Vengeance: A Novel (Quirke) (20 page)

“Did I?”

“That’s what you said on the phone.”

“Oh, yes.” She was gazing vaguely at his tie. “It’s just that no one tells me anything.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Your friend the detective—what’s his name?”

“Hackett. Inspector Hackett.”

“That’s it. He has a way of talking without saying anything. Have you noticed?”

“Yes,” Quirke said, “I’ve noticed that. What would you like him to say?”

She was looking into her glass now. “I think I’ve had enough of this, thank you,” she said. She returned to the sideboard and put down the undrunk whiskey and took another glass and poured into it an inch of gin and a generous splash of tonic. She lifted the lid of a silver bucket and swore under her breath. “No ice, again,” she said.

There were certain women, Quirke was thinking, who seemed doubly present in a room. It was as if there was the woman herself and along with her a more vivid version of her, an invisible other self that emanated from her and surrounded her like an aura. It came to him that he very much wanted to see Mona Delahaye without her clothes on. His grip tightened on the whiskey glass. Her husband was hardly cold in his grave.

“The thing is,” she said, turning with her glass and moving towards the white sofa, “people think I’m stupid.” She glanced back at him. “You, for instance—you think I’m completely brainless, don’t you.” He could see no way of replying to this. She sat down on the sofa with a not unhappy little sigh. “That’s why you’d like to go to bed with me.” She smiled and drank at the same time, looking up at him merrily. “Come,” she said softly, patting the place beside her, “come and sit down.” He hesitated. It was the playful lightness of her tone that made the moment seem all the more dangerous. “Oh, come on,” she said, “I won’t bite you.”

He went to the sideboard and poured another whiskey, trying not to let the neck of the bottle rattle against the glass. He could feel her watching him, smiling. He went and perched on the arm of the sofa, at the opposite end from where she sat, as he had done the first time he was here, with Hackett. “What is it you want to know?” he asked. “The reason why your husband killed himself?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I know that, more or less.” She crossed her legs and draped one arm along the back of the sofa. She lifted her glass to her lips, but did not drink, and wrinkled her nose instead. “Gin without ice is sort of disgusting, isn’t it.” Quirke thought of another woman, sitting on another sofa, with a glass of warm gin in her hand. Mona Delahaye was watching him, reading his mind. “Are you married, Dr. Quirke?” she asked.

“No.”

“You have a sort of married look about you.”

“I was married, a long time ago. My wife died.”

Mona nodded. “That’s sad,” she said, with calm indifference. She went on scanning his face, her thin mouth lifted at the corners. “So you’re a gay bachelor, then.”

“More or less.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Why
did
your husband kill himself?”

She took her arm from the back of the sofa and leaned forward. “Oh, I didn’t mean that I
know,
” she said dismissively. “I sort of do.” She paused, looking at the narrow gold band on the third finger of her left hand. “He was terribly—well, terribly jealous, in a ridiculous sort of way. He used to worry that I had a lover”—she smiled—“or lovers, even.”

“And did you?”

She ignored the question. “He was forever going on about it,” she said, “until I got bored, and then of course I’d start to tease him. Awful of me, I know, but I couldn’t resist it.” She looked at him again, frowning. “Did you know my husband?”

“I met him at a reception once, I can’t remember where.”

“Was I there?”

“I believe you were.”

“That’s odd. Surely I would have remembered meeting you.” She smiled slyly, then frowned again, and let her eyes slide away from his until she was gazing at nothing. “He had no sense of humor, that was the trouble—none at all. And that really is very boring, you know, if you’re married to the person.” She finished her drink and rolled the empty glass between her palms. The shadow of a cloud darkened the window for a second and then the brightness flooded back. “Honestly,” Mona said, glancing towards the window, “you’d think it was April, wouldn’t you.” She looked at him again. “He left a note, did I mention that?”

“No,” Quirke said, “you didn’t mention that.”

“Well, he did. But look”—she shook her head at him with pretended displeasure—“I wish you wouldn’t sit there like that, all tensed up like a corkscrew. Sit here, beside me—come on.”

“Mrs. Delahaye,” Quirke said, “I’m really not sure why you asked me here today.”

