Читать книгу Angel of Death - Christian Russell - Страница 13

CHAPTER NINE

Sunday, October 18

It had been raining all morning. It had slowed down toward noon but small raindrops kept falling from the sky. Mark had called Dorothy yesterday and given her the address of the Bossert Hotel where he was staying. After an embarrassing pause the actress had acknowledged sending the car to the hotel and asked him not to let her down, he must come, he was the guest of honor.

Mark had hardly finished reading the editorial in The New York Times when the phone rang. The receptionist told him that there was a limo waiting for him outside. He looked at his watch: 16:55. These Whellers are so damn punctual! He changed his clothes quickly and went downstairs. When he saw the long expensive car which was taking the entire driveway, he felt sorry for not having taken a taxi to South Orange.

A chauffeur in a brand new uniform opened the back door for him. Du Nancy got in the car without very much enthusiasm. The inside was as roomy as his hotel room. There were a TV, a phone, a fridge, and a mini bar. He realized that the only thing missing was a bathroom. Well, he couldn’t be too sure of that.

It took them over an hour to get there. As soon as they entered South Orange Avenue the rain stopped as if by miracle. More than that, the sun started shining. Mark thought it probably never rained at their parties. The Whellers wouldn’t have that.

When they reached the gates a big man came out of a small house close by. The chauffeur pulled down the window. “Who are you bringing?” the guard asked.

“Mr. Du Nancy,” the chauffer answered boastfully.

“OK, I’ll let Miss Dorothy know. She told me to call her the minute you get here.”

The big gates opened and they entered a huge park full of century-old trees. After about two hundred yards Mark finally saw what the actress had called ‘her uncle’s villa.’ The Louvre could have easily moved its masterpieces there. Outside the huge building were several fountains and small greenhouses. Lots of elegant people were moving around the tables full of goodies. Others were talking lively. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the limo.

The chauffer pulled up by the steps. He got out to open the door for the guest and was unpleasantly surprised to find him on the lowest step already. There was a reason behind Mark’s hurry, though: Dorothy Wheller was waiting for him on top of the steps with a big smile on her face.

“I’m so glad you could come, Mark!” she told him while he kissed her hand. She looked at him again and burst into laughter when she saw his haircut. Then she took him by the arm and they entered a huge reception room. At a single glance the agent could recognize a lot of celebrities from showbiz, sports or politics. He stood still, overwhelmed.

“What is it, Mark?” the woman asked.

“I wonder what’s a guy like me doing in a place like this. This is like a walking Who’s Who edition.”

“It’s not like that. You should see the Academy Governor’s Ball after the Oscars have been awarded.”

“I don’t know what that is like, but I think I’m the only one here whose biography hasn’t been published.”

“You’re exaggerating it. Don’t tell me you feel awkward.”

“Oh, no, I don’t feel awkward. I’m often invited to reception halls where planes can take off.”

Dorothy smiled and managed to make him move. “Let’s go, Uncle Henry’s waiting for us.”

The senator was standing by the door talking passionately to an impressive elderly man. He saw them and waved to them to draw near. “Patrick, let me introduce my rescuer to you: Mark Du Nancy. He’s a real hero.” He then pointed to his interlocutor. “This is Judge Patrick Hurst from the Supreme Court.”

“The real hero checked out of hospital last Friday,” Mark tried to remind them of Paulardis’s existence.

“By the way, how’s your young colleague doing?” the politician made up for his mistake.

“He’s all right. The bullet just grazed his shoulder. Anyway, senator, we’ve informed our bosses and Beck’s called Washington.”

“Jesus, the ‘Monster’ will have the Secret Service guys all over me again,” Henry Wheller said. “They’re so boring with all that stuff in their ears!”

The judge was staring at Mark, holding his hand to his forehead as if he wanted to recall something. “Yes, of course!” he exclaimed. “Du Nancy—the N.Y. Rangers left forward. You scored second from Ray Bourque’s pass in the All Star-Game in ’88. Am I right?” he asked reaching out his hand.

“You are,” Mark said. “Only Ray’s going to play in the All Star-Game again next January whereas I haven’t held that stick in my hands for years.” He felt, however, flattered for being recognized for the most glorious day of his life. So he shook the judge’s hand vigorously. Hurst gave him the up and down and seemed satisfied by what he saw.

“You know, Henry.... Years back I saw this guy break Messier down like a twig.”

“And I saw him break down a guy who didn’t like my hat,” the senator replied.

“Stop whining,” the old man teased him. “Your luck seems to be working better and better. The first time they put a hole through your hat, now they didn’t even touch you.”

