Hélène said. She waited, silent, but the knocking was repeated.
A voice called, ‘Señor Martel?’
‘Stay here!’ Hélène commanded. She got up, whipped a heavy silk robe about her slim, firm body, walked over to the door and pulled it open. A man in a grey messenger’s uniform stood there, holding a sealed manila envelope.
‘I have a special delivery for Señor and Señora Martel.’
She took the envelope and closed the door.
She tore the envelope open and read the message inside, then slowly read it again.
‘What is it?’ Charles asked.
‘Sam Roffe is dead,’ she said. She was smiling.
London Monday, September 7 2 p.m.
White’s Club was situated at the top of St James’s Street, near Piccadilly. Built as a gambling club in the eighteenth century, White’s was one of the oldest clubs in England, and the most exclusive. Members put their sons’ names down for membership at birth, for there was a thirty-year waiting list.
The façade of White’s was the epitome of discretion. The wide bow-windows looking out on St James’s Street were meant to accommodate those within rather than to satisfy the curiosity of the outsiders passing by. A short flight of steps led to the entrance but, aside from members and their guests, few people ever got past the door. The rooms in the club were large and impressive, burnished with the dark, rich patina of time. The furniture was old and comfortable – leather couches, newspaper racks, priceless antique tables and deep, stuffed armchairs that had held the posteriors of half a dozen Prime Ministers. There was a backgammon room with a large, open fireplace behind a bronze-covered rail, and a formal curved staircase led to the dining-room upstairs. The dining-room ran across the entire breadth of the house, and contained one huge mahogany table which seated thirty persons, and five side tables. At any luncheon or dinner the room contained some of the most influential men in the world.
Sir Alec Nichols, Member of Parliament, was seated at one of the small corner tables, having lunch with a guest, Jon Swinton. Sir Alec’s father had been a baronet, and his father and grandfather before him. They had all belonged to White’s. Sir Alec was a thin, pale man in his late forties, with a sensitive aristocratic face and an engaging smile. He had just motored in from his country estate in Gloucestershire, and was dressed in a tweed sports jacket and slacks, with loafers. His guest wore a pin-stripe suit with a loud, checked shirt and a red tie, and seemed out of place in this quiet, rich atmosphere.
‘They really do you proud here,’ Jon Swinton said, his mouth full, as he chewed the remains of a large veal chop on his plate.
Sir Alec nodded. ‘Yes. Things have changed since Voltaire said, “The British have a hundred religions and only one sauce.”’
Jon Swinton looked up. ‘Who’s Voltaire?’
Sir Alec said, embarrassed, ‘A – a French chap.’
‘Oh.’ Jon Swinton washed his food down with a swallow of wine. He laid down his knife and fork and wiped a napkin across his mouth. ‘Well, now, Sir Alec. Time for you and I to talk a little business.’
Alec Nichols said softly, ‘I told you two weeks ago I’m working everything out, Mr Swinton. I need a bit more time.’
A waiter walked over to the table, balancing a high stack of wooden cigar boxes. He skilfully set them down on the table.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Jon Swinton said. He examined the labels on the boxes, whistled in admiration, pulled out several cigars which he put in his breast-pocket, then lit one. Neither the waiter nor Sir Alec showed any reaction to this breach of manners. The waiter nodded to Sir Alec, and carried the cigars to another table.
‘My employers have been very lenient with you, Sir Alec. Now, I’m afraid, they’ve got impatient.’ He picked up the burned match, leaned forward and dropped it into Sir Alec’s glass of wine. ‘Between you and I, they’re not nice people when they’re upset. You don’t want to get them down on you, you know what I mean?’
‘I simply don’t have the money right now.’
Jon Swinton laughed loudly. ‘Come off it, chum. Your mum was a Roffe, right? You’ve got a thousand-acre farm, a posh town house in Knightsbridge, a Rolls-Royce and a bloody Bentley. You’re not exactly on the dole then, are you?’
Sir Alec looked around, pained, and said quietly, ‘None of them is a liquid asset. I can’t –’
Swinton winked and said, ‘I’ll bet that sweet little wife of yours, Vivian, is a liquid asset, eh? She’s got a great pair of Bristols.’
Sir Alec flushed. Vivian’s name on this man’s lips was a sacrilege. Alec thought of Vivian as he had left her that morning, still sweetly asleep. They had separate bedrooms, and one of Alec Nichols’s great joys was to go into Vivian’s room for one of his ‘visits’. Some times, when Alec awakened early, he would walk into Vivian’s bedroom while she was asleep and simply stare at her. Awake or asleep, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She slept in the nude, and her soft, curved body would be half exposed as she curled into the sheets. She was blonde, with wide, pale blue eyes and skin like cream. Vivian had been a minor actress when Sir Alec had first met her at a charity ball. He had been enchanted by her looks, but what had drawn him to her was her easy, outgoing personality. She was twenty years younger than Alec, and filled with a zest for living. Where Alec was shy and introverted, Vivian was gregarious and vivacious. Alec had been unable to get her out of his mind, but it had taken him two weeks to summon up nerve enough to telephone her. To his surprise and delight Vivian had accepted his invitation. Alec had taken her to a play at the Old Vic, and then to dinner at the Mirabelle. Vivian lived in a dreary little basement flat in Notting Hill, and when Alec had brought her home, she had said, ‘Would you like to come in then?’ He had stayed the night, and it had changed his whole life. It was the first time that any woman had been able to bring him to a climax. He had never experienced anything like Vivian. She was velvet tongue and trailing golden hair and moist, pulsing, demanding depths that Alec explored until he was drained. He could become aroused simply thinking about her.
There was something else. She made him laugh, she made him come alive. She poked fun at Alec because he was shy and a bit stodgy, and he adored it. He was with her as often as Vivian would permit it. When Alec took Vivian to a party, she was always the centre of attention. Alec was proud of that, but jealous of the young men gathered around her, and he could not help wondering how many of them she had been to bed with.
On the nights when Vivian could not see him because she had another engagement, Alec was frantic with jealousy. He would drive to her flat and park down the block, to see what time she came home, and whom she was with. Alec knew that he was behaving like a fool, and yet he could not help himself. He was in the grip of something too strong to break.
He realized that Vivian was wrong for him, that it was out of the question for him to marry her. He was a respected Member of Parliament, with a brilliant future. He was part of the Roffe dynasty, on the board of directors of the company. Vivian had no background to help her cope with Alec’s world. Her mother and father had been second-rate music-hall artists, playing
