“I didn’t come here to hear this,” Gentle said.
“No, I realize that. It’s just necessary for me to express how very precious she was to me. I count the years 1 had with her as the best of my life. But of course the best can’t go on forever, can they, or how are they the best?” He drank again. “You know, she never talked about you,” he said. “I tried to provoke her into doing so, but she said she’d put you out of her mind completely—she’d forgotten you, she said—which is nonsense, of course.”
“I believe it.”
“Don’t,” Estabrook said quickly. “You were her guilty secret.”
“Why are you trying to flatter me?”
“It’s the truth. She still loved you, all through the time she was with me. That’s why we’re talking now. Because I know it, and I think you do too.”
Not once so far had they mentioned her by name, almost as though from some superstition. She was she, her, the woman: an absolute and invisible power. Her men seemed to have their feet on solid ground, but in truth they drifted like the kites, tethered to reality only by the memory of her.
“I’ve done a terrible thing, John,” Estabrook said. The flask was at his lips again. He took several gulps before sealing it and pocketing it. “And I regret it bitterly.”
“What?”
“May we walk a little way?” Estabrook said, glancing towards the kite flyers, who were both too distant and too involved in their sport to be eavesdropping. But he was not comfortable with sharing his secret until he’d put twice the distance between his confession and their ears. When he had, he made it simply and plainly. “I don’t know what kind of madness overtook me,” he said, “but a little while ago I made a contract with somebody to have her killed.”
“You did iv/wtf?”
“Does it appall you?”
“What do you think? Of course it appalls me.”
“It’s the highest form of devotion, you know, to want to end somebody’s existence rather than let them live on without you. It’s love of the highest order.”
“It’s a fucking obscenity.”
“Oh, yes, it’s that too. But I couldn’t bear . . . just couldn’t bear . . . the idea of her being alive and me not being with her. . ..” His delivery was now deteriorating, the words becoming tears. “She was so dear to me. . ..”
Gentle’s thoughts were of his last exchange with Judith: the half-drowned telephone call from New York, which had ended with nothing said. Had she known then that her life was in jeopardy? If not, did she now? My God, was she even alive? He took hold of Estabrook’s lapel with the same force that the fear took hold of him.
“You haven’t brought me here to tell me she’s dead.”
“No. No,” he protested, making no attempt to disengage Gentle’s hold. “I hired this man, and I want to call him off.”
“So do it,” Gentle said, letting the coat go.
“I can’t.”
Estabrook reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. To judge by its crumpled state it had been thrown away, then reclaimed.
“This came from the man who found me the assassin,” he went on. “It was delivered to my home two nights ago. He was obviously drunk or drugged when he wrote it, but it indicates that he expects to be dead by the time I read it. I’m assuming he’s correct. He hasn’t made contact. He was my only route to the assassin.”
“Where did you meet this man?”
“He found me.”
“And the assassin?”
“I met him somewhere south of the river, I don’t know where. It was dark. I was lost. Besides, he won’t be there. He’s gone after her.”
“So warn her.”
“I’ve tried. She won’t accept my calls. She’s got another lover now. He’s being covetous the way I was. My letters, my telegrams, they’re all sent back unopened. But he won’t be able to save her. This man I hired, his name’s Pie—”
“What’s that, some kind of code?”
“I don’t know,” Estabrook said. “I don’t know anything except I’ve done something unforgivable and you have to help me undo it. You have to. This man Pie is lethal.”