Barbara Taylor Bradford – The Women in His Life (страница 13)
This last theory was the most reasonable explanation so far, and a feeling of vast relief washed over Elias. He hurried up the path, strode purposefully around to the side of the house and halted at the kitchen door.
Even though he was now convinced that Sir Maximilian West had gone to dinner with a friend, Elias nevertheless rang the doorbell several times. When there was no answer he took out the bunch of keys, found the right one, and let himself into the house. He switched on the lights, closed the door behind him, and, walking into the middle of the floor, he called out, ‘Hello, hello, anybody home?’
His question was greeted by total silence, but this did not particularly surprise him. He swung his eyes around the kitchen, spotted the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, went and looked inside, saw that it was filled with provisions for the weekend. Nodding knowingly to himself, he then strolled over to the door leading into the main entrance hall, determined to investigate further on the off chance that Sir Maxim had been taken ill.
When Elias opened the door, such a strong sense of foreboding assaulted him again, the hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Telling himself he was being a stupid old fool, and clamping down on this unexpected feeling of dread, which he considered to be ridiculous, he put the light on, glanced about, saw that there was nothing untoward here in the hall.
Reassured, Elias walked across to the double doors leading into the living room, flung them open, and flicked down the master switch. Instantly he saw the body on the floor.
He gasped, then exclaimed out loud, ‘Oh my God!’ His chest tightened, and for a split second he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his eyes staring, the expression on his face one of mingled horror and alarm.
After a moment or two Elias managed to take hold of himself and he walked over to the body. The shock he experienced was like a violent punch in the belly, and he gazed down at Maximilian West disbelievingly, feeling as though his legs were turning to jelly. He thought he was going to keel over, and he gripped the back of a chair, took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.
Eventually he was a little calmer and he stepped closer, saw the blood, the gunshot wound, and his heart sank with dismay. The injury was serious. He knelt down, peering into Maxim’s face worriedly. It was ghastly, the colour of bleached bone. Elias searched for signs of life, brought his head nearer to Maxim’s chest. He was breathing. Just barely. Elias took hold of his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there.
Elias straightened, his face stark, his eyes glassy with shock. Who had done this? And why? Rage flooded him, and he thought of searching the house looking for clues. Instantly he changed his mind. Whoever had shot Sir Maxim had doubtless fled without leaving any telltale evidence. Besides, it was vital that he get help immediately, act with speed if he was to save Sir Maxim. He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.
‘East Hampton Village Police. Officer Spank speaking.’
‘Norman, it’s Elias here. I’m at the West house out on Lily Pond Lane. Sir Maximilian West has been shot,’ he said in a voice that was both shaky and shaken. It faltered slightly as he continued, ‘I just found him. Call Southampton Hospital for an ambulance. He’s alive but he looks as if he’s lost a lot of blood. So tell them to hurry. And you’d better get here as fast as you can.’
‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.
Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.
Maxim floated in space … in a great white void … in a vast nothingness.
He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.
Where was he?
He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.
Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.
And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air … it was light … musical … and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.
‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.
‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’
‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.
The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, Sir Maximilian is a healthy man, strong, robust. That’s an important factor. And he is in the best of hands here at Mount Sinai. He’s getting superior care and treatment, and he is being monitored night and day.’
Maxim made a supreme effort and finally he managed to lift his eyelids. He blinked, adjusted to the light.
The room where he was lying was quite large.
He saw a man in a white coat. That must be the doctor.
Then he became aware of the others standing at the bottom of the bed.
The women.
They were grouped in a semi-circle. He was conscious of five pairs of female eyes focused on him intently, watching him, waiting. His mother. His first wife. His third wife. His mistress. His daughter Alix.
All of the women in his life were assembled here, keeping vigil over him.
He snapped his eyes shut. He did not want to see them, nor deal with them.
Everything suddenly came back to him. He remembered driving to Long Island in the rented Jaguar, going into the cottage in East Hampton, surprising the intruder. Then the man had pulled a gun and shot him. He could not remember anything after that.
The doctor in the room had just mentioned Mount Sinai. So he had been brought to New York. How long had he been here? He had no idea.
He wondered if he was going to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.
Teddy. Where was Teddy?
Maxim tried to open his eyes but the effort to do so was far too great.
He wanted Teddy. She could save him. She had always saved him in the past.
He could not die now. He must live. He had so much to do. So much to put right.
Maxim tried to speak but the words would not come out of his mouth.
Teddy. Oh Teddy where are you? Help … help … me …
He felt himself drifting back into the vast white nothingness, that great vaporous void that had engulfed him before, and he fought it, but it was too strong for him in his weakened state and it overwhelmed him.
And finally he succumbed to it, fell into a deep unconsciousness once more.
Ursula, Berlin 1938
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
Psalm 91: The Bible
The woman stood before the Empire-style cheval mirror in the bedroom, staring hard at her reflection.
Slowly she turned, studying the gown. She had bought it on a trip to Paris three years ago and it was by Jean Patou, her favourite couturier. She had worn it only once since then and now she saw that it had retained its incomparable style and elegance, as had the other Patou creations she owned.
Tonight she had wanted to wear a simple dress, which was why she had chosen this particular one, a floor-length column that fell in fluid lines from shoulder to hem. The sleeves were long, the bodice plain, the neckline high, skimming across the throat, while the back was worked into a draped-cowl effect. Made of matte crepe and cut with superb skill, it was the colour, nevertheless, that caught the eye. Called Patou Blue, it was almost, but not quite, violet.
This vibrant shade was the ideal foil for the woman’s Nordic colouring. Her hair was a shining silver gilt, her skin creamy, her eyes a misty grey-blue, luminous, fringed with thick blonde lashes. She was of medium height, but her slender figure and long coltish legs made her look taller. Her feet and ankles were delicate, well shaped, and she had aristocratic hands, slim, with tapering fingers. It was the combination of her physical attributes, her ability to wear clothes well and her inherent good taste that gave her an elegance of appearance that was quite singular. Gentle of manner, the overall impression she projected was a mixture of femininity, great breeding, and intelligence. Her name was Ursula Westheim. She was thirty-four years old.