'Sit down, Leonard. I think Dr. Hemlock is aware of the impossibility of his getting out of here without my permission. And I think he realizes how quickly and vigorously an attempt to do me harm would be punished. You must forgive Leonard his passion for duty, Dr. Hemlock. He has been at my side for—oh, fifteen years now, it must be. I'm really very fond of him. His canine devotion and extraordinary strength make him useful. And he has other gifts. For instance, he has an enormous tolerance for pain. Not his own, of course. When it is necessary to discipline one of the young people working for me here, I simply award him or her to Leonard for a night of pleasure. For a few days afterward, the poor thing is of little use in my business, and occasionally he requires medical attention for hemorrhage or some such, but it is amazing how sincerely he regrets his misdeeds and how rigidly he subsequently conforms to our rules of performance.' Strange looked at Jonathan, his pale eyes without expression. 'I tell you this, of course, by way of threat. But it is perfectly true, I assure you.'
'I don't doubt it for a moment. Does he also do your killing for you?'
Strange returned to the pine bench, sat down, and closed his eyes. 'When that is necessary. And only when he's been especially good and deserving of reward. When did you leave CII? And why?'
'Four years ago,' Jonathan said, as immediately as possible. So that was to be Strange's interrogation style, was it? The rapid question following non sequitur upon less direct chat. Jonathan would have to field the balls quickly and offhandedly. It was a most one-down way to play the game.
'And why?'
'I'd had enough. I had grown up. At least, I'd gotten older.' That would be the best way to stay even. Tell trivial truths.
'Four years ago, you say. Good. Good. That tallies with the information I have concerning you. When first it occurred to me that you might be of use in my little project for selling the Marini Horse, I took the trouble to look into your affairs. I have friends... debtors, really... at Interpol/Vienna, and they did a bit of research on you. I cannot tell you how my confidence increased when I discovered that you had been a thief, or at least a receiver, of stolen paintings. But my friends in Vienna said that you had not purchased a painting for four years. That would seem to coincide with the time you left the lucrative company of CII. Why did you work for them?'
'Money.'
'No slight tug of patriotism?'
'My sin was greed, not stupidity.'
'Good. Good. I approve of that.'
Jonathan noticed that Strange never raised an eyebrow, or smiled, or frowned. He had trained his face to remain an expressionless mask. Doubtless to prevent the development of wrinkles.
'I think that is enough steam, don't you?' Strange said, rising and leading the way back to the exercise room where the man with two mouths was waiting with a glass of cold goat's milk, which Strange drank down before he and Jonathan lay out on exercise tables to be rubbed down. The masseur scrubbed Jonathan with a rough warm towel before beginning to knead his shoulders and back, while Leonard performed the same service for Strange.
Strange turned his head toward Jonathan, his cheek on the back of his hands, and looked at him casually when he asked, 'Who is it you visit in Covent Garden?'
Jonathan laughed while he thought quickly. 'How long have I been under surveillance?'
'From the evening we met at Tomlinson's. My man lost track of you for a while there. Traffic jam. He waited for you at your apartment.'
'Which apartment?'
'Ah, precisely. At that time we didn't know about the Baker Street residence. You use it very seldom. My people waited for some time at your Mayfair flat before further inquiry revealed the existence of the Baker Street penthouse. By the time we arrived there, you had left, but the flat was not empty. There was a man in your bathroom. A dead man. But you had disappeared.'
'Hey! Watch it!' Jonathan shouted.
'What's wrong?'
'This steel-clawed son of a bitch is pulling my tendons out.'
'Be gentle with the doctor, Claudio. He's a guest. Yes, we quite lost sight of you until, a couple of hours ago, I received a call from Grace. Dear Grace is a colleague of mine. A close and honored friend.'
'So?'
'So I would like some explanation that puts these odd bits together. And I do hope it's convincing. I would enjoy an evening of civilized chat.'
'Well, I told you I was trying to gain entree to your place here. I had no idea you were also looking for me, so I tried through Amazing Grace.'
'Yes, but how did you know about Grace?'
'You said it yourself. I still have some CII connections. Hey! Take it easy, you ham-handed bastard!' Jonathan sat up and pushed the masseur away.
'Oh, very well,' Strange said with some irritation. 'I'd rather cut my massage short than listen to you complain about yours. But you should really establish a routine for keeping fit. Look at me. I'm ten years older than you, and I look ten years younger.'
'We have different life priorities.'
Strange led the way into a lavish dressing room, the walls of which were covered with mirrors set in bronze. The reflections of the three men echoed in infinite redundancy, and Jonathan found himself a principal in a finely synchronized sartorial ballet performed by scores of Hemlocks and scores of Stranges, while scores of droopy-lidded Leonards looked on, their faces impassive, their heads tilted back on thick necks.
When he saw his clothes laid out, Jonathan felt a pulse of relief. He had wondered why Strange had not mentioned finding at least one of the revolvers when his men had picked up his clothes. But these came from his Mayfair flat, not the Baker Street one. Luck was with him. But still he was walking a razor's edge, reactive and imbalanced from the start, never sure how much truth he had to surrender to neutralize the facts already in Strange's possession. He had done well enough so far, but he had had to turn the flow of inquisition away from time to time, with inconsequential small talk or complaining about the masseur, to give himself time to collect his balance and pick a direction. So far, he had been plausible, if not overwhelmingly convincing. But there were big holes—like the dead man on his toilet—that Strange would surely probe. And one link was still open. To close it might expose Vanessa Dyke.
'...but it is a terrible mistake not to give the body the work and diet necessary to keep it young and attractive,' Strange was saying. 'I know the routines are strenuous and the restrictions irritating, but nothing worth having is ever cheap.'
'That's funny. I clearly remember being assured by a song of the Depression that the best things in life were free.'
'Opiate hogwash. Self-delusions with which the congenital have-nots seek to excuse their life failures and make less of the accomplishments of others. As I recall, that insipid song suggests that Love, in particular, is free. My dear sir, my life's work is founded on the knowledge that love—technically competent and interesting love—is extraordinarily expensive.'
'Perhaps the song was using the word differently.'
'Oh, I know the kind of love it meant. Fictions of the fourteenth-century jongleur. Friendship run riot. Pointless nestlings; sharings of tacky dreams and tawdry aspirations; promises of emotional dependency that pass for constancy; fumbling manipulations in the backs of cars; the sweat of the connubial bed.
'If you wish.'
'Good. There are one or two points that want clarifying.'
