The Loo Sanction (16 page)

He had untangled himself from her carefully and eased out of bed so as not to disturb her. Her position had not changed when he returned from the bathroom, dressed and shaven. He had looked up at her with a wince when the locks of his suitcase snapped too loudly, but she didn't move. As he eased the door open, she said in a voice so clear he knew she had been awake for some time.

“Keep well.”

“You too, Maggie.”

Putney

T
he Lotus was tight and the roads were clear that early in the morning, so Jonathan pulled into the parking area of the Baker Street Hotel far too early to telephone Vanessa, who was a constitutionally nocturnal animal. He bought a few newspapers in the lobby and ordered breakfast sent up to his penthouse flat, and an hour later he was sitting before an untidy tray, newspapers littered around him. Time passed torpidly, and he found himself staring through the page of print, his mind on the unknown persona of Maximilian Strange. With sudden decision, he rose and located Sir Wilfred Pyles's number in his rotary file. After a sequence of guardian secretaries at the U.K. Cultural Commission, Sir Wilfred's hearty and gruffly civil voice said, “Jon! How good of you to call so early in the morning.”

“Yes, I'm sorry about that.”

“Quite all right. Coincidentally, I just opened a letter from that academic wallah—whatshisname, the Welshman?”

“fforbes-Ffitch?”

“That's the one. Seems he has a plot to send you off to Sweden on some kind of lecture series. Asked me to use my good offices to persuade you to go.”

“He doesn't give up easily.”

“Hm-m. National trait of the Welsh. They call it laudable determination; others see it as obtuse bullheadedness. Still, one becomes used to it. Teachers and baritones constitute the major exports of Wales, and one can't blame them for trying to be rid of both. But look here, if you are determined to scatter gems of insight on the saline soil of the Vikings, you can count on the commission's support.”

“That's not what I called you about.”

“Ah-ha.”

“I need a bit of information.”

“If it's within my power.”

“How are your contacts at MI–5?”

“Oh.” There was a prolonged pause at the other end of the line. “
That
kind of information, is it? As I told you, I've been on the beach for several years.”

“But surely your contacts haven't dried up.”

“Oh, I suppose I still have some of that influence that accompanies the loss of power. But before we go further, Jon . . . you're not up to any nastiness, are you?”

“Fred!”

“Hm-m. I warn you, Jon—”

“Just a background check—maybe with an Interpol input.”

“I see.” Sir Wilfred was capable of subarctic tones.

“I want you to run down a name for me. Will you do it?”

“You are absolutely sure you're not engaged in anything that will bring discomfort to the government.”

“I could mention times when we were working together and
you
were strung out.”

“Please spare me. All right. The name?”

“Maximilian Strange. Any bells?”

“A faint tinkle. But it's been years since I've been involved in all that. Very well. I'll call you later this afternoon.”

“I'd better call you. I can't be sure of my schedule.”

“I'll need a little time. About five?”

“About five.”

“Now, I have your word, haven't I, that you're not up to anything detrimental to our side? Because if you are, Jon, I shall be actively against you.”

“Don't worry. I'm working for the White Hats. And if anything were to blow, you could rely on ‘maximum deniability.'”

Sir Wilfred laughed. They had always made fun of the advertising agency argot that riddled CII communications.

“If any questions come up, Fred, just pass the buck to me.”

“Precisely what I had intended to do, old man.”

“You're a good person.”

“I've always felt that. Ciao, Jon.”

“Tchüss.”

After waiting another long half hour, Jonathan dialed Vanessa Dyke's number. He arranged to drop over for a cup of tea and a chat. She seemed a little reluctant to meet him, but their friendship of years turned the trick. After he hung up, he spent a few minutes looking out his window over Regent's Park, sorting himself out. Two things had bothered him about the conversation with Van. Her speech had been blurred, as though she had been drinking. And the first question she had asked was: “Are you all right, Jon?”

         

He had never visited Vanessa in London, and the minute he stepped from the Underground station, he felt that this part of Putney was an odd setting for her vivacious, pungent personality. The high street was typical of the urban concentrations south of the river, its modest Victorian charm scabbed over by false fronts of enameled aluminum and glass brick; short rows of derelict town houses stared blind through uncurtained and broken windows, awaiting destruction and replacement by shopping centers; the visual richness of decay was diluted here and there by the mute cube of a modern bank; and there were several cheap cafés featuring yawning waitresses and permanent table decorations of crumbs and spills.

