Songs in the Key of Death (11 page)

“Kidnapping? Is that possible? How would they have got her out of your place at night without your hearing them?”

Several minutes went by. Through the open window, Birtles could smell the delicious freshness from the Common, all those trees breathing in the night. Now there was movement at the entrance to the lane. Lucy ran out, turned and beckoned—she seemed impatient, in a state of high excitement. Monty followed and stood in front of the girl, put his hands on her shoulders, and shook her gently.

Her head fell back, and in the streetlight Birtles saw her eyes closed, her mouth open. If she had just inhaled some intoxicating substance, this would have been her reaction.

Monty fed her into the car and closed the door. He ran around and got in at the driver’s side, switched on, and drove away. Birtles touched Anitra’s shoulder and she began to drive ahead slowly. As they passed the laneway, he noticed something on the pavement. “Stop!” he told her and when she did he jumped out. By the time she parked and joined him, he was examining a dark wet smear on the concrete. He touched it and lifted his stained finger. “Blood,” he said.

“Oh, God, get the police.”

“I have to know. Have you got a flashlight in the car?” She ran away and brought it to him. He aimed its dim light at the ground and walked down the lane. Anitra kept close enough to touch a hand to his back every now and then.

They came to an out-building. The main house was a dark mass to the right. He saw grass, a concrete birdbath, rose bushes. The door was open in the shed beside him. As Birtles moved into the doorway, he smelled the pungent odor of a stable. He flashed the light over the board partitions of a stall, a leather harness on a hook, brass fittings, a saddle—then, on the stone floor, the body of a horse lying on its side. The animal was not quite dead—a leg kicked convulsively.

“Stay back.” Birtles moved in closer, felt beneath his feet the pool of blood that Monty had tracked to the street, saw the gaping opening where the broad chestnut neck had been cut through. “Insane,” he whispered. They’re both insane...”

When they were driving again, he told Anitra to take him back to the hotel. She wanted to get the police but he said he was only concerned about his daughter and if they wasted one minute they might lose Feather and Monty. “I think they came out here to do this and now they’ll be on their way.”

“That must have been her own horse. Why would she kill it?”

“I don’t know. In the pub she said, ‘I was riding her a couple of days ago.’ I thought she meant arguing with Barbie.” Birtles nursed his fear as Anitra gunned down quiet roads.

When they arrived at the Candide, they found the Volvo parked outside. Anitra pulled in and idled. “The police?” she said plaintively. “Can we have the police now, please?”

“O.K. I’ll get out and watch. You drive to the police station—there must be one near here. If you see a cop on the street, stop and tell him.”

Birtles got out and positioned himself where he could watch the hotel entrance. The Mini wheeled down the street and turned the corner. Almost immediately, the glass door was pushed open by Monty carrying a couple of expensive-looking suitcases. Lucy Feather followed with a zippered flight bag. Monty loaded the luggage expertly, closed the trunk, and went to join Lucy in the front seat.

Birtles had to make up his mind. He ran forward, opened the back door, and slid inside just as the car pulled away.

Lucy glanced at him in the rearview mirror as she moved into traffic. “You again! What gives?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. Why did you kill your horse?”

Her voice hardened. “Take care of him.”

Monty turned and gave Birtles a look of admiration. “Were you out there tonight?”

“I’m looking for my daughter. I’m convinced you two know where she is.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I found a Candide Hotel envelope in her room with some pot in it. And when I came down here I ran into you and Lucy. Lucy visited Barbara a few days ago—I heard them arguing in her room.”

“He’s quite a detective, Lucy. He’s a determined man. I like that.”

“All right,” Lucy said. “I gave Barbara some stuff when I went to pick up the book. We argued because I wanted her to come with us but she wouldn’t.”

“End of story,” Monty said. “We know nothing about your daughter, Mr. Birtles.”

“I think you do. Anyway, we’re going to have it out. My girl friend went to get the police.”

Lucy gave him a contemptuous glance. “That’s pathetic. Do you know who this is? I told you Ezra Monty—his real name is Eric Merlot. You know the book I got from Barbara? It’s about him.”

Birtles had read the book, had glanced at a couple of badly reproduced photos in the centerfold. This could be the man.

