and slumped in one of the high-backed armchairs near the fire. It was cold in the room and Vernon pulled his chair closer to the heat, watching as the mock flames danced before him. He downed most of the whisky, cradling the glass in his hand, gazing into its depths.
Above him, a floorboard creaked.
Merely the house settling down, he thought, smiling humourlessly.
He got to his feet and filled his glass once again, finally finding the courage to retrieve the letter. He slid his index finger beneath the flap of the envelope and started to open it.
The strident ringing of the phone pierced the silence and nearly caused him to drop the letter.
He picked up the receiver hurriedly.
‘Stephen Vernon speaking,’ he said.
i tried to ring earlier but there was no answer.’ The voice had a strong accent and Vernon recognized it immediately.
‘What have you got for me, Joubert?’ he said. The Frenchman told him about Decard’s prophecy.
‘Does anyone else know?’ Vernon asked.
‘Only Lasalle,’ the Frenchman told him.
‘You haven’t told Kelly?1
‘No, you told me not to give her any information other than that which you authorised.’
‘What about Lasalle?’
‘He knows nothing of what is going on, he …’
Vernon cut him short.
‘I mean, what has he told Kelly?’
‘She doesn’t know anything about what happened today and from now on / will deal with her.’
Vernon nodded.
‘Vernon? Vernon, are you there?’
He seemed to recover his senses.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Look, Joubert, when will you know for sure if the experiments have been successful?’
The Frenchman hesitated.
‘That’s difficult to say. I feel we are very close to a breakthrough though.’
‘How long before you know?’
‘You are asking for too much, Vernon. I cannot say for certain.’
Then guess. I have waited too long for this.’
‘You are not the only one.’
There was a long silence finally broken by Joubert.
‘Two days, perhaps a little longer, but I can’t promise.’
Vernon sighed.
‘Remember, Kelly is to know nothing.’
‘And if she becomes suspicious?’
‘I’ll take care of that.’
Joubert seemed satisfied by the answer. The two men exchanged cursory farewells then the Frenchman hung up. Vernon stood motionless for a moment then replaced the receiver, returning to his fireside chair. And his drink.
And the letter.
He opened it and pulled out the piece of paper inside. Vernon took another gulp from his glass before unfolding it.
Before he started reading he glanced, as he always did, at the heading on the paper:
FAIRHAM SANATORIUM
New York
Blake studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He shook his head. It was no use. The bloody bow-tie wasn’t straight. As if he were grappling with some kind of angry moth, he pulled it from his throat and tried to fix it once again. He’d been trying for the best part of fifteen minutes but, so far, the bow-tie had resisted all attempts to remain in place and Blake was beginning to lose his temper. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 8.00 p.m., a fact confirmed by the announcer on the TV in’his room who was in the process of introducing another re-run of Magnum.
Mathias had said he would pick the writer up at his hotel at 8.15. The drive to Toni Landers’ house would take twenty or thirty minutes depending on New York’s night time traffic.
Toni Landers was well known, by reputation anyway, to Blake. A stunningly beautiful woman who had, two nights ago, been presented with an Emmy for her performance in one of the year’s biggest television spectaculars. At present, she was packing them in on Broadway in a production of Joe Orton’s Entertaining Mr Sloane. Tonight she was giving a party to celebrate her triumph. Mathias had been invited and had cajoled Blake into joining him. The writer had been to showbusiness parties before and they usually bored him stiff, self-congratulatory affairs with clashes of ego which ranked alongside the collision of Mack trucks. In Los Angeles they were, intolerable, the acting fraternity turning out in force to every one. Parties in L.A. were given for any reason, usually not good ones. Has- beens, no hopers, and would-be starlets thronged these almost masochistic gatherings where egos were flayed unmercifully. He had met writers who had yet to find a publisher but spoke as if they were the natural successor to Hemingway, encountered actors and actresses
who spoke of the promised part they had in some forthcoming epic but who would more than likely end their days doing what they did between bit parts — either waitressing or cleaning cars.
New York parties were a little different. They had their share of bores, as did any party, but Blake found he could tolerate them slightly more easily because there didn’t seem to be quite such a wealth of pretension in New York as there was on the West Coast. Nevertheless, he still did not relish the prospect of the party but Mathias had asked him, so what the hell?
He was still struggling with his bow-tie when his phone rang. Blake left the recalcitrant thing in its slightly lop-sided position and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes.’
“There’s someone for you in reception, Mr Blake,’ the voice told him.
He looked at his watch. It was 8.15, on the nose.
‘I’ll be straight down,’ he said and, flicking off the lights in his room, he closed the door behind him and made for the elevator.
Blake recognised Mathias’ chauffeur standing by the reception desk. He was taking a few hurried puffs on a cigarette which he reluctantly extinguished when he saw the Englishman step out of the lift. Blake approached him,
by-passing a red faced man who was complaining about the soap in his room being dirty. The chauffeur smiled.
‘Mr Blake,’ he said, ‘Mr Mathias is waiting for you in the car.’
The two of them headed out of the hotel lobby with its uncreasing drone of Muzak, into the symphony of car hooters, shouts and roaring engines which was 59th Street. A police car, its sirens blaring, swept past adding its own noise to the cacophony which already filled the air.
The chauffeur motioned Blake towards a waiting black Cadillac and, as he drew close, the door was pushed open for him. The writer felt like some kind of cheap gangster about to be taken for a ride. The grinning face of the chauffeur behind him and the inscrutable look of Mathias, who was seated in the back, added to that feeling.
The psychic was dressed completely in white. White suit. White shoes. White shirt. The only thing which broke up the pure expanse was a red tie. It looked as though Mathias was bleeding.
‘Good evening, David,’ Mathias said.
Blake returned the greeting. He wondered whether he should mention what had happened the previous afternoon. The voice in his room. The body floating in his bath. He eventually decided against it. He glanced across at Mathias, affording himself a swift appraising glance. The white suit seemed to make the psychic’s feature’s even darker, the areas around his eyes arid neck almost invisible. His hands were clasped gently on his lap and Blake saw that he wore two rings, each one gold set with a large pearl.
