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Within a couple of seconds, Douglas Andrews, Maxim’s private secretary at the New York office, hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers. A New Yorker born and bred, Douglas was about thirty-three, short, fresh-faced, dark-haired, with a pleasant, outgoing disposition and a willingness to work around the clock for Maxim. He had been his private secretary for five years and was devoted, loyal and fiercely protective.
‘Here are the legal documents on the Mystell deal which you asked me for. Peter Heilbron’s secretary just dropped this memo off for you. It’s regarding the Blane-Gregson takeover,’ Douglas said. As he reached the desk, he placed the papers in an empty chromium tray on the right-hand corner, then seated himself in the chair facing Maxim, his notebook in his hand, his pencil poised.
‘Thank you,’ Maxim said, glancing at the pile in the tray. ‘I’ll attend to those shortly. There’s a couple of things I’d like you to do, Dougie. Rent a car for me, please, and have it outside at four o’clock, and send one of the secretaries over to Bloomingdale’s food department to buy some provisions for me. A cold chicken, potato salad, a piece of Brie, some French bread and a carton of milk. That should do it. Okay?’
‘Yes, I’ll get on it right away.’ Try though he did, Douglas could not quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and he gave Maxim a curious stare. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
An imperceptible smile flicked onto Maxim’s face. ‘Obviously, Dougie. To my beach cottage in East Hampton, to be precise. For the weekend. Alone. I want a bit of peace, some quiet time to think. And I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Understand?’
Douglas nodded. ‘I do. Absolutely. I’ll deal with the car and send Alice over to the store, but are you sure that’s enough food for you? Maybe she should buy more.’
‘No, no, the chicken and the salad will do me fine for tonight. I can easily pick up some groceries in East Hampton village on Saturday morning.’
‘You’re pretty brave, leaving at four o’clock,’ Douglas volunteered, frowning. ‘You’ll have all that commuter traffic on the Long Island Expressway to contend with. It might be a better idea to drive out to the Hamptons later, say around six or so.’
‘Oh it’s not all that bad in winter, Dougie.’
‘I guess not. Still …’ Douglas’s voice trailed off. He could see that Maxim was already thinking about something else, and so he got up, headed for the door.
Maxim reached for the documents in the chromium tray, and called across to Douglas, ‘Please ask Peter if he can have a quick lunch with me. And if he is available, you might let the Four Seasons know that I’d like my usual table today, if that’s possible. Around one.’
‘Yes, Sir Maxim,’ Douglas murmured, opening the door, closing it quietly behind him, wondering if Maxim really was going to spend the weekend alone. Or did he have an assignation with some new lady love? Lucky devil, Douglas thought, he’s got it all. And then some. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes.
But would I really? Douglas asked himself as he sat down at his desk a moment later. Would I want that bitch Adriana for a wife? And as for the girlfriend over on Sutton Place, she’s not much better. More than once he had seen a look in Blair Martin’s baby blues that had immediately alerted him to her scheming ways. Graeme Longdon called her Miss Greedy Guts behind her back. Spot on, Graeme was.
How did such a lovely guy, such a prince of a guy, like Maxim West get hooked up with those two barracudas? Douglas sat shaking his head in bafflement. He came to the conclusion, as he had so often in the past, that men who were brilliant in business were not necessarily very smart when it came to the women in their lives. Fools rush in, he thought.
Still shaking his head, Douglas lifted the phone, dialled Peter Heilbron, head of West International’s acquisition team.
The phone was answered after one ring. ‘Heilbron here.’
‘It’s Dougie. The boss wants to know if you can have a quick lunch with him today. Downstairs. At one. I hope you can, because he seems a bit down in the mouth to me.’
‘I’m free … at least I’ll make myself free,’ Peter said quickly. ‘And what exactly do you mean by down in the mouth, Dougie?’
Douglas heard the concern in Peter’s voice, the anxiety surfacing. He said, ‘When the boss walked in off the Concorde this morning I thought he looked really lousy. Preoccupied. No, troubled is a better word, and a bit sad, or so it seemed to me. And that’s not like him. You know what an expert he is at veiling his feelings.’
