit, plain and utilitarian, the sort of thing a channel swimmer might wear. Hanging beneath it was an aqua terrycloth beach coat. This, she decided, could be worn over the jumpsuit as an extra layer against the chill. She pulled it down and put it over her arm.
On the bottom of the armoire sat several pairs of black kidskin pumps with impossibly high heels; she decided against them.
As she closed the armoire, she noticed the light reflect on something on top. She had to stand on tiptoe to get a look. When she saw it was a black purse, she felt a surge of hope. Could it be the one she’d lost? She grabbed the chair from the vanity and climbed up to get it.
To her disappointment, the purse was an unfamiliar black clutch, worn but of good quality, with an oversized gold clasp. Among the items inside was a passport. With a sense of foreboding, she opened it and stared at the photo.
A headshot of Alice stared back at her, the face framed with an unfamiliar blonde pageboy cut. The name under the picture read, “Muriel B. Lowry.”