Читать книгу Judas Journey - Lee Roberts - Страница 6

THE TAXI DRIVER said, “Along here some place?”

Ramsey peered out of the window. Ahead he saw the curving drive leading up to Marcia’s place, and through the rain he could make out the dark outline of the big house on the hill. “Yes,” he said, “the next drive.”

The taxi turned, swung up the hill and stopped before the terrace. Rain bounced and spattered on the tile and Ramsey remembered the first afternoon when he’d sat on the terrace in the wind with Marcia. Light glowed through the French doors beyond and through the rain-streaked glass he saw a dim, slowly moving figure.

The driver said, “Want me to wait, Jack?”

“No.” Ramsey paid him and got out. He stood in the rain until the taxi had circled the drive back down to the highway. Then he ran across the terrace and rapped softly on the door. It opened immediately. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut and removed his rain-spotted hat.

She looked marvelous, he thought, as she had always looked. Erect and slim, with glossy black hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips were parted and her dark eyes searched his face. She was wearing a pale blue silk robe, long and sheer and clinging, and in one hand she held a tall glass, the ice in it tinkling gently. The rain beating on the windows reminded Ramsey of another night three months before.

“Rack,” she whispered, “oh, Rack . . .” With a trembling hand she placed the glass on a low table, and then stepped into his arms.

“You’ll get wet,” he said. “My coat is wet . . .” Her lips were on his, clinging fiercely, and he forgot the rainy night and the marvelous forest of mahogany, and he forgot the jungle and Nevil Simpson; he even forgot the sight of the fer-de-lance and its fangs clinging to Pete Davos’ wrist. He forgot Sara Colvin and Phil Stark and Blake Bowen, and all those people in the past, and he remembered only the last three days with Marcia, before he’d gone to Mexico.

She whispered against his lips, “I’ve missed you, Rack. Hold me . . .”

Abruptly the moment of forgetfulness was over, and Ramsey pushed her roughly away. She stared at him, her eyes bewildered, her mouth trembling. “I still love you, Rack. Really, I do. Let me explain . . .”

“You wrote me a letter—remember?” He unbuttoned his raincoat, took a folded paper from an inside pocket and held it up. “You said you weren’t the waiting kind.”

“I—I didn’t mean it, Rack. I was so lonesome for you, but Jeff, he—”

“You’re married to Jeff now,” he broke in, trying to keep his voice steady. “Why did you ask me here tonight? What do you want of me now?”

She gazed at him with sad, brooding eyes. “I had hoped you would understand. I remember . . .” She made a small helpless gesture and turned away.

He knew what she was remembering. He was remembering, too. He saw the smooth arch of her back beneath the thin robe and the way her hair fell over her shoulders, and something inside of him seemed to coil slowly.

She stooped, took a cigarette from a silver box on the low table and turned, holding the cigarette and gazing at him expectantly. It was an old gesture; she was asking him to light her cigarette. He stepped forward, picked up a booklet of matches lying beside the silver box and struck a light. As she lowered her gaze to the flame, he glanced at the match cover. It was black and silver and embossed words jumped out at him: The Starlight Club . . . Phil Stark, Owner . . .

She stepped back a little and watched him with grave eyes. Smoke from her cigarette drifted upward in the silent room. He tossed the match folder to the table. “So you know Phil Stark?”

“Yes. He was here tonight. That’s why I couldn’t see you earlier.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No. He was here on—business.” She drew on the cigarette, watching him. “Do you know Phil?”

“I met him tonight. He offered me a job. Did you tell him that your husband was out of town—as you told me?”

Sudden tears were in her eyes. “Rack, why do you talk like this? Phil Stark means nothing to me. He’s just a—a gambler.” She moved closer to him. “He came to see me about Jeff.”

He was surprised. “Jeff?”

“Yes,” she said bitterly, “my dear husband. It seems that he owes Phil twenty thousand dollars—a gambling debt. Phil wanted to know what I was going to do about it.”