‘Yes, I do. Business? Or personal, Dougie?’
‘I’m not sure … personal most probably.’
‘It has to be. There are no problems here, or at the London office that I know of … and I’d know –’ Peter bit off the end of his sentence. I hope to God those two women are not on the rampage again, he thought, dismay rising. He cleared his throat and said carefully, ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be too serious, Dougie. He would have mentioned it to me, if only in passing. I’m sure it’s merely tiredness.’
‘Yes,’ Douglas agreed, deeming discretion to be the wisest policy when it came to the subject of the boss. He had no intention of speculating, gossiping with Peter. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dougie continued. ‘He has been travelling a lot these past few weeks. By the way, nobody knows he’s in town except you and me and your secretary. I have a feeling he wants to keep it that way.’
‘I get your drift, Douglas, my boy,’ Peter responded. ‘That’s my other line ringing. Please tell the boss I’ll pick him up in his office just before one.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_decf7217-3417-54e7-abd5-ac29d5dbedf0)
It took Maxim two and a half hours to drive from Manhattan to East Hampton.
By the time he reached the charming old village on Long Island the bleak January sky, so cold and remote and colourless, had long since deepened into curdled grey then quickly turned the colour of pitch. Only a few stars littered the horizon far out over the black and endless sea, and the orb of a moon, clear, high-flung, and silvered, was constantly obscured by scudding dark clouds.
Maxim glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he turned off Ocean Avenue into Lily Pond Lane, noted that it was almost six-forty-five. Not bad going, he thought, as he drove on, heading towards the Georgica Beach end of the lane where his cottage was located.
He had bought the house twelve years earlier. It was his private little retreat. At least that is the way he thought of it, and referred to it, and apparently his message had been clearly received by Adriana and Blair, both of whom knew better than to descend on him without an invitation, and these he rarely issued. He mostly stayed there by himself, or with his colleagues from West International.
Within a few minutes he was pulling up outside.
The cottage had grey shingles, white-painted shutters, a black door, and neat, squared-off chimneys. Set a little back from the road, it was fronted by sloping lawns, now covered with a sprinkling of hoary frost, along with a number of giant oaks which offered privacy the year round and plenty of cool leafy shade in the heat of the summer.
Although it was not a large house by Maxim’s standards, it more than adequately suited his needs, the type of bachelor life he led when he came out to the island. It was spacious without being sprawling, and the layout was well planned; the hall, big family kitchen, dining room and study were at the front of the house, the living room, which flowed into a library, was at the back. These two adjoining rooms overlooked the swimming pool, a small pool house and flower gardens; nestling at the far end of the rear lawn, beyond the flower beds, was a copse of trees that afforded the property additional privacy on this side of the house.
The upstairs consisted of two floors. On one were Maxim’s bedroom, bath and dressing rooms; on the other, two guest rooms with their own bathrooms, plus a third, larger bedroom which had been converted into an office, equipped with two modern desks, a typewriter and a computer, plus fax, xerox and shredding machines, as well as a battery of telephones.
Because of this super-efficient office, which Maxim thought of as a command post, he could come to the cottage whenever he wished, yet still be in touch with his business empire around the world. Often he brought along Douglas Andrews and Graeme Longdon, sometimes Peter Heilbron, to work on pending deals, especially in the summer months when they were glad to escape from the sweltering heat of the city for a few days at a stretch.
After parking against the kerb, turning off the ignition and the lights, Maxim took the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag from the back seat and alighted from the rented Jaguar.
It was a bitter night, with an icy wind blowing in from the Atlantic. He glanced about. The lane was in total darkness; there was not the slightest glimmer of friendly light from any of the other houses. But as he strode rapidly up the path between the lawns, the moon came out from behind the banked-up clouds, bathed the cottage and the path with silvery radiance. For a few moments it was like daylight.
