Mission of Murder, page 3
The crowd had spread out to examine the gatepost and the car and were grinning at him widely. They had obviously been a merry crowd before the disturbance and now that they were realizing that nobody was hurt the sobering effect was vanishing. Only the little man with the gesturing hands still seemed anxious.
“You are not … not hurt?” He asked, groping for words.
Larren patted himself reassuringly and gave a shaky smile. “No. It’s all right. I’m not hurt.” He put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Please, where is the man who owns this house. I must pay him for the gate.”
A second Greek with a dark moustache had appeared and waved the money away. The English-speaking one explained.
“This house is Dimitri’s. The gate does not matter.”
The man named Dimitri nodded and spluttered in Greek, almost forcibly he pushed Larren’s hand holding the wallet back inside his pocket. The rest of the crowd gathered round, one or two of them struggling with English but most of them talking Greek. More people were coming out of the villa. Someone mentioned the police but the revellers clearly had no desire to entertain any more intruders and the lone voice was shouted down.
Larren made another attempt to get his wallet out and open it. “Please,” he insisted. “It was my fault and you must let me pay. I have been drinking a little, otherwise I would not have lost control.”
“Everybody drinks,” a new voice laughed.
Larren tried again but there was another chorus of refusals and gestures of approval as Dimitri pushed the offer aside.
As though in desperation Larren stopped trying to get his money out and pulled open the door of the Renault instead. He picked up a bottle of wine in each hand and held them out.
“Look, you are having a party. If you will not let me pay for the gate then you must let me help to drown the memory of the interruption. There are some more bottles here you must have. It is the least I can do.”
Again the clamouring voices and the refusals. The wine was waved aside but there was just a moment’s hesitation this time.
Larren insisted that they allow him to get the party back in swing by accepting the bottles. Then somebody made a suggestion that seemed to delight them all. The little man who spoke English laughed and clapped Larren on the shoulder.
“Sir, we will drink your wine with one … one … how you say? … one condition.” He seemed to swell with pride as he got the word out. “You must join our party and help us to drink it.”
It was Larren’s turn to hesitate and refuse.
“No,” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t intrude like that. I just want to make up for spoiling your party.”
“But we insist. You must join us. You must not drive the car until you have rested.”
The grinning, laughing faces surged around him and Larren knew that even if he were serious in refusing he would have difficulty in backing out now. His refusals grew weaker and finally he gave way with well-feigned embarrassment.
Willing hands helped to lift the remaining bottles of wine and spirits out of the car and then some of the younger men set to work to straighten the vehicle up and park it off the driveway. They wouldn’t even let him help with that.
Finally he was swept along with the crowd as they returned to the villa. Someone pushed a full glass in his hand and he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was scotch and soda. His gatecrashing attempt had been a complete success.
CHAPTER 4: WILD PARTY
The barrel-chested little man who spoke English was named Georges. He introduced himself and a stream of other curious but friendly people who crowded round to pump Larren’s hand and slap him on the shoulders. Everyone seemed delighted with the small amount of excitement his abrupt appearance had provided, and the whole thing was treated as a great joke. They all called him Simon the moment he revealed his name and kept up a noisy chatter of questions about where did he come from and where was he going. They were all flushed with liquor and somebody spoiled his scotch by topping it up to the brim with bitter retsina wine.
He was unable to discover what the celebration was all about, but the expensive gowns of the women, the lush fittings of the villa, and the abandoned way in which the whole party were pairing off into amorous couples and drinking themselves silly helped to tell him that they were part of the smart young nightclub set. There were well over a score of people there with both sexes evenly represented, and the fact that stocks had been getting low when he offered his contribution of eight additional bottles of wine and spirits made him their hero of the hour. He intended to explain that he had been laying in a stock for a party of his own later but the opportunity never arose and the lie was not needed.
The novelty of a strange Englishman in their midst eventually began to wear off and the party gave way to other interests. However, Dimitri, who either owned or rented the villa, was still just sober enough to remember that he was supposed to be host. He pulled Larren away from the shrinking group who had somehow groped their way back to stage one of the conversations and were again asking vague questions about was he English and did he come from London, and led him over to the corner of the room.
Here he was introduced to a second Georges, a thin anaemic young man who was barely capable of holding his wine glass steady, and a giggling young woman in her twenties who was struggling to hold him upright. The woman had brown eyes and chestnut curls and her name was Nina. Dimitri added the information, “Nina speaks English,” and then he took over the job of supporting the young man and led him staggering away through a door that apparently led to the back of the house.
Larren was left alone with Nina. She pushed closer to him, gazing up at his face with her wide brown eyes and asking the same silly question that he had already answered a score of times in the last half hour.
“Do you speak English?”
“I am English,” he said wearily. And then he asked, “Where has Dimitri gone with your friend Georges?”
She giggled. “Do not worry about Georges. Dimitri will push him out into the fresh air and he will be sick. Then he will fall down somewhere and go to sleep.”
