“You’ve had break-ins?”
“Not here. At the London house it used to happen all the time. Of course, that was when I was more visible. The unrepentant tycoon. Evangeline and me in every scandal sheet. The open sewer of Fleet Street; it never fails to appall me.”
“I thought you owned a newspaper?”
“Been reading up on me?”
“Not exactly; I-”
“Don’t believe the biographies, or the gossip columns, or even Who’s Who. They lie. I lie”-he finished the declension, entertained by his own cynicism-“he, she, or it lies. Scribblers. Dirt peddlers. Contemptible, the lot of them.”
Was that what he was keeping out with these lethal fences: dirt peddlers? A fortress against a tide of scandal and shit? If so, it was an elaborate lay to go about it. Marty wondered if this wasn’t simply monstrous egotism. Was the hemisphere that interested in the private life of Joseph Whitehead?
“What are you thinking, Mr. Strauss?”
“About the fences,” Marty lied, proving Whitehead’s earlier point.
“No, Strauss,” Whitehead corrected him. “You’re thinking: what have I got myself into, locked up with a lunatic?”
Marty sensed any further denial would sound like guilt. He said nothing.
“Isn’t that the conventional wisdom where I’m concerned? The failing plutocrat, festering in solitude. Don’t they say that about me?”
“Something like that,” Marty finally replied.
“And still you came.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you came. You thought that however offbeat I am, nothing could be as bad as another stretch behind locked doors, isn’t that right? And you wanted out. At any cost. You were desperate.”
“Of course I wanted out. Anybody would.”
“I’m glad you admit to that. Because your wanting gives me considerable power over you, don’t you think? You daren’t cheat me. You must cleave to me the way the dogs cleave to Lillian, not because she represents their next meal but because she’s their world. You must make me your world, Mr. Strauss; my preservation, my sanity, my smallest comfort must be uppermost in your mind every waking moment. If it is, I promise you freedoms you never dreamed of experiencing. The kind of freedoms that are only in the gift of very wealthy men. If not, I will put you back in prison with your record book irredeemably spoiled. Understand me?”
“I understand.”
Whitehead nodded.
“Come then,” he said. “Walk beside me.”
He turned and walked on. The fence swung around behind the back of the woods at this point, and rather than plunging into the undergrowth Whitehead suggested they truncate their journey by heading toward the pool. “One tree looks much like the next to me,” he commented. “You can come here and trudge around to your heart’s content later on.” They skirted the edge of the woods long enough for Marty to get an impression of their density, however. The trees hadn’t been systematically planted; this was no regimented Forestry Commission reserve. They stood close to each other, their limbs intertwined, a mixture of deciduous varieties and pines all fighting for growing space. Only occasionally, where an oak or a lime stood bare-branched this early in the year, did light bless the undergrowth. He promised himself a return here before spring prettified it.
Whitehead summoned Marty’s thoughts back into focus.
“From now on I expect you to be within summoning distance most of the time. I don’t want you with me every moment of the day . . . just need you in the vicinity. On occasion, and only with my permission, you’ll be permitted to leave on your own. You can drive?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no shortage of cars, so we’ll sort something out for you. This isn’t strictly within the guidelines set out by the parole board. Their recommendation was that you remain, as it were, in custody here for six probationary months. But I frankly see no reason to prevent you visiting your loved ones-at least when there are other people around to look after my welfare.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you any time just at the moment. Your presence here is vital.”
“Problems?”
“My life is constantly threatened, Strauss. I, or rather my offices, receive hate mail all the time. The difficulty is in separating the crank who spends his time writing filth to public figures from the genuine assassin.”