Out of the corner of his eye Maxim noticed the station wagon parked a bit further along, wondered who it belonged to, instantly dismissed it as he hurried around to the side entrance of the cottage. He let himself in through the kitchen door, retrieved the bag of food he had dumped on the back step, and switched on the lights. Pushing the door closed with his foot, he carried the bag over to the circular table which stood in the centre of the floor.
The blue-and-white tiled kitchen was spotless. Everything gleamed brightly, was in its given place, and the room looked as if Mrs Mulvaney had only just cleaned it.
Perhaps she did do it today, Maxim thought. He had not succeeded in reaching either of the Mulvaneys before leaving the office, and aware of their diligence and reliability it now struck him that they might easily have been here when he was ringing their home.
Maxim shivered, became conscious of the chill in the air. The heat was on as usual but he realised that it needed to be turned up on a cold night such as this. Still shivering, he headed in the direction of the front hall, where the controls for the heating system were located in a cupboard under the stairs.
Pulling open the door leading into the hall, Maxim suddenly stopped in his tracks, one foot poised on the step. There was a faint noise, a pinging sound like metal hitting metal. It was barely discernible, but because Maxim’s hearing was extremely acute he always picked up the slightest sound wherever he was.
Puzzled, he stepped out into the hall.
Light from the kitchen streamed around him, and he could not fail to miss the television set standing on the floor, along with various pieces of equipment from the office upstairs.
Once more there was that odd pinging sound, then a small crash, a muffled curse.
The noises were coming from the living room, and immediately all Maxim’s senses were alerted to trouble. There was apparently someone in the house beside himself, an intruder, no doubt about that.
Moving with stealth, noiselessly crossing the hall, Maxim opened the door a crack. The living room was dark, as was the adjoining library. The latter was in his clear line of vision and he instantly saw the pinspot of light from a flashlamp, which was being trained around the room.
Deciding that surprise was his best bet, Maxim struck the master switch on the wall. Instantly, six table lamps in the two rooms blazed fully to life, flooding the area with brilliance.
Startled, the intruder swung around, saw Maxim. He was not very tall and slightly built, dressed entirely in black. He was holding a large black nylon laundry bag that bulged and was obviously filled to the brim with loot.
The burglar stood gaping at Maxim.
‘Drop that bag!’ Maxim yelled irately, his expression one of furious anger. The man did nothing, continued to gape. There was a dumbfounded look on his face, and he appeared to be momentarily paralysed.
With a rush, Maxim sprinted across the floor, heading directly for the intruder, confident he could tackle and overpower him before calling in the police to apprehend him.
Just before Maxim reached him, the burglar pulled a gun and fired.
Maxim heard the report, felt the bullet slam against his chest. He went down at once with a thud, sprawling between the living room and the library. The look of astonishment on his face changed to one of stunned shock.
Maxim thought: This can’t be happening to me … it can’t be ending like this … not after all I’ve been through … I can’t be dying at the hands of a petty thief …
The burglar stood stock still, listening.
He wondered if anyone had heard the shot, then dismissed this idea at once. There was nobody around. These houses were summer places. That’s why he had headed for the area earlier. He’d already pulled two other jobs down the block. Easy pickings they’d been. He hadn’t had to waste anybody in the other houses though. No one had walked in and surprised him, that’s why. Shame about the guy who just had. But he’d had to protect himself. The guy was big, powerful, could’ve taken him easy.
The burglar walked over to the body, looked down at it dispassionately. The man he had shot was lying on his side. He did not stir. Blood stained the front of his pale blue shirt, was already seeping onto the grey carpet, turning a patch of it a funny rust colour.
Shoving the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, he pivoted swiftly, returned to the library, grabbed a few more silver trinkets, threw them into the laundry bag. There was a pinging sound as they struck the items he had stolen from other homes in the vicinity. Glancing about, satisfied that he had ripped off the best of the small stuff here, he left the living room, switched off the lights as he headed out. He went through to check the kitchen, doused the lights there, returned to the hall.
He stood listening again.
The darkened house was as silent as the grave. So was the street. Nothing moved. No cars drove past. Methodically, he began to carry the pieces of equipment and the television set to the front steps. Once everything was outside, he dropped the latch on the door and pulled it tightly shut behind him. Still moving with speed and expertise, he went up and down the path until all of his booty had been stowed in the station wagon. Sliding in behind the wheel, he drove off without a backward glance.