Clouds and smoke hung in umber compound close above the housetops, and a dirty drizzle made the pavements oily. Every woman pushed a pram containing a shopping bag, a laundry bag, and, presumably, a baby; and every man shuffled along with his head down.

Monserrat Street was a double row of shabby brick row houses, built with a certain architectural nostalgia for Victorian comfort and permanence, but with the cheaper materials and sloppier craftsmanship of the 1920
s. The shallow gardens were tarnished and scruffy, the occasional autumn flower dulled by soot, and all looking as though they were maintained by the aged and the indifferent. An abnormal number of houses were vacant and placarded for sale, an indication that West Indians were approaching the neighborhood.

The garden at #46 was a pleasant contrast to the rest. Even this late in the season, and even in this color-sucking weather, there was an arresting balance and control that used the limited space comfortably. The hydrangeas were particularly consonant with the district and the mood of the climate; moist and subtle in mauve, blue, and tarnished white.

“Tragedy struck the life of noted art critic and scholar when his swinging, ballsy image was abruptly shattered yesterday afternoon.” Van stood at her door, leaning against the bright green frame, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in the same hand.

“Hello, Van.”

“Bystanders report having observed this internationally notorious purveyor of manly charm engaged in the mundane and middle-class activity of admiring hydrangeas.”

“OK. OK.”

“Reports differ as to the exact hue of the flowers under question. Dr. Hemlock refuses comment, but his reticence is taken by many to be a tacit admission that he is becoming older, mellower, and—so far as this reporter can see—wetter with each minute he stands out there. Why don't you come in?”

He followed her into a dark overfurnished parlor, its Victorian fittings, beaded lampshades, antimacassars, and velvet drapes the antithesis of the black-and-white enamel, ultramodern apartment that had been hers when first they met in New York fifteen years earlier. Only the Swiss typewriter on a spool table by the window and a tousled stack of notes on the sill gave evidence of her profession. It was difficult to imagine that her regular flow of journalistic art criticism, with its insight and acid, had its source in this quaint and comfortable room.

“Want a drink, Jon?”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not? Somewhere on the high seas at this moment, the sun is over the yardarm.”

“No, thanks.”

She dropped into a wing chair. “So? To what do I owe the honor?”

Jonathan toyed with a vase of cut hydrangeas on the court cupboard. “Why are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable, Van?”

She ignored his question. “I hate hydrangeas. You know that? They smell like women's swimming caps. Similarly, I hate flowery oriental teas. They smell like actresses' handbags. You'll notice I didn't say ‘purses.' That's because I abhore sexual imagery. It's also because I eschew olfactory inaccuracy.” She leaned back against the wing of the chair and looked at him for a second. “You're right. I'm feeling nasty, and I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable. 'Cause we're old friends, pal-buddy-pal. You know what? You are the only straight in the world with soul.”

Jonathan sat opposite her in a floral armchair, not because he felt like sitting, but because it seemed unfair to stand over her when she was so obviously distressed and off balance. He had never heard her throw up so thick a haze of words to hide in. Her back was to the window, and its wet, diffused light illuminated her face with unkind surgical accuracy. The short black hair, semé with gray, looked lifeless, and the lines etched in her thin face constituted a hieroglyphic biography of wit and bitterness, laughter and intelligence—accomplishment without fulfillment.

“How are the Christians treating you, madam?” he asked, recalling the opening cue of a habitual pattern of banter from the old days.

She didn't pick up the cue. “Oh, Jon, Jon. We grow old, Father Jonathan, lude sing goddamn. Well, to hell with them all, darling. A pestilence on their shanties—wattles, clay, and all. And the lues take their virgin daughters.” She lit a cigarette from the stub of the last. “Let's get to your business. I suppose it's about that guy I introduced you to at Tomlinson's? The guy with the Marini
Horse
?”

“No. Matter of fact, I'd forgotten all about him.”

“He hasn't contacted you again since that evening?”

“No.”

