"Don't try to move the cork," Avril told him. "Tilt the bottle to forty-five degrees, then hold the cork and twist the bottle." It worked easily. She knew so much. Taking the bottle from him, Avril poured into two glasses. He shook his head. "You know I don't drink, my dear."
"It'll make you feel younger." She held out a glass. As he surrendered and took it, he wondered if she had read his mind.
Two refills later, when their room service meal arrived, he did feel younger.
When the waiter had gone, Heyward said, "You should have let me pay for that." A few minutes earlier he had brought out his wallet but Avril waved it away and signed the check. "Why, Rossie?"
"Because you must allow me to give you back some of your expenses the hotel bills, the cost of flying here from New York." He had learned that Avril had an apartment in Greenwich Village. "It's too much for you to spend yourself."
She looked at him curiously, then gave a silvery laugh "You didn't think I was paying for all this?" She gestured around the suite. "Using my money? Rossie, baby, you have to be crazyl" "Then who is paying?"
"Supranational of course, you old silly! Everything's charged to them this suite, the meal, my air fare, my time." She crossed to his chair and kissed him; her lips were full and moist. "Just don't worry about it"
He sat still, crushed and silent, absorbing the impact of what had just been said. The mellowing potency of the champagne still coursed through his body, yet his mind was sharp.
"My time." That hurt most of all. Until now he had assumed the reason Avril telephoned him after the Bahamas, suggesting that they meet, was because she liked him and had enjoyed as much as he did what happened between them.
How could he have been so naive? Of course the entire exercise had been arranged by Quartermain and was at Supranational's expense. Shouldn't commonsense have told him? Or had he shielded himself by not inquiring sooner because he hadn't wanted to know? Something else: If Avril were being paid for "my time," what did that make her? A whore? If so, what then was Roscoe Heyward? He closed his eyes. St. Luke 18.13, he thought: God be merciful to me a sinner.
There was one thing he could do, of course. Immediately. That was find out how much had been expended until now, and afterwards send his personal check for that amount to Supranational. He began calculating, then realized he had no idea of the cost of Avril. Instinct told him it would not be small.
In any case he doubted the wisdom of such a move. His comptroller's mind reasoned: How would Supranational show the payment on its books? Even more to the point, he didn't have that much money to spare. And besides, what would happen when he wanted Avril again? He knew, already, that he would.
The telephone rang, filling the small sitting room with sound. Avril answered it, spoke briefly, then announced, "It's for you." "For me?"
As he took the receiver, the voice boomed, "Hi there, Roscoe" Heyward asked sharply, "Where are you, George?"
"Washington. What's the difference? Got some real good news about SuNatCo. Quarterly earnings statement. You'll read about it in tomorrow's papers." "You called me here to tell me that?" "Interrupted you, did I?" "No."
Big George chuckled. "Just a friendly phone call, fella Checking that all arrangements were okay."
If he wanted to protest, Heyward realized, this was the moment. But protest what? The generous availability of Avril? Or his own acute embarrassment?
The booming telephone voice cut through his dilemma 'What Q-Investments credit okayed yet?" "Not quite." 'Taking your time, aren't you?" "Not really. There are formalities." "Let's move 'em, or I'll have to give some other bank that business, and maybe shift some of Supranational's over, too."
The threat was clear. It did not surprise Heyward by cause pressures and concessions were a normal part of banking. "I'll do my best, George." A grunt. "Avril still there?” "Yes." "Lemme talk to her."
Heyward passed the phone to Avril. She listened briefly, said, "Yes, I will," smiled, and hung up.
She went into the bedroom where he heard a suitcase snap open and a moment later she emerged with a large manila envelope. "Georgie said I was to give you this."
It was the same kind of envelope, and with similar seals, as the one which had contained the Q-Investrnents share certificates.
"Georgie told me to say it's a reminder of our good time in Nassau."
More share certificates? He doubted it. He considered refusing to accept, but curiosity was strong.
Avril said, "You're not to open it here. Wait till you're away."
He seized the opportunity and checked his watch "I shall have to go anyway, my dear." "Me, too. I'm flying back to New York tonight."
They said goodbye in the suite. There could have been an awkwardness at parting. Because of Avril's practiced savoir-faire there wasn't.
She draped her arms around him and they held each other closely while she whispered, "You're a sugarplum, Rossie. We'll see each other soon."
Notwithstanding what he had learned, or his present tiredness, his passion for her hadn't changed. And whatever the cost of "my time," he thought, one thing was sure: Avril delivered value in return.
Roscoe Heyward took-a taxi from the hotel to First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower. In the main foyer of the bank building he left word that in fifteen minutes he would require a car and driver to take him home. Then he rode an elevator to the 36th floor and walked through silent corridors, past deserted desks, to his office suite.
At his desk he opened the sealed envelope which Avril had given him. In a second package inside, interleaved with tissue, were a dozen enlarged photographs.
That second night in the Bahamas, when the girls and men had bathed naked in Big George's pool, the photographer had remained discreetly invisible. Perhaps he employed a telephoto lens, possibly was screened from view by shrubbery in the lush garden. He had certainly used a fast film because there had been no betraying flash. It scarcely mattered. He or she had been there just the same.
The photos showed Krista, Rhetta, Moonbeam, Avril, and Harold Austin undressing and unclothed. Roscoe Heyward appeared with the naked girls around him, his face a study in fascination. There was a view of Heyward unfastening Avril's dress and bra; another of her kissing him, his fingers curled around her breasts. Whether by accident or design, only the back of Vice-President Stonebridge could be seen.
Technically and artistically the quality of all photographs was high and obviously the photographer had been no amateur. But then, Heyward thought, G. G. Quartermain was accustomed to paying for the best.
Notably, in none of the photographs did Big George appear.
The photos appalled Heyward by their existence. And why had they been sent? Were they some kind of threat? Or a heavy-handed joke? Where were the negatives and other copies? He was beginning to realize that Quartermain was a complex, capricious, perhaps event dangerous man.
On the other hand, despite the shock, Heyward found himself fascinated. As he studied the photographs, unconsciously he moistened his lips with his tongue. His first impulse had been to destroy them. Now he couldn't do it.
He was startled to find he had been at his desk for nearly half an hour.
Obviously he couldn't take the photos home. What then? Carefully repacking them, he locked the envelope in a desk drawer where he kept several personal, private files.
Out of habit, he checked another drawer where Mrs. Callaghan was apt to leave current papers when she cleared his desk at night. On top of the pile inside were those concerning the additional Q-Investments loan. He reasoned: Why delay? Why vacillate? Was there really any need to consult Patterton a second time? The loan was sound, as were G. G. Quartermain and Supranational. Removing the papers, Heyward scribbled an approved and added his initials.
A few minutes later he came down to the foyer. His driver was waiting, the limousine outside.
14
Only rarely, nowadays, did Nolan Wainwright have occasion to visit the city morgue. The last time, he recalled, was three years before when he identified the body of a bank guard killed in a robbery shootout. When Wainwright was a police detective, visiting morgues and viewing the victims of violent crime was a necessary and frequent part of his job. But even then he had never grown used to it. A morgue, any morgue, with its aura of death and charnel house smell, depressed him and sometimes turned his stomach. It did now.