He did not see one solitary person, nor any traffic, as he sped down Lily Pond Lane. He knew he was safe. Nobody ever came out here in this kind of freezing weather in the dead of winter. The body would not be found for weeks. And anyway, he couldn’t be linked to the man’s death. He had been smart, cool. He’d not left a single fingerprint, not even half of one. He knew better than that. He always wore gloves when he pulled jobs.
Elias Mulvaney sat at the kitchen table in his small, comfortable house behind the railway station in East Hampton. He was enjoying the warmth of the blazing fire, his second cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut on this icy night, and thinking about the afternoon he and Clara had just spent at their daughter’s house in Quogue.
It had been a red-letter day for them, visiting their first grandchild, revelling in her good health and prettiness, and in Lola’s happiness. She and Mickey, her husband of ten years, had been waiting a long time for this baby. Yep, it’s been the grandest day, Elias thought, and it has given Clara a real boost, made her forget her rheumatism. Clara had stayed on in Quogue for the weekend. Elias was certain she would be fussing and bustling, playing mother hen to the child and Lola, but he didn’t think there was any harm in that. None at all. Do her good, he decided, and picked up his mug, drank the rest of his coffee.
The shrilling of the telephone broke the silence in the kitchen, made Elias sit up with a small start. He rose, ambled across the floor to answer it.
‘Mulvaney here.’
‘Good evening, Elias, this is Douglas Andrews.’
‘Hello, Mr Andrews!’ Elias exclaimed warmly, his grizzled, weatherbeaten face lighting up. Douglas Andrews had been a favourite of his for several years. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, genuinely interested.
‘Very well, thanks, Elias. And you?’
‘Can’t complain,’ Elias replied.
‘I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to reach Sir Maximilian at the cottage, but there’s no reply. I was wondering if you’d heard from him this evening?’
‘Well, no I haven’t,’ Elias said, sounding surprised. ‘Been in Quogue all day, didn’t get back until seven. I didn’t even know Sir Maxim was out here.’
‘He did try to get hold of you several times today. Obviously, since you were in Quogue, there was no answer. Sir Maxim left the city around four-fifteen. I rented a Jaguar for him and he was driving himself. I figured it would probably take him about three hours, or thereabouts, and I started to call him around seven-thirty. I have a number of messages for him. I don’t understand why he’s not there, since it’s now turned eight already.’
‘Yes, Sir Maxim should have reached East Hampton by this time,’ Elias agreed. Because Douglas Andrews sounded so worried he tried to reassure him. ‘Mebbe the line is wonky in some way or other, it’s been mighty cold and windy out here these last few days, and we’ve had a lot of rain.’
‘Yes,’ Douglas said and paused. He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I must admit, I’m growing concerned. I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the road.’
‘Oh I’m sure he hasn’t!’ Elias exclaimed. ‘Sir Maxim’s a careful driver, you know that. Now don’t you worry none, there’s more’n likely a good explanation.’
‘It’s very important that I speak with him tonight, Elias, and I wonder if you’d mind going over to the cottage, checking things out for me?’
‘Sure, I’ll go immediately, that’s no problem. Just give me your number so I can call you the minute I get there.’ As he was speaking Elias picked up the pencil near the message pad, licked the end, quickly scribbled down Douglas’s number as it was reeled off to him.
‘Thanks, Elias, I’m very appreciative,’ Douglas finished.
‘I’m glad to be of help, Mr Andrews. Now remember what I said, don’t you worry none, you hear?’
‘I’ll try not to,’ Douglas replied, knowing that he would.
They hung up, and Elias hurried out into the passageway. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out his bunch of house keys and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Hanging on a coat stand near the door were his down-filled parka, a woollen scarf and a cap with ear flaps, and these garments he took down and put on. He picked up his gloves and left at once, anxious to get over to Maximilian West’s place as fast as he possibly could.
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.’