“Well,” Ramsey said evenly, “you’ve got the money in the family.”

“Yes,” she said in a brittle voice, “I know very well why Jeff married me. And I told Phil that I didn’t intend to do anything about the twenty thousand. I’m all finished doing things for Jeff. I’m going to divorce him, Rack. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

Ramsey took a deep breath. “You promised to wait until I came back. Why did you marry him?”

“I—I didn’t want to, Rack, believe me . . .” She picked up the glass and took a long swallow.

“Shotgun wedding?” he asked mockingly.

She gazed at him over the rim of the glass. “We’d been to a party. There was a lot to drink, too much.” She turned partially away and drew on her cigarette. “It was just one of those things—all part of a merry evening. We chartered a plane to Mexico, a party of us, and—Jeff and I were married. A gay lark, I thought—until afterward. Then I was sorry, of course, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Jeff’s a lawyer, you know, and he played it smart—maneuvered the whole thing. I know now that he had it all planned . . .” She turned to face him and her lips twisted. “I was his legal wife, and that’s all Jeff wanted.”

“I see,” Ramsey said. “So you were stuck with Jeff and bored with him, and you began to chase around with Blake Bowen.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You were down in the jungles of Mexico on a silly wild goose chase for mahogany, and Jeff—well, I’d rather not discuss Jeff. And Blake was kind to me, in his way, and—you shouldn’t have left me, Rack, not for so long. You know how I am.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Everything is wonderful. While I’m gone you marry a cold-blooded lawyer, and have an affair with a cheap night club owner, and God knows what else. What am I supposed to do? Kiss and make up to a married woman?”

“Listen, Rack—I’m going to divorce Jeff, no matter what it costs me. I want you to know that.”

“And marry me?”

“If you still want me.”

“Jeff will fight the divorce.”

“Of course, but I’ll win. . . . Do you still love me, Rack.’”

“Yes,” he said, thinking that in spite of everything he really meant it.

Her eyes became tender and the soft light made shadows on her cheeks and glinted with a moist redness on her full lips. She was beautiful, he thought, very desirable, even though she had lived fast, according to her whims of the moment, with never a thought of the morning or of what lurked beyond the next hour. That was the way she was made, and it was money that had ruined her, the money her father had left her. It had made her what she was, and maybe he could even understand why she had married Jefferson Carr. It was the kind of thing she would do—and then regret in the cold bleak dawn. And he knew that he still wanted her, in spite of everything. It would be stupid of him not to want her—and her millions.

“I need you, Rack,” she whispered. “You need me.” She placed her glass on the table, crushed out her cigarette. Then she stood erect, her hands at her side, the palms turned outward in invitation, and there was a melting softness in her eyes and around her lips, an almost virginal shyness. Her body moved beneath the robe and she gave him a small tremulous smile.

It was a smile that Ramsey would never forget.

As he moved toward her, the room rocked with a blinding explosion. For a vivid instant the windows gleamed red with a flash of fire. Marcia Carr’s head jerked backward, like a puppet on a string, and a small black hole appeared beneath her right eye. She stood rigidly, a final bright gleam of life in her eyes, and then her face crumpled, and her body too, and her eyes went dull and dead. She fell backward to the floor, her limp body making a soft thudding sound on the thick rug.

Ramsey stared stupidly, his voice trapped in his throat. The shock of what he saw was too great; his mind refused to accept it. He heard a furtive scurrying sound behind him and as he turned slowly and dumbly a hard object slammed viciously against the side of his head, jarring him to his heels. He swayed gently, wild lights dancing in his brain, and his eyes suddenly refused to focus. His knees went limp and the floor slanted upward and through a final shimmering haze he saw the body of Marcia on the floor, the sheer folds of the blue robe spread like a silken fan beneath her.

In an odd blurred way, before the complete blackness closed in, his brain turned slowly backward, back to October . . .