He could see the tension drain from her face. “I'm glad, Jon. He's a good person to avoid. A real bad actor.”

“He pays well, though.”

“Faust could have said that. Well, then! If it's not the Marini Horse, what impels you to break in on my matronly solitude?”

He paused and collected himself before launching into what was sure to be an imposition on an old friendship. “I'm in some trouble, Van.”

She laughed. “Don't worry about it. These days, it's no worse than a bad cold.”

“I have to get into The Cloisters.”

For a moment, she was suspended in mid-gesture, reaching for her glass. Then she looked him flat in the eyes, shifting her glance from one pupil to the other, her eyes narrowed in her attempt to analyze his intent. She sat back deep in her chair and sipped her drink in cold silence.

After a time she said, “Why The Cloisters? That isn't your kind of action. Too baroque.”

“We grow old, Mother Vanessa. We need help.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

“OK. I told you I was in trouble. Explaining will deepen my trouble. And it might give you some. I'm mixed up with some nasty people, and they'll do old Jonathan in, unless he can get into The Cloisters and accomplish something for them.”

“And you came here to cash in old debts of friendship.”

“Yes.”

“Dirty bastard.”

“Yes.”

She stood up and wiped the haze off a pane of the window, and for a while she stared out past the garden and rain to the dull brick facades across the street. She ran her fingers through her cropped hair and tugged hard at a handful. Then she turned to him. “Now I
insist
you have a drink with me.”

“Done.”

She poured out a good tot of Laphroaig and passed him the glass. Then she perched herself up on the wide windowsill and spoke while looking out on the rain, squinting one eye against the smoke that curled up from the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “I'd better tell you first off that you're in more trouble than you know. I mean . . . Jon, I don't know how much pressure these people can bring to bear on you to force you to try to get into The Cloisters, but it better be pretty big league. Because The Cloisters people are maximal bad asses. They could kill you, Jon. Honest to God.”

“I know.”

“Do you? I wonder. You remember reading about this Parnell-Greene? The one in the tower of St. Martin's? The Cloisters people did that. And think of
how
they did it, Jon. That wasn't just a killing. That was an advertisement. A warning in good ol' Chicago gangland style.”

“I've been filled in on Maximilian Strange's response to intruders.”

She drew a very long oral breath. “Maximilian Strange. Jon, you're in worse trouble than I thought. I wish I could tell you. But if I did, I'd run a fair risk of being killed. I know that I've often described my life as a pile of shit.” She smiled wanly. “But it's the only pile of shit I've got.”

Jonathan leaned forward and took her hand. “Van, I'm very sorry you're in this thing at all. I'm not asking you to get me into The Cloisters yourself, because I know they could trace it back to you. Just put me onto someone who can. You know it's important, or I wouldn't ask.”

She stood and set her glass aside. “Let me think about it while I make us a pot of tea. We'll drink tea and watch the rain.”

“Sounds fine. I'd like that.”

As he glanced over the titles of some of her books, she made tea in the kitchen, talking to him all the while in a heightened voice. “You know, scruffy and middle class though it is, I really love this house, Jonathan. I bought it, and fixed it up, and painted it, and swore at the plumbing—all by myself. And I love it. Especially at night when I'm working by the window and I can watch nameless people shuffle by in the rain. Or on days like this, drinking tea.”

“It's a great place, Van.”

“Yeah. You're about the only person from the old New York bunch who would understand that. The little row house, the antimacassars, the mauve hydrangeas—all pretty far from the image I used to cut.”

“True. Even the other evening at Tomlinson's you were still playing it for superbutch.”

“I know it's silly. I just feel impelled to be the first to say it. You know what I mean?”

“I know.”

“What?”

“I know!”

“Still. This is the real me. Little lady peeking through lace curtains. Cup of tea in hand. Brilliant statement taking form on my typewriter. Gas fire hissing in hearth. Christ, I'll be glad when I get so old I'm never horny. Being on the hunt makes you act such a fool.” She came in with a small pot under a cozy, and two Spode cups, and pulled her chair up close to his and poured. “I used to fear the thought of becoming an ugly old woman. But now that I'm there, I can tell you this: It beats hell out of being an ugly young girl.”