Oasis of Night (13 page)

“Give me that!” She struggled against me, fighting to get her leg up so she could knee me in the groin, but I used my body's weight to keep her pressed against the wall.

“Is this why Octavian's company didn't bother to put in a tender for the Pepperrell job? Because he figured banging you was worth it?”

“Give me that envelope! You have no business taking it. It's mine!” She flailed at me with clawed hands, her polished red fingernails just missing my eyes.

I grabbed the front of her robe and slammed her into the wall. “Just what kind of twisted game are you and Octavian playing, Julie? You want to tell me that?” Hell, I was enjoying this, or would be if it weren't for the headache throbbing at the back of my eyes. I held her hands above her head with one hand and ripped open the envelope with my teeth. “Ken Cartwright's original report.” It was getting hard to see her. A subtle mist had begun to stain the edges of my vision. “So this seals the deal, huh? You're sending Cartwright's report to yourself in Athens. I suppose you know Greece is in Nazi-occupied territory?” I reached around her and put my palms flat against the wall. It was becoming difficult to speak, and I knew without a doubt that something was horribly wrong. “Nazi-occupied territory, Julie, but I can't say I'm surprised. That's what this has been about all along, hasn't it? Where've you been hiding this?”

“In the basement of the Heartache Cafe, Jack.” She smiled sweetly and stroked my mouth. “Poor Jack. When's the last time you took a drink?” She poked her finger into the center of my chest and shoved. It felt like a steel spike being driven into my body. “You stupid, stupid man. You think you can manipulate me?”

“Julie….” There was a roaring, ringing noise in my ears like the sound of a dozen telephones all going off at once. “What did you put in my drink?” The wallpaper had a pattern of intertwining leaves and flowers, and it was sliding past me. I was slipping down the wall, and I couldn't stop myself from falling. The carpet rushed up to meet me, and the roaring in my ears intensified, shutting out all sound.

The last thing I heard was the sound of a woman's laughter.

 

 

I
DIDN
'
T
know too much for a while after that, and it was the feeling of cool water on my face that brought me out of it. I blinked a couple times and saw Sam Halim looking down at me. He was crouched beside me, bathing my face, and I was lying on the floor in Julie Fayre's Victorian house.

“Sam.” It was hard to talk. My tongue felt swollen to about twenty times its normal size. “How'd you know…?”

“Lie still, Jack. The ambulance is on its way.” I made to get up, but he pushed me back again. “Lie
still
. You have been poisoned.”

“What? Poison?”

“Yes. Judging by the symptoms, I suspect it may have been quinine. Please, lie still.”

“Sam, I'm so stupid. I knew there was something wrong with her.” I reached out for his hand and held on to it. “You gotta get to Billy Ricketts. Tell him to get Octavian, and don't let Julie leave town! They're in it together, Octavian and Julie—”

“Jack, if you do not lie still and stop talking, I am going to have to gag you.” Sam's brown eyes were full of genuine concern, and it touched me. “Please stay quiet. It is really very important.” I felt the momentary impress of his lips against my cheek. “Do you trust me, Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“If ever you have cause to question me—now, or in the coming days—remember that I am your friend.”

“Okay, Sam. Okay.” I couldn't keep my eyes open, but it didn't really matter. Whatever she had given me—quinine or something just as bad—was messing with my eyesight. There was a misty veil over everything, like looking through a steamed-up window, and the headache was making me nauseous.

Sam sat with my head in his lap until the ambulance arrived and they loaded me in.

I woke up in hospital several hours later with a sore throat, certain I'd spent the night throwing my guts up into some kind of tube or funnel while a doctor and two nurses watched.

Chris was sitting in the chair beside my bed, sound asleep with his chin on his chest. From the little I could see, he looked awful: pale and exhausted, with a day's growth of beard. I didn't want to wake him, but just then he opened his eyes. He reached out and laid his hand on my arm, his face close to mine. “Jack. Listen, don't ever pull a stunt like that again, huh?” He stroked my cheek, gently. “I mean, I get that you've been feeling bad, but bumping yourself off ain't the way to go about it.”

“Bumping myself off?” As soon as I said it, I remembered Sam Halim's face, back there in Julie's house:
If you do not lie still and stop talking, I am going to have to gag you.

“That Egyptian friend of yours, Sam Halim, told me all about it. He called the ambulance for you—don't you remember?”

“Yeah, the ambulance.” The mist in front of my eyes was as disorienting as hell, and I found it hard to think straight, but for Chris's sake, I figured I'd better make an effort. “All's well that ends well, huh?” As far as jokes went—especially about something like this—it was pretty feeble.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded flat, expressionless, like he didn't really believe me, but there was something else there too. “Jack, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna come right out and let you have it.” He clenched his fists, then smoothed his palms against his thighs. “Sam's gone.”

The declaration rang in the hospital room like the clanging of a bell. For a moment or two, I couldn't really comprehend what he was saying. It made no sense at all. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where? How could he—where would he go? I mean, why would he—”

“No.” Chris caught hold of my hand and held on, and the sound of his voice filled me with dread. “He—there was a car accident.” His fingers tightened on mine. “He was driving back to the Consulate. I guess he'd been on some business, and, ah….” He swallowed hard. “Some guy was driving a Packard down Duckworth Street—maybe he had a snoot-f, I don't know. He hit Sam's car. They took Sam to the hospital, but he, ah… he didn't make it, Jack.” He patted my hand. “He didn't make it.”