“No,” she said brightly, “neither am I. But it would be nice if you came and sat down.” She smiled. “We could discuss the matter,” she said, in a husky tone of mock solemnity. “You like discussing things, don’t you?”

He got to his feet and stood irresolute. His glass was empty again. He felt dizzy. What was he to do? The woman on the sofa sat at her ease, looking up at him, with what might have been a warmly sympathetic smile, as if she understood his dilemma. She held up her glass. “Get us both another drink,” she said. “I’d like one, and I think you need one.”

He took his time at the sideboard, pouring the drinks. When he carried them to the sofa Mona tasted hers and shook her head. “No,” she said, “I can’t drink another one without ice. Would you be a dear—? The kitchen is at the end of the hall.” She indicated with her thumb. “Sarah will be there, she’ll show you.”

He took the ice bucket and walked with it down the hall, into the dim recesses of the house. Sarah the maid was not to be found; he had once been in love with a woman named Sarah, who was dead, now. The kitchen was large and impersonal, and smelled faintly of gas. The squat refrigerator stood in a corner murmuring to itself, like a white-clad figure kneeling in rapt prayer. He extracted the crackling ice tray from its compartment and took it to the sink and struggled with it, the pads of his fingers sticking to the plump cubes sunk in their metal chambers. At last he thought of turning the tray over and running the tap on it, and then of course the cubes all fell out at once with a clatter and he had to chase them round the bottom of the sink with fingers that by now were turning numb.

At last he got the cubes into the bucket and set off back through the house. In the hallway he heard voices, and as he was passing by a door it opened suddenly and one of the Delahaye twins, coming out, stopped on the threshold and looked at him in surprise. He was dressed in white, as usual—white sports shirt, duck trousers, plimsolls—and carried a wooden tray with glasses on it. Quirke glanced past the young man’s shoulder into the room. There was a billiard table, and a darkly pretty girl was sitting on it, with her left foot on the floor and her right leg raised, her hands clasped around her knee. The other twin stood in front of her, with a hand resting on her hip. Impassive, they returned his stare. No one spoke. In a second or two the little tableau—Quirke in the hall, the twin in the doorway, and the couple at the table—was over, and Quirke passed on. He had a strange feeling of lightness, as if he were passing through a dream.

Mona Delahaye was reclining now against the back of the sofa. She uncrossed her legs slowly and leaned forward, holding up her glass, into which he dropped a handful of ice from the bucket. “You’re such a pet,” she said, watching the cubes jostle amid the tonic bubbles.

Quirke retrieved his whiskey glass and sat down again on the arm of the sofa. “You say your husband left a note,” he said.

“Yes.” She frowned, as if petulantly. “I threw it away. Burned it, actually. Or did I flush it down the you-know-what?” She twinkled at him. “You see? I’m such a scatterbrain.”

“May I ask what he said—what he wrote?”

“Oh, silly stuff. How much he loved me and how jealous he was—all that, the usual.” She sipped her drink thoughtfully. “There’s really nothing you can do for people who are jealous, is there. And they make such a—such a
spectacle
of themselves. It’s always too pitiful.” She looked at him. “Don’t you think?”

He drank his whiskey, then brought out his cigarettes and offered her one, and took one himself. Leaning down with his lighter he looked again into the front of her blouse. Her skin was so pale there, and would be so soft to touch. “Was he jealous of Jack Clancy?” he asked.

She gave a little silvery laugh. “Oh, he was jealous of everyone,” she said. She pushed out her lower lip and directed a thin stream of smoke upwards past his face.

“Is that why he tried to kill his son?”

She frowned in puzzlement. “What?”

“Because he was jealous, is that why he abandoned young Clancy in the boat miles offshore and left him to fry in the sun? To get back at his father?”

