The pickup truck Elias used for running around the village was parked in front of his house, and he clambered in more agilely and swiftly than he usually did, and drove off down the street with a screeching of tyres.
Once he had crossed the railway tracks he sped through the village, heading for Lily Pond Lane, driving through streets unimpeded by traffic this evening. East Hampton was deserted, and it looked as if every one of the locals had left along with the summer residents. Within minutes Elias arrived at the grey-shingled cottage.
Alighting from the pickup truck, he walked briskly to the Jaguar parked immediately in front of him, shone his flashlight on the windows, peered inside. The car revealed nothing.
Elias swung around, began to walk up the path between the frost-covered lawns. As he approached the house he suddenly experienced such a strange sense of apprehension he was startled, and he stopped, taken aback at himself. He had been born and brought up in East Hampton, and in all of his sixty-five years of living here he had never felt uneasy or afraid.
But at this moment he was filled with a certain trepidation, and he did not understand why. It was eerie.
Elias looked up at the house.
The moon was high, a great chunk of silver shining vibrantly, casting its bright glow across the lines of the roof, the chimneys, the towering trees. The cottage was thrown into relief against the dark backdrop of the sky and the copse, and it looked unnaturally gloomy and sombre, almost sinister. No welcoming lights winked in the windows as they normally did when Maximilian West was in residence.
If Sir Maxim is inside then why are all the lights turned off? Elias asked himself, and continued to stare at the house worriedly. He knew Sir Maxim had arrived because of the Jaguar parked in the street next to his pickup truck. He wondered if Sir Maxim had had a heart attack or a stroke, and was lying somewhere in the house stricken and unable to phone for help. Sir Maxim was a young man, and he looked healthy enough, but you never knew about anybody these days. On the other hand, he could have gone for a walk. Elias dismissed this idea the moment it entered his mind. Who would go wandering around the neighbourhood on a freezing, bitter-cold night such as this? It then occurred to him that someone driving their own car could have picked Sir Maxim up and taken him out to dinner.
This last theory was the most reasonable explanation so far, and a feeling of vast relief washed over Elias. He hurried up the path, strode purposefully around to the side of the house and halted at the kitchen door.
Even though he was now convinced that Sir Maximilian West had gone to dinner with a friend, Elias nevertheless rang the doorbell several times. When there was no answer he took out the bunch of keys, found the right one, and let himself into the house. He switched on the lights, closed the door behind him, and, walking into the middle of the floor, he called out, ‘Hello, hello, anybody home?’
His question was greeted by total silence, but this did not particularly surprise him. He swung his eyes around the kitchen, spotted the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, went and looked inside, saw that it was filled with provisions for the weekend. Nodding knowingly to himself, he then strolled over to the door leading into the main entrance hall, determined to investigate further on the off chance that Sir Maxim had been taken ill.
When Elias opened the door, such a strong sense of foreboding assaulted him again, the hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Telling himself he was being a stupid old fool, and clamping down on this unexpected feeling of dread, which he considered to be ridiculous, he put the light on, glanced about, saw that there was nothing untoward here in the hall.
Reassured, Elias walked across to the double doors leading into the living room, flung them open, and flicked down the master switch. Instantly he saw the body on the floor.
He gasped, then exclaimed out loud, ‘Oh my God!’ His chest tightened, and for a split second he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his eyes staring, the expression on his face one of mingled horror and alarm.
After a moment or two Elias managed to take hold of himself and he walked over to the body. The shock he experienced was like a violent punch in the belly, and he gazed down at Maximilian West disbelievingly, feeling as though his legs were turning to jelly. He thought he was going to keel over, and he gripped the back of a chair, took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.
Eventually he was a little calmer and he stepped closer, saw the blood, the gunshot wound, and his heart sank with dismay. The injury was serious. He knelt down, peering into Maxim’s face worriedly. It was ghastly, the colour of bleached bone. Elias searched for signs of life, brought his head nearer to Maxim’s chest. He was breathing. Just barely. Elias took hold of his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there.
Elias straightened, his face stark, his eyes glassy with shock. Who had done this? And why? Rage flooded him, and he thought of searching the house looking for clues. Instantly he changed his mind. Whoever had shot Sir Maxim had doubtless fled without leaving any telltale evidence. Besides, it was vital that he get help immediately, act with speed if he was to save Sir Maxim. He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.
‘East Hampton Village Police. Officer Spank speaking.’
‘Norman, it’s Elias here. I’m at the West house out on Lily Pond Lane. Sir Maximilian West has been shot,’ he said in a voice that was both shaky and shaken. It faltered slightly as he continued, ‘I just found him. Call Southampton Hospital for an ambulance. He’s alive but he looks as if he’s lost a lot of blood. So tell them to hurry. And you’d better get here as fast as you can.’
‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.
Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.
Maxim floated in space … in a great white void … in a vast nothingness.
He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.
Where was he?
He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.
Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.
And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air … it was light … musical … and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.
‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.
‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’
‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.
The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said,