 

 

I
SPENT
the next four days lying in my hospital bed and wondering what the hell had happened. I still couldn't get it through my head that Sam was gone—that he'd been killed by a drunk driver and that was that. It didn't make any sense to me, and nothing fit together. I couldn't shake my gut feeling that there was a lot more to this, and as soon as my eyesight cleared enough for me to dial a telephone, I got busy finding out what was really going on. I called the number on the card Sam had given me, the one connected to his direct line, but all I got was some lady telling me it had been disconnected. Next I tried the main reception desk of the Consulate. They weren't exactly thrilled to talk to me, and it showed.

“British Consulate, Alexander Somerset speaking. How may I direct your inquiry?” The voice was young, snotty, and upper-class, with hints of the private hunt club, Eton and Savile Row.

“Listen, Alexander, I'm looking for someone.”

“I suggest you contact the local police department or the American Consulate.”

“No, you don't understand—you have a consular official working there, an Egyptian named Samuel Halim. I've been trying his direct line, but all I get is a recording saying that it's been disconnected.”

“Samuel Hamel, did you say?”

“Halim. Samuel Halim.” You idiot. “He's originally from Cairo. He's been here for a while now. He's an assistant to the British Consul.”

There was a long pause on the other end, during which I could practically hear Somerset rolling his eyes. “I'm terribly sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. There are no Egyptian nationals employed here. Good day.”

“Wait!” This was insane. I felt like I'd fallen through the looking glass. “His name is Samuel Halim. He's about five feet eight inches tall. He has brown hair and brown eyes. His wife's name is Tareenah and he has four children.”

“I'm terribly sorry, sir. We have no one—”

“Goddammit, he drinks a lot of coffee! He likes to sail. They said he was killed in a car accident a few days ago, but that's wrong. He's not dead.”

“Sir, I really cannot help you. We have never had any Egyptian nationals working here, and I know of no one with the surname Halim. Good day.” His tone was final, and so was the click at the end of the line.

I fell back on my pillow and ground my teeth together in frustration. I picked up the phone again and called Dan O'Hagan at the
Telegram
.

“Jack! Jesus, boy, how are you? I haven't heard from you in donkey's ages. How are you getting on?”

Dan listened while I told him about Sam, but I was careful not to say anything about Julie or that little scene at her house the other day. I figured some things were better kept out of the papers.

“So you're telling me that this Halim fellow, this African—”

“Egyptian.”

“Right, this Egyptian fellow was killed in a car accident, only he wasn't.” There was a pause, and I could hear his pencil scratching away at the other end. “When was the accident and where?” I told him. “Any other casualties? No? Okay.” His chair creaked, and I knew he was settling back in it, probably lighting a cigarette. “I'll have a look through what we got and let you know, but I can tell you, Jack, I don't remember any accident here on Duckworth Street, not recently anyway. If somebody was killed, I'm sure we'd know about it.”

“One more thing, Dan—if you're not too busy?”

“Shoot.”

“Jonah Octavian—he's been in the city awhile, hasn't he? For a few years now?” I wondered if he knew who Octavian was.

“Oh,
him.
” He chuckled. “Octavian's so full of sh—look, Jack, don't believe too much of anything Octavian says. He showed up here about six months ago, from Athens. He says he's some kind of contractor, but he's never built much of anything that I can see. As far as I know, Octavian's real good at flapping his gums, making everybody think he's some kind of big deal.”

Octavian had lied about Fayre Construction, saying Fayre had repeatedly outbid his company for the Fort Pepperrell project. He had even supplied evidence that Julie was involved with Ken Cartwright's murder somehow. If Julie and Octavian were in bed together—metaphorically or otherwise—why was he undercutting her?

Maybe sabotaging her—or at least, appearing to sabotage her—was a good ploy if his intentions were to deflect suspicion. He and Julie acted like they hated each other's guts, and maybe that was Octavian's way of playing it, to keep the heat off. It wasn't real original, but I'd seen it work before.

I thanked Dan and hung up. I knew the newspaperman couldn't promise me anything, but he'd never led me wrong before, and if he said there hadn't been any such accident, I believed him.

I called the Heartache and Chris picked up. It sounded pretty busy there, judging by the noises in the background. He seemed glad to hear from me, but he had nothing much to tell me. “Picco was in here the other day, asking for you. I told him you'd had a little accident, and he said he might come up to see you.”

“Constable Picco?”

“Oh, yeah, that's the other thing, he's Sergeant Picco now.”

“A promotion?”

“Yeah, can you beat that? I guess Ricketts was pretty impressed with him.” He lowered his voice. “I got another piece of information that might interest you, Jack. Jonah Octavian's left town. Yeah, sold his business, the whole shot, and lit out for parts unknown.” I wondered if Julie had gone with him, but I kept my mouth shut—and then Chris answered even that question for me. “Julie's coming over later today. We figured we might go have lunch in the park if it's not too busy. Anita and Janice said they can cover, but I wanted to check it out with you.”

Everything in me wanted to warn him, but I knew that was something I'd have to do in person. I couldn't figure out why Julie had stayed in town after our little episode. She had to know her scheme with Octavian was running on borrowed time, that it was only a matter of days until I was released from the hospital and then I'd be coming after her. She'd killed Cartwright and she had tried to kill me, and in this country, murder was still a hanging offence. What kind of inducement or twisted loyalty tied her to Octavian to the degree that she'd risk her own neck? She'd planned to go to Greece with him—but Greece was occupied by the Nazis, and nobody in their right mind intended to go there, unless they had a damn good reason. Julie knew I'd found her out—that was the reason for the quinine in my drink—and she had likely surmised that I'd told Chris what I knew. Whether I actually had or not was immaterial. The possibility that Chris knew the truth about her was enough to make him a threat. More than likely she was sticking around on Octavian's orders, to take care of Chris and me.