She gave him an odd look, tight-lipped and wide-eyed, as if he had said something richly funny at which she must not allow herself to laugh. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, blinking slowly, trying to show him how impressed she was by his perceptiveness. “I’m sure you’re right. In fact, I’m sure he intended to kill Davy, but lost his nerve at the last minute and shot himself instead. It would be just the kind of thing Victor would do. He really wasn’t very—he wasn’t very
competent
, you know. He had this reputation as a ruthless businessman”—she broke off for a second to laugh again, almost in delight—“but it was all nonsense. He hadn’t an idea. It was his father who kept the business going, even after he was supposed to have retired. Then when poor old Sam had his stroke that creep Maverley stepped in and took charge. And there was Jack, of course—Jack knew the business inside out.” She darted her cigarette in the direction of the ashtray that she had set on the floor beside her foot. “Victor’s trouble was his mother. You wouldn’t have known her—a real monster, hiding behind a mask of niceness. She ruined him, gave him ridiculous ideas of how clever and important he was, at the same time working away to undermine his confidence.
Oh, Victor, don’t try to be like your father,
she’d say,
you couldn’t possibly be like him
. And she’d smile, very sweetly, and pat his hand. It’s her he should have killed, though conveniently she died.”

Forgetting himself, he slid down from his place on the sofa arm until he was sitting beside her. She smiled, and it seemed for a moment she might move sideways and lean her head on his shoulder, or nestle against his chest. “Will you tell me what was in the note—the suicide note?” he asked.

She stared at him, again with that look of almost laughing. “I didn’t say it was a
suicide
note,” she said. “Just a note. He often wrote things down that he couldn’t bring himself to say.”

“And what was it he wrote that last time—what was it he couldn’t say?”

“I told you—about being jealous.”

“Of Jack Clancy?”

“Um.” She dipped a finger into her glass and stirred the gin and what was left of the ice cubes, then put the tip of the finger into her mouth and sucked it, looking at him sidelong. He held her gaze. He was acutely aware of the presence of others in the house, of Sarah the maid, of the twins, and that dark-haired girl. What had the three of them been up to in the billiard room? Nothing good, he was sure of that.

“Did you know what he was going to do?” he asked. She shook her head, still with her finger in her mouth. “But you weren’t surprised,” he said softly.

She took his glass from his hand and rose and walked to the sideboard and poured them each yet another drink. “What do you know about me?” she asked, busy with bottles, glasses, ice.

“Know about you?”

“Yes. Where I’m from, for instance. Can you tell from my accent?” He had not noticed an accent. “Maybe I’ve lost it,” she said.

She brought their drinks and gave him his and sat down again beside him.

“We’ll both be drunk,” Quirke said.

She folded one leg under herself with balletic grace. “Yes,” she said gaily, “that’s my aim.” She clinked her glass against his. “Bottoms up.”

The whiskey this time burned his throat. He needed to eat something. He was beginning to hear himself breathe, and that was always a bad sign. Drink seemed not to affect Mona Delahaye, except to lend her expression a brightly impish gleam.

“So,” he said, “where are you from?”

“You really can’t tell? I don’t know whether to be glad or not—I mean about having lost my accent. I’m from South Africa. My name, my”—she giggled—“my maiden name, used to be Vanderweert.” Quirke nodded. He could not imagine this woman ever having been a maiden. “I was born in Cape Town,” she said. “Ever been there? Very beautiful.”

“You’re a long way from home, then.”

Her look became pensive. “Yes, I suppose so. Though it’s hardly home, anymore.” She glanced at him, smiling. “I suppose you’re thinking of diamond mines, and kaffirs being flogged, and so on, while I loll on the verandah in the cool of evening drinking something tall with ice in it and admiring the sun setting behind Table Mountain. Not like that, I’m afraid, not like that at all. My father was—is—a civil servant, third class, as they say. I grew up in a bungalow in Parow.”

“Where’s that?”

“Suburb of Cape Town. Not the loveliest spot on earth.”

“How did you meet your husband?”

“Victor?” she said, as if she had forgotten that she had once had a husband. “He was visiting Cape Town, pretending to be on business—he loved to travel about the world, being the high-powered executive—and I was working as a typist in the office of one of the firms he called in to. He took me to dinner, we danced, the moon rose, and by morning the deal was clinched.” She was watching him, ironical and amused. “The way things really happen is always grubby, isn’t it. I could have lied to you, you realize that. I could have said I was a De Beers heiress, and that Victor had to plead for my hand with my father the plutocrat, and you wouldn’t have known any better. But I thought you’d prefer the truth. I thought you
deserved
the truth, dull as it is.” She chuckled. “Victor would be furious—he liked to pretend I was the daughter of some grand colonial family. Poor Victor.”