“Thanks, Patrick,” the senator laughed, “but I’d rather not put it to the test again. Well, what can you do? Friends come and go but enemies add up. Look at us, boring these young people. Dorothy, be a good host and introduce our guest to Sarah and Ralf. Then enjoy yourselves too. Show him around the house, dance a little....”

Mark had barely mumbled something when he felt a hand dragging him to the end of the room.

“Mr. Celebrity always surrounds himself with mystery or only when dealing with silly girls?” Dorothy pricked him.

“I wasn’t that famous. Besides, that happened a very long time ago.”

They walked past the people who were having a friendly chat by the entrance. From where they were standing now they could have a view of the entire room. In the opposite corner, on a very imposing rostrum, the man noticed a large orchestra in golden outfits. They were skillfully playing a tango using almost all the musical instruments he could think of. A lot of couples were dancing passionately in the middle of the room. To the left, several dozens of elderly people were sitting at a long table. At its head Mark recognized the actress’s father: Ralf Wheller. Dorothy had stopped and was now looking confusedly about the room.

“What’s the matter?” Mark asked.

“I’m trying to locate my sister. I want to introduce you to her.”

She finally found her—she was about twenty feet away from them. She was accompanied by two men who looked like gigolos. As they were drawing near, Du Nancy took a good look at her. Sarah was trying to hide about ten years behind her sad eyes and thick makeup. She was that kind of woman whose worst nightmare was a rainy day. She’s probably fifteen years older than her sister, Mark thought. As far as he knew, Sarah Wheller had been one of Hugh Heffner’s last ‘bunny girls’ in the early ’80s and was still longing for those times. Quickly labelled as a sex-symbol, she had been in several movies and then she started losing her charm and the movie people lost their interest in her. She was currently with Little Carnegie Theater only.

“My dear sister, this is Special Agent Mark Du Nancy.”

Sarah took a little bow. These Whellers seem to be very fond of their manners, Mark thought. The Du Nancys also cared for theirs but they also had other things to attend to. That was why he only kissed her hand.

“Oh, the man whose name is on everyone’s lips these days,” the woman exclaimed. “Nice to meet you. It seems you’re leading a pretty interesting life.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just nodded at them and resumed her conversation with her companions. Before they left, Mark noticed her dress. It was incredibly short and so sheer you could almost read her mind.

“Is she married?” he asked a little later out of pure curiosity.

“From time to time,” Dorothy smiled.

Now a group of four waiters were carrying a huge cake to the long table. There were many burning candles in it, sixty-five to be exact. They placed it before Ralf Wheller. The actor started to blow out the candles as the crowd were cheering and singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ With the help of his table companions he managed to do it in less than thirty seconds.

Old Wheller was a living legend of the New York stage. He had been Broadway’s golden boy and a special guest star to the Shakespeare festivals in Central Park. In the ’60s he had been Christopher Plummer’s co-star in Othello. He had been on the same stage with Laurence Olivier and Barbara Stanwyck. He hadn’t had too much to do with the movie business although the Los Angeles studios had always courted him whenever they did a Shakespeare movie. He had only given in once: at the request of his friend Richard Burton he had played a minor part in one of the latter’s historical movies.

One of Wheller’s close friends, an actor himself, stood up and started to praise his life and career. Ralf protested but to no result. The other guests urged him to listen to the speech. At some point a gorgeous young woman went up to the actor and whispered a few words into his ear, at the same time pointing to something in the room. The speaker had just come to the part about the immortality of Wheller’s roles. Ralf interrupted him.

“Stop, Frank! Our life, the life of the immortals, is still short and I want us to enjoy every minute of it. Especially now that I’ve reached an age when the candles have come to cost more than the cake. Let’s do something useful and pleasant for a change. There,” he pointed to a place close by, “you’ll see a group of young actresses who’d be more than happy to get advice from some seasoned guys like yourselves. What do you say, shall we join them?”

“I think it’s your advice they’re after, not some poor actor’s,” Frank said.

“OK then,” Ralf replied, “you can come too. The least you can do is to revel in their beauty.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible either, Ralf. Do you remember that thing they used to put in our tea back in Korea? I guess it’s already started to take its effect on me.” He gave his colleague a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Go get them, buddy!”

The brave sixty-five-year-old birthday boy stood up and made for the group of starlets. They surrounded him affectionately hanging on every word he said.

Mark and Dorothy joined them. The man noticed that the young women were all very beautiful and elegant. It was obvious the success of the party was due to the perfect combination of fine liquor and beautiful women. The younger daughter managed, not without some difficulty, to pull her father from the group of starlets.