“He’s killed eleven people already. You mean nothing to him. He’ll blow you away as soon as look at you. Where shall we go, Eric? Out in the country?”

Merlot laughed and patted her shoulder. “She’s my greatest admirer. When she heard there was a book about me, she had to get a copy right away.” He became serious. “Nobody’s killed anybody here and nobody’s going to. This is England, not India. I said I like you, Mr. Birtles. Barbara’s a lucky girl to have a father who cares about her as much as you do—I can tell you that from experience. And I can see the same qualities in you that I like in her.”

“You’ve seen her then.”

“Of course I have. I was keeping quiet because she asked me to. She’s agreed to come east and work for me. I provide a service for young people traveling out there and Barbara would be ideal.”

Birtles looked at the handsome face watching him across the upholstered seat. Those pale eyes caught what little light there was—all he could see was intelligent, honest, friendly eyes. “She never said anything to me.”

“She wouldn’t. She cares about your feelings. I’m offering her glamour, excitement, her own apartment in one of the nicer hotels in Singapore. That beats a cubbyhole bedroom with Daddy listening through the kitchen wall.”

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Birtles said: “You’ve been in my house, Mr. Merlot. When was that?”

“Eric, you’re going to have to kill him. This is getting worse.”

“Just drive the car. Mr. Birtles is an intelligent man. Sir, I’ll admit I was there. We came in the other night using Barbara’s key. She sent us to get her backpack. She’d decided to come with me. O.K.? I’ve told you the truth.”

“And her traveller’s checks. You got those too?”

“Of course. She said not to forget her traveller’s checks.”

“But one thing still doesn’t fit. Even if Barbara had decided to go with you she would have told me. But she hasn’t, and that means something’s wrong.”

“Eric?” Lucy said in a voice that combined a supplication and a warning.

“And if she’s going with you to Singapore, how come you two are driving away without her?”

Merlot laughed. The laugh announced that Birtles was the most entertaining company he’d encountered in a long time. “I’m going to have to give you the rest of it. Barbara wanted your feelings spared—that’s why you haven’t heard from her. The fact is, she and I met through Lucy and there was this physical thing between us. Can you understand that? She moved in at the hotel and all she cared about was—well, two things. She also loved what I gave her to smoke. She’s been stoned out of her mind for the past three days.”

Birtles waited. Yes, he could believe any woman might become infatuated with Eric Merlot. He hated the idea of Barbie falling into that existence. But right now all he wanted was to find her and see that she was all right.

“I decided,” Merlot continued, “that the best thing for me to do was disappear. Since she’s so young. So I left her in the room at the Candide—I paid for another couple of days in advance. When she wakes up and sorts herself out, she’ll come home. And, Mr. Birtles, please don’t tell her where I’ve gone.”

The car slowed down and halted at a traffic light. “I’ve been told so many things,” Birtles said. “First, you were taking her to Singapore. Now you’ve left her and she doesn’t know you’ve gone. It could all be lies.”

“Shut up,” Lucy snapped. “Just shut your mouth and get out of the car.” She pulled on the hand brake, leaving herself free to sprawl back over the seat and open the back door. “Just get out and go away. And consider yourself lucky.”

Birtles got out. He slammed the back door and opened the front door beside Merlot. He put an arm lock on the younger man’s head and dragged him from the car. “You’re going, too,” he said. “I want you with me until I find my daughter.”

The light changed. They were in one of the middle lanes and Birtles had to dodge cars as traffic began to move. Lucy had no choice but to drive on. When they reached the sidewalk, Merlot laughed in a high shrill voice. “Fabulous!” he screamed. “You incredible sonofabitch, that’s the sort of thing I’d do!”

He was still laughing when they reached an Underground station. As they went down the steps, Merlot’s arm firmly held by Birtles, the Eurasian said: “That’s how I got away from the police in Rajasthan. Impulse. A window was open, so I climbed through and ran across a yard and out the gate. You keep your eyes open and you take quick, decisive action.”

They missed a Central Line train heading east and had to wait on a deserted platform. Merlot glanced at the hand locked onto his upper arm. “Getting tired?” he asked. “I know how hard it is to hold somebody who doesn’t want to be held. That’s why I use a lot of drugs. You should buy me a coffee and put a few capsules in it.”