She became aware that he had no glass, for he had placed his ruined scotch on the mantelpiece and simply left it there, and immediately she insisted that they had another drink. She swallowed her own wine in one gulp and put her arm around his waist as she led him back across the room to the table where the drinks were. The acting barman was slumped unconscious against the nearest wall and they helped themselves. Larren poured Nina another glass of the sweet red wine she was drinking and mixed a treble scotch and soda for himself. He reasoned that he had paid for it, and at this stage he damned well needed it.
Nina drank the glass of wine the way an Irish labourer would sink a pint of bitter, and while she was momentarily occupied Larren searched the room for Carla Valedri and her escort. He had noted that the red sports car was still parked in the driveway as he came in, but so far he had seen no sign of his quarry. Before he could think too much on the subject Nina fell against him and he was forced to concentrate on holding her up.
After a moment she recovered and looked up at him, tossing her head back to throw the chestnut curls out of her eyes. “I like you, Simon,” she said, and even managed to sound serious for a moment. Then she linked her hands round the back of his neck and repeated the words with a giggle. At the same time she wriggled her body against him just to remind him what sort of a party this was.
The first Georges, the one who spoke English, came stumbling past with the wine in his glass spilling over the carpet. He grinned at Larren and closed one eye in a dirty wink as the other eye ranged over Nina’s clinging form. “Is a good party — yes?” He shouted. And then moved on without waiting for an answer.
Larren took a good, steadying drink at his king-sized scotch and then tried to steer the young woman over to the nearest couch. Before he could reach it another couple dropped down into its depths and went straight into a passionate embrace. Larren looked round the whole room but every armchair was already occupied. Then somebody switched on a record player and a jazz band roared at full blast into the room. Nina immediately wanted to dance.
Larren held her up while she made a clumsy attempt to jive. One or two other couples followed her example but the music was far too fast for their sluggish limbs and it was switched off as fast as it came on. Nina looked thoroughly disappointed but she smiled again when a slow waltz replaced it. She leaned up to Larren and nuzzled his ear as the other couples moved clumsily around them.
It was now over an hour since Larren had entered the villa and he was beginning to think that he had made a mess of his car for nothing. And then over Nina’s head he saw Carla Valedri come into the room through the door where Dimitri had steered Nina’s previous escort.
She was wearing a glittering dress of blue-black silk, a colour obviously chosen so that the low cut neckline could emphasize the creamy texture of her full breasts. She was smiling and her eyes sparkled as she looked over her shoulder at the man behind her. He was the young driver of the sports car and the livid bite mark on the side of his throat made it clear why they had not rushed out to the car crash, or put in an appearance since.
Larren watched them cross over to the table where the drinks were and then turned his attention back to Nina before his interest could be noticed. He remembered the other couples he had seen drifting through that door and told himself he should have guessed that it led to the bedrooms. There was a limit to how far you could go in an armchair surrounded by dancers, even among this crowd.
He felt Nina’s arms pulling hard at his shoulders to bring his head down and was unable to avoid her seeking lips. She tried to excite him by movements of her tongue and little squirms with her body. Then she let her head fall back and said huskily, “I like you, Simon. You’re nice. You want to — to—” She had to stop there helplessly because she didn’t quite know how to express it in English. Her expression was petulant and Larren wondered how the hell he was going to get rid of her.
She was annoyed with him suddenly. She stepped back and said sharply, “I want another drink.”
Larren took her arm and led her back to the table with its scattered bottles. The way she staggered suggested the obvious way to get rid of her and he kissed her to keep her happy again before propping her up against the wall.
He found two half pint glasses and filled them a quarter full with neat scotch, then he added a quarter of gin, a quarter of black rum, and topped the lot up with vodka. He dropped a cocktail cherry and a slice of orange peel in each and turned towards her. Nobody was taking any notice of them as he handed her one of the glasses.
“That’s what we call a Piccadilly Power Punch,” he said. “And if you can drink it you’re as good as anybody here.”
Nina looked at it doubtfully and then giggled.
“Together now,” Larren coaxed. “One … two … three!”
He tilted the glass to his lips and took two big swallows as Nina did likewise. The young woman screwed up her eyes as the burning mixture hit her throat and Larren promptly lowered the rest of his glass and tipped three parts of it into a nearby ice bucket.
Nina got half of her drink down before she had to break off into a fit of spluttering. She gaped at Larren through tear-stained eyes and he felt genuinely sorry for her as he calmly drained what was left in his glass. With a gallant effort Nina closed her eyes again and gulped at the wicked mixture in her hand. She finished it and all but collapsed.
Larren steered her gently across the room and through the door where all the other couples kept vanishing. He was in another spacious, comfortably furnished room, but he could see a bed through the door on his left. There were more couples reclining here for part of the party had overflowed, but Larren propelled Nina towards the bedroom and ignored them.
Nina’s face was white and sweating and her knees sagged as they entered the bedroom. Larren caught her as she fell and laid her gently on the rumpled bed. She was out cold and he knew she was going to be cruelly sick when she came round. He eased his conscience by trying to picture her white face with the ugly symptoms of the red death, and telling himself that it was better that she should be sick than that others should die. Then he left her and went back to the party.
