The Other Side of Silence

“No.” But this was a lie. For some reason, I had a strange feeling of foreboding, as if something dreadful was going to happen. I’d even started to question the whole damn arrangement. Was it possible that this was all some kind of elaborate setup designed to put me in the frame for Hebel’s murder, which the wily old Englishman had somehow arranged separately? He was a supremely gifted author, after all, and it would not have been beyond his fertile imagination to have devised some labyrinthine plot. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that I’d been played for a fool. After all, I had only Maugham’s word that it was actually Harold Heinz Hebel who’d asked me to take charge of the handover. I even wondered if Spinola’s gun was still sitting on top of my bathroom cistern where I’d left it and if Spinola’s death was somehow connected to all this. A double cross in a woman is something you can never really hold against her; you have to factor it in, like the weather; it’s just the way they’re made. To my old-fashioned way of thinking, W. Somerset Maugham was like a wily old woman in so many respects.

“No? You surprise me. You’re a man of very cool temperament, I must say, and I’m beginning to understand why Hebel thought you might be the right chap for the job.”

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I have a friend coming with me to make sure everything goes smoothly.” And then, just to scare him a little, I flipped open the glove box and let him see the Sig that was in there.

“Christ, is that thing loaded?”

“Of course it’s loaded. Without bullets guns are only good as paperweights.”

“What I mean is, you wouldn’t use that unless you had to, would you?” he said. “Unless your own life was in danger.”

I grinned and lit a cigarette. “The other night you were in favor of me killing him, Mr. Maugham.”

“I was. Still am. But not in cold blood. I suggested a car accident. I certainly didn’t want you to kill him immediately after coming here to the villa. How would that look to the police? Besides, you said yourself he may have taken the precaution of lodging some kind of letter with a local lawyer that incriminates me, and perhaps even you.”

“The gun’s just an edge that he’s not expecting,” I said. “You see, it’s his gun. I searched his room at the Grand Hotel just before I came here and found it in his drawer. Which answers your question about how trustworthy he is. The man is a criminal.” I glanced at my wristwatch and then back at Robin and Alan in the doorway. “You’d best make up your mind, sir. Do you want one of them to come or not?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“Not if I really was planning to take off with the money, no. Best they both stay here out of harm’s way. Believe me, I know a lot about harm’s way. It turns sharp left off the road to Shitsville when you’re least expecting it.”

I drove back down the hill to the port, which was still busy with small boats coming and going under the early-evening moon like bees collecting pollen. I parked the car near the harbor and walked up the slope of the esplanade toward the hotel entrance with the airline bag slung over my shoulder and the gun tucked underneath the waistband of my trousers. If anything was going to go wrong, I thought it best my car was elsewhere when it happened. The bell tower at the little church was marking eight o’clock as if time on the Cap was important. For anyone but me it probably wasn’t. Red and pink people who looked as if they’d had too much sun were coming ashore and heading to the many restaurants in search of a good dinner, but it didn’t matter at what hour they ate and really there was only one good restaurant and that was at La Voile d’Or. Although it was, perhaps, a little too formal for most tourists, which is probably why I liked it in the first place.

My first thought as I went through the front door of the hotel was not about Hebel or the money in the bag I was carrying, but of poor Spinola and how he and I were never going to sit down in the bar again and talk about nothing much before a friendly game of cards. I always felt alone, but suddenly the realization that I’d lost my one remaining friend hit me as hard as if I’d lost an arm or a leg. I liked Anne French, but I wasn’t in any doubt that she was hardly a friend; she was just using me to get close to Somerset Maugham. I didn’t mind that. People do what they have to do and what they think they have to do, and mostly there’s no way around that. It certainly makes life interesting, if perhaps a little less enjoyable. I sighed as I realized I was probably going to have to tell the Roses that Spinola was dead and that our bridge evenings were at an end; and then I considered that I could ask Anne French to be my partner instead. She’d like that. Not as much as if I’d asked her to come and make up a four with Somerset Maugham, but then, she had to start somewhere.