Birtles pushed Merlot onto a bench and knelt before him. He took his right foot in both hands and twisted sharply. “Oh, Christ, no—” Merlot groaned. The bone snapped and Birtles released the foot.

“Now you won’t run,” he said. “Not on a broken ankle.”

Merlot threw his head back so hard it hit the tiled wall. His eyes were glazed. “Sadistic bastard, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I think I did. Anyway, you killed that horse, don’t talk to me about sadism.”

Merlot struggled to get a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Want to know why we killed the horse? It was Lucy’s idea. She’s worse than both of us put together.”

A train was approaching. Birtles drew Merlot up and supported him on the lame side. They boarded the train and the doors closed. They sat on a double seat.

“The horse,” Merlot said. “I needed money and Lucy got it for me by selling some of her parents’ things. Her father threatened to sell her horse to recoup the money. That was what made up her mind to come away with me. Before we left, she decided to kill the horse so they couldn’t sell it.”

“I think you two deserve each other,” Birtles said grimly. “But God help the world if you should spawn.”

Merlot laughed. “You think I’d marry or have children? Put more life into this rotten world? Have no fear.”

When the train arrived at Queensway Station, Merlot’s eyes were closed. As Birtles helped him onto the escalator, he asked: “How’s the ankle?”

Merlot seemed still to be thinking of the absurdity of his marrying Lucy Feather. “She’s just a contact for me in London—a source of money while I hide. A gang of English kids in Katmandu gave me her name. When I broke jail the last time, it gave me a place to come and stay.”

The three-block walk to the hotel took time. Merlot gritted his teeth and limped on. His weight was light but his slender, supple frame reminded Birtles of the aluminum tent poles he used to erect on camping trips. They were practically unbreakable.

Approaching the Candide, he kept a lookout for a police presence. There was no sign of vehicles or uniformed men. Of course, Merlot had been gone for some time—Anitra would have returned with the police to be told their man had checked out. By now she and the police would be on the way to the airport.

Inside the hotel, on the stairs to his first-floor room, Merlot said: “Your daughter is O.K., I promise you that. When you’re satisfied, will you let me go?”

“All I care about is Barbie,” Birtles said. But did he mean that? The man on his shoulder was a murderer, escaped from police custody. He was a psychopath, capable of killing a horse with a knife. How could he be let free? He was smug and con-fident, holding in contempt the laws and the society that Birtles had supported all his life. “I don’t care about you,” he added.

“Then we understand each other,” Merlot said in a quiet voice with just a trace of an edge.

Merlot had kept his key. As he unlocked the door of his room he glanced at Birtles and read the inquiry in his eyes. “There was no way Lucy was getting on that plane. I was going to give her the key and send her back to take care of Barbara. O.K.?”

They went inside where Merlot snapped on a light and closed the door. It turned out to be a small suite. He indicated a closed door. “She’s in the bedroom.”

“You, too,” Birtles said, pulling Merlot with him.

Merlot opened the door and Birtles went into the bedroom. He saw a familiar shape in the bed, recognized the curly head on the pillow even in near darkness. He left the limping man and hurried to the bed. As he bent over her, Merlot turned on a lamp. The light fell on Barbie’s face, undamaged but passive as a sculpture.

“Barbie? Love?” Birtles touched her cheek. There was warmth. “Are you all right?”

Her eyelids flickered, raised—she saw him and immediately there were tears. “Oh, it’s you,” she slurred. “Daddy, I was hoping you’d come—”

“I’m here now. You’ll be O.K.”

“They gave me drugs. They wanted my money. I couldn’t phone, I couldn’t move or do anything.”

“I’ll get a doctor for you. We’ll have you home in no time.”

“Daddy, I’m not going away. I’m going to stay with you—”

“Shhhh.” She had reverted to the school girl who used to feign illness so she could stay home in bed where he would bring her lunch on a tray and the deck of cards for a game of rummy. “We’ll talk about it when you’re better.”

He heard the bedroom door close, heard the snap of a key in the lock. He got up and ran to the door. “Merlot, don’t be crazy!”

“She’s O.K., right? That’s my side of the bargain. I don’t trust you, Mr. Birtles—I’m off.”