“Come on, dad, how could you? Even your rheumatism is older than them.”

“But that was completely innocent. I was just giving them some stage directions.”

“Cut it, dad!” the daughter laughed. “You claim you’re harmless but always seem to find time for one last romance.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Dorrie,” the old man said seriously. “To me, my last romance will always be the memory of my first one.”

The young woman was moved realizing he was thinking of her mother. She pointed to the agent. “Let me introduce Mark Du Nancy to you, the man who saved my uncle and me.”

Ralf Wheller shook his hand smiling warmly. “Nice to meet you. I owe it to you twice, Mr. Du Nancy.” Then he cordially took them both by the shoulders. “You see, there are several special traffic rules for the last part of the road. Sometimes it feels good to break them, though. Old age is nothing but an anesthetic that nature’s chosen to prepare us for death. And, like any anesthetic, it may work or it may not. Tragedy begins when it doesn’t, because old age would be bearable if only the soul grew old with the body.”

“Your body’s holding up pretty well,” Mark said. And it wasn’t entirely groundless for Ralf Wheller looked, indeed, five or six years younger. “You don’t show your age at all.”

“Of course, I don’t. And you know why? Because everything that’s old about me is falling off: my hair, my teeth,” the actor laughed. “Anyway, at my age, you can’t complain about the diseases that get a fair share of your body.”

He waved to a waiter who was carrying a tray full of champagne glasses and offered each of them one and took one for himself. They clinked glasses.

“To saviors and their courage,” the old man said.

“To talent and beauty,” Mark replied looking at the actress meaningfully.

“Dorothy, why don’t you show our guest around?” Ralf Wheller asked.

It was the second request of that kind coming from her family so the young woman decided to comply with it and took Mark by the arm. He put down the glass he had never tasted from.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said pointing to the corner where the staircase was. While heading that way, Mark heard her swearing. “Damn! He saw me!”

Mark looked around to see where the danger was coming from. He saw a tall, elegant man who was waving to them to wait for him. As he was drawing near, the agent asked her. “Who’s that?”

“A pompous ass. Sort of rich stupid suitor who revels in other people’s pain.”

The man was finally standing in front of them. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Dorothy?” he asked emphatically.

“Mark Du Nancy, George Sellers,” the actress tried to cut the scene short.

“George James Sellers Jr. I have a degree in law, one in economics, and one in philosophy. So you are the hero of the night. Tell me, are they paying you by the pound?” he asked defiantly.

Mark looked into his eyes not knowing how to react.

“I hope you haven’t shot anyone today,” Sellers added.

“No. But the day isn’t over yet.”

“We’ve got to go, George,” Dorothy said firmly, pulling her rescuer away.

“Look, Mark,” the multi-degree guy sounded very cheerful all of a sudden. “I hear you used to be a great athlete. I’m into sports myself. I play tennis, that is. I have my own tennis court in Central Park. I’ve played a lot with my friend Todd Martin. Last week I even managed to take him two games. If I keep it up like that I might take him a whole set next year. What do you say, are you in for a game with me?”

“I don’t think I’m up to it. I’ve played five times against our department champion and only managed to win one match.”

“Oh,” Sellers grinned defiantly. “I see.”

The agent and the actress started for the staircase. That grin bothered Mark, though. He turned to George and said. “On the other hand, me and Todd are quite even.”

“Really?” the man stared at him in surprise.

“Yeah. 0-0,” Mark added while Dorothy burst into laughter.

“Don’t mind him,” she said. “The Wizard of Oz once told him, ‘I can’t give you any brains but I’ll give you several degrees instead.’” After they took a few steps the woman asked Mark. “What would you like to do now? Shall we dance here or go upstairs to see more of the house?”

“I’m warning you: I’ve got two left legs. I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it.”

“Never mind, I’ll teach you. Not here and not now. But I’ll make a perfect dancer out of you, to be sure.”

Mark smiled distrustfully. “Then you’ll show me around.”

They went up. When they reached the corridor Mark looked around in amazement. Never, not even in the movies, had he seen such luxury. He was a bit of an art expert. He would sometimes attend the auctions at Christie’s and pretend he had just bought this thing or that. But he had never seen so many valuable things in one place: original paintings by Goya, Poussin, and Toulouse-Lautrec, even a Picasso; fine, huge hand-made carpets from Smyrna and Bassorah; here and there a huge Venetian mirror with Murrano glass ornaments. On the Louis XIV mahogany tables were various precious items: Livorno porcelain and Chinese vases. Somewhere on the wall he also saw a panoply of antique Moore revolvers. The woman sensed his perplexity and was slightly embarrassed. He took a nicely framed picture from one of the tables: Ralf Wheller in a ski outfit next to a twelve-year-old girl.

