He agreed that it was not their sort of thing. 'We could make some sort of pact. I imagine we're capable of not making love for a day or two.'
'You'd cheat.'
'Probably.'
'And if you didn't, I would.'
'I'm glad to hear that.'
The restaurant was closing, and their waiter had already made many polite intrusions with offers of unwanted service. Jonathan tipped rather too much, paying for the splendid time he had had, rather than for the service, which he had not noticed.
They decided to walk back to her hotel because it was not too far, and because the streets were empty and cool after the rain. They strolled, sharing swatches of talk and longer periods of silence. Her hand was in the bend of his arm, and she drew his attention to little things she noticed with a slight press of her fingers, which he acknowledged with a gentle return flex.
Surprisingly quickly they found themselves at her hotel. In the lobby they shook hands, then she said, 'It is all right if I come out on the tram tomorrow morning? You can meet me at the station, and we'll take a look at this church of yours.'
'I think that would be... just fine.'
'Good night, Jonathan.'
'Good night.'
He walked to the train station, noticing along the way that the city seemed less ugly than usual. Probably the rain.
LONG ISLAND: June 12
He padded across the expanse of his choir loft bedroom, concentrating on his coffee cup, but spilling some into the saucer anyway. It was a large, two-handled
Later, down in the gallery, he screwed up his courage and tried again to work on the Lautrec article. He penciled a few notes, then the lead broke. That was it. Fate. He might have plowed on, wading through uninspired, mealy prose—but not if it entailed resharpening his pencil. It wasn't his fault that the pencil had broken.
On his desk top lay the blue pay envelope from Dragon, chubby with tenscore one-hundred-dollar bills. He picked it up and looked around for a safe place to put it. His eye caught none, so he dropped it back on the desk. For a man who went to such extremes to make money, Jonathan had none of the instincts of the miser. Money had no attraction for him. Goods, comforts, and possessions were another matter. It delighted him to remember that by tomorrow afternoon he would own the pointillist Pissarro. He looked around the walls, deciding where to hang it, and his eye fell on the Cezanne that Henri Baq had stolen for him in Budapest as a birthday present. Memories of Henri came to him: the curiously warped Basque wit... their laughter when they described close calls to each other... that staggering drunk in Arles when they had played at bullfighting with their jackets and the angry traffic. And he recalled the day Henri died, trying to hold his guts in with his hands, seeking a witty punch line to go out on, and not being able to come up with one.
Jonathan snapped his head to clear the images out, but no good. He sat at the pianoforte and chorded aimlessly. They had been a team—he and Henri and Miles Mellough. Miles worked for Search, Jonathan for Sanction, and Henri for the French counterpart of CII. They had performed assignments competently and quickly, and they always found time to sit around in bars, talking about art and sex and... whatever.
Then Miles set up Henri's death.
Jonathan slipped into a bit of Handel. Dragon had said that Miles was involved somehow in this sanction he was trying to force on Jonathan. For almost two years, Jonathan had anticipated the day when he could face Miles again.
Don't think about it. Jemima is coming.
He left the chamber, locking the door behind him, and strolled over the grounds to while away the slow- moving time before her arrival. The breeze was fresh, and the leaves of the plane trees lining the drive scintillated in the sun. Overhead, the sky was taut blue, but on the northern horizon over the water hovered a tight bundle of cloud that promised a fresh storm that night. Jonathan loved storms.
He wandered through the formal English garden with its newly clipped box hedges enclosing an involute maze. From the depths of the labyrinth he could hear the angry click! click! click! of Mr. Monk's trimming shears.
'Argh! There!' Click! 'That'll teach you, you simpleminded shrub!' Click! Click! 'OK, wise ass twig! Stick it out, and I'll cut it off for you! Like that!' Click!
Jonathan tried to locate the sound within the maze so he might avoid an encounter with Mr. Monk. Stealthily, he moved down the alley, rolling the pressure underfoot to reduce the sound.
'You got something against them other branches?' Mr. Monk's voice was honey sweet. 'Oh-h-h, you don't like their company. Well, I understand. You're just some kind of loner, keepin' away from the bunch like that.' Then suddenly he roared, 'Pride! That's your trouble! And I got a cure for pride!' Click! 'There!'
Jonathan squatted beside the wall of hedge, not daring to move, uncertain of the direction of Mr. Monk's voice. There was a long silence. Then he. began to picture himself, cringing at the thought of meeting his groundsman. He smiled, shook his head, and stood up.
'What you doin', Dr. Hemlock?' Mr. Monk asked from directly behind him.
'Oh! Well! Hello.' Jonathan frowned and dug his toe into the turf. 'This—ah—this grass here, Mr. Monk. I've been examining it. Looks funny to me. Don't you think so?'
Mr. Monk had not noticed, but he was always willing to believe the worst of growing things. 'Funny in what way, Dr. Hemlock?'
'Well, it's... greener than usual. Greener than it ought to be. You know what I mean.'
Mr. Monk examined the area near the shrubbery, then compared it with nearby grass. 'Is that right?'
His eyes grew round with rage as he turned on the offending patch.
Jonathan walked down the alley with determined casualness and turned at the first corner. As he paced more quickly to the house, he heard Mr. Monk's voice from within the labyrinth.
'You stupid weeds! Always screwing up! If you ain't brown and scruffy, you're too green! Well, this'll fix you!' Snip!
Jonathan drove along the tree-lined road to the station. The train would probably be late, in the Long Island tradition, but he could not run the risk of keeping Jemima waiting. His automobile was a vintage Avanti—a car consonant with his hedonistic lifestyle. It was in poor condition because he drove it hard and gave it little attention, but its line and grace appealed to him. When it finally broke down for good, he intended to use it as a planter on his front lawn.
He parked close to the platform, his bumper touching the gray, weathered planking. The warming sun liberated a smell of creosote from the wood. Because it was Sunday, the platform and the parking area were deserted. He leaned back in the seat and waited drowsily. He would never consider standing on a train platform to wait because...
...Henri Baq had bought his on the cement arrival dock of the Gare St. Lazare. Jonathan often thought of the steamy clangor of that vast steel-domed station. And of the monstrous grinning clown.
Henri had been off guard. An assignment had just ended, and he was going on his first vacation without his wife and children. Jonathan had promised to see him off, but he had been delayed in the tangle of traffic in the Place de L'Europe.
He caught sight of Henri, and they waved over the heads of the crowd. It must have been just then that the assailant slipped the knife into Henri's stomach. The dispatcher's voice boomed its undecipherable drone into the hiss of steam and rattle of baggage wagons. By the time Jonathan pushed his way through the throng, Henri was