He mixed himself another drink, mostly soda this time, and then looked round for Carla Valedri. He spotted her almost instantly on the other side of the room; her escort was relaxing in a large armchair and Carla was sitting on the arm beside him. Next to them was a table supporting the record player and a stack of records, and he decided that that was a good enough excuse to move one stage nearer. Calmly he strolled across the room and began to thumb through the record albums.
The party was much quieter now, for many of the guests had either passed out or vanished with their partners into the villa grounds or the extra bedrooms upstairs. Larren heard Carla talking to her companion in Greek just behind him and wondered again what he would do if she didn’t speak English. If she did then that in itself would be sufficient excuse for him to start talking to her; but if she didn’t then his night’s work would have been in vain.
He was still wondering how he could best create an excuse to speak to her when a lone reveller stumbled through the doorway to provide the perfect answer. He took two steps across the thick carpet, tripped and nosedived smack into the table where Larren was standing. He rebounded helplessly and fell against Larren’s legs, bringing the tall English man down on his back and sending the contents of his glass over Carla Valedri’s stockinged leg.
The drunk was already snoring in a deep sleep as Larren pulled himself up. Carla Valedri was laughing and the young Greek with her was smiling broadly. Larren forced a grin on to his face and apologized.
“I’m sorry about that. The damned fool caught me by surprise.”
He waited tensely for her answer and it seemed an unnecessarily long time before she replied in perfect English. “It does not matter. You are not hurt — and he will sleep it off.”
Larren concealed his relief over the fact that his biggest obstacle had not materialized. “But your stockings,” he said ruefully, gesturing to where the whisky and soda still trickled down her trim calf.
He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and knelt before her. He almost took hold of her foot but at the last moment he hesitated and held the handkerchief out to her instead.
She smiled sweetly. “Go ahead.”
Larren answered the smile and then firmly gripped her ankle and got on with the job. He rubbed the spilt liquor dry deftly and without embarrassment because he sensed that that was the way she would enjoy it. Her escort’s smile dissolved abruptly into a hard look but Larren ignored that. His job was to charm Carla — not the boyfriend.
When he stood up she studied him curiously. “Are you English or American?” she inquired at last.
The old question, thought Larren, but at least it was phrased more intelligently. “English,” he said.
She smiled. “I thought I knew everyone who came to Dimitri’s parties, but I’m afraid I don’t know you.”
Larren explained how he had crashed into the gatepost.
She laughed. “We saw that from the upstairs window, but we didn’t come down.” She darted a teasing look at the young Greek beside her. “We were busy at the time.”
Larren smiled broadly. There was no point in pretending not to notice the remark, for despite her cool, polite tone she was still a wanton and did not particularly care who knew it.
She looked back at him and said calmly, “My name is Carla, and this is Savino. Who are you?”
Christian names were obviously sufficient so Larren simply said, “Simon.”
Carla gave him a seductive look. “Hello, Simon.”
The man named Savino merely nodded shortly. His eyes told Larren to clear off.
Larren continued to smile at Carla. He smiled rarely, but when he did it was usually for a woman, and they usually responded. He knew that for the moment Carla was interested.
“Does Savino speak English?” he asked, partly because it would be useful to know and partly because it seemed the next logical step in the conversation.
The Greek answered for himself. “I speak a little,” he said. His eyes were still doing most of his talking and he put one arm around Carla’s waist and rested his hand upon her hip to demonstrate that she was already claimed.
Carla pushed his hand down but at the same time she turned to smile at him.
“Savino, fetch me some wine,” she said sweetly.
Savino hesitated and seemed on the brink of refusing, and then he pushed himself up slowly from the armchair.
Then Carla looked back at Larren. “Simon, perhaps you would like a drink too?”
Larren knew that if he pushed this indignity on to the Greek then Savino could explode, his eyes were that ugly. But he also sensed that Carla was pushing this just for the fun of it, and if he backed away from the possibility of enraging Savino then he was finished.
He said calmly, “I’ll have a whisky and soda.”
He thought Savino was going to hit him but somehow the Greek kept his temper. The young man glared at him balefully for a moment and then walked over to what was left of the drinks. Larren half turned to watch him go.
Savino passed within a couple of paces of two men who sat at a table near the door and Larren saw them give him a hard look as he passed. The nearest of the two was an overweight man who overflowed his seat, while his companion was a man in glasses. Larren had noticed them a couple of times during the evening as they swirled around in the crowd, but now the pace had died and they sat alone over a pack of cards and a wine bottle. He wondered what Savino had done to displease them.
He became suddenly aware that Carla had risen to her feet and turned back to face her. Her eyes were afire beneath glistening lashes and she said quite bluntly, “I am getting tired of Savino, he is too possessive and becoming a bore.” Her red mouth moulded into a wicked smile. “Are you possessive, Simon? Or a bore?”