“That’s me and my father on a ski trip to Aspen,” Dorothy said.

The little girl’s outfit and her expensive boots reminded Mark of his own childhood, particularly the harsh winters in La Crosse. He was the youngest of farmer Alan Du Nancy’s six children and their family was one of the poorest in the county. By the time the clothes and shoes were passed on to him they had already had three or four previous owners and the wear and tear was such that it turned the long way to school into a nightmare every time it snowed. He was wrapped in thought looking at the picture. The actress didn’t understand his sadness but thought it was time to get him out of it.

“Let me show you the terrace! The view is lovely.”

Mark went to the massive French window. Next to it he noticed a painting that didn’t look very valuable. It was only a watercolor showing a young lady in a grundge outfit. The woman resembled Dorothy amazingly well. He stopped before it.

“Is that you?” he asked.

Dorothy kept silent. After a while she answered. “No, that’s my mother.”

The man noticed she had tears in her eyes. “Tell me about her,” Mark said being aware that it might distress her even more.

“My mother came from a rich family. She was a Van Hall. She was a kind of black sheep of the family, though, because of her nonconformism. But that was what my father liked about her. She was one of those beautiful lunatics of the ’60s and ’70s: the Woodstock generation. As a matter of fact, she was one of the main sponsors and organizers of the ’69 festival. My father loved her so much! Even if he could never understand her lifestyle.”

“What happened to her?” Mark asked, lending her his handkerchief.

The woman wiped her face. “She died in a car crash in ’73, a year after I was born. About one hundred young people, all on motorcycles, came to her funeral. They looked like hippies and Uncle Henry didn’t want them around. My father pleaded with him but to no result. Do you know what those people did? They left their motorcycles outside the gate you came through today. Then they took their guitars and sang Blowing in the Wind, Dylan’s song, the song of the flower-power generation. Then...they left.”

The actress was crying again. Mark hugged her affectionately.

“Calm down, girl. I’m sure your mother’s very proud of you where she is now.”

She looked up. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so!”

Slowly their lips drew close. They touched each other for a second then pulled back, frightened. Each pair of eyes was devouring the other. Their lips touched again, this time in a real, long, passionate kiss.

“I thought you’d never do that,” the woman said.

“But I’ve just done it and I don’t even know if it’s right.”

“If you felt you should do that, then it’s all right.”

They kissed each other again, hungry for each other’s love. Then they let go of each other only at the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs.

She glanced at him affectionately and asked, “Tell me, Mark...are you surprised at my feelings? In that French restaurant, didn’t you sense the attraction I feel for you?”

“I did. But I thought it was as much my merit as it was the merit of that double brandy.”

She smiled and tried to say something but gave it up.

“Come on, tell me. What would you like to know?”

“Why are you staying at a hotel?” The question had been on her lips the whole evening.

“Because my wife and I are separated. I’m filing for divorce.”

Dorothy looked somehow relieved. Still she wanted to clear things up. “When I invited you to this party you told me you were hardly on speaking terms with your wife. That means I had nothing to do with your decision, right?”

“Of course you didn’t.”

She couldn’t help kissing him again at the risk of being seen. “Were you that good a hockey player?”

Mark showed her his hands. “As you can see, I’m not wearing any champion ring. But I could have been good. I was rather a white hope when an accident bowled me out. I did score sixty-eight goals two seasons in a row with the NY Rangers, though.”

“Is that much?”

“Not really. Lemieux scored over 600 throughout his career and the Czech Jagr scored over 100 last season alone. They make several millions a year, that’s true. In three seasons in the NHL I barely made $350,000. With it I had a house built and furnished.”

“Listen. I promised I’d teach you how to dance. You’ll teach me how to skate in return. Deal?”

“OK. I’d be glad to.”

“Now, before going downstairs, I’d like to make a proposition. I’m going to LA tomorrow. I must have a look at the scripts for two new movies. I’ll be back the day before Halloween.”

The man darkened all of a sudden. He had just counted ten days of separation from the woman who had stolen his heart.

Dorothy decided to cheer him up and went on, “I’d love to spend the Halloween night with you at my place. I’ve got a villa in Greenwich Village on 13th Street. How about it?”

Mark had noticed she hadn’t said the ‘Halloween evening’ but the ‘Halloween night.’ The words had made his heart throb with joy. He nodded.

“OK then,” she said cheerfully. “And now let me introduce you to another dozen of boring important people.”