She nodded, clearly relieved that nothing had been soured between them, and sat down again to finish her coffee. “You’re not like Nick,” she said, “I can tell that already.”
“Was he odd?” Marty said. “Glass eye or something?”
“Well, he wasn’t-” She seemed to regret this fresh line of conversation before it was begun. “It’s no matter,” she said, dismissing it.
“No. Go on.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he had debts.”
Marty tried not to register anything but the mildest interest. But something must have showed in his eyes, a flicker of panic perhaps. Pearl frowned.
“What sort of debts?” he asked, lightly.
The toast popped up, claiming Pearl’s attention. She crossed to fetch the slices and brought them back to the table. “Excuse fingers,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know how much he owed.”
“No, I don’t mean how big, I meant . . . where did they come from?”
Was he making this sound like an idle inquiry, he wondered, or was she able to see from the way he clutched his fork, or his sudden loss of appetite, that this was a significant question? He had to ask it, however it might seem to her. She thought for a moment before answering. When she did, there was something of the street-corner gossip in her slightly lowered voice; whatever came next was to be a secret between them.
‘He used to come down here at all times of the day and make telephone calls. He told me he was calling people in the business-he was a stuntman, you see, or had been-but I soon cottoned on that he was making bets. It’s my guess that’s where the debts came from. Gambling.”
Somehow Marty had known the answer before it came. It begged, of course, another question: was it just coincidence that Whitehead had employed two bodyguards, both, at some point in their lives, gamblers? Both-it now appeared-thieves for their hobby? Toy had never shown much interest in that aspect of Marty’s life. But then maybe all the salient facts were in the file that Somervale had always carried: the psychologist’s reports, the trial transcripts, everything Toy would ever need to know about the compulsion that had driven Marty to theft. He tried to shrug off the discomfort he felt about all this. What the hell did it matter? It was old news; he was healthy now.
“You finished with your plate?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“More coffee?”
“I’ll get it.”
Pearl took the plate from in front of Marty, scraped the uneaten food onto a second plate-“For the birds,” she said-and started to load plates, cutlery and pans alike into the dishwasher. Marty refilled his mug and watched her at work. She was an attractive woman; middle-age suited her.
“How many staff does Whitehead have altogether?”
“Mr. Whitehead,” she said, gently correcting him. “Staff? Well, there’s me. I come and go like I said. And there’s Mr. Toy, of course.”
“He doesn’t live here either, right?”
“He stays overnight when they have conferences here.”
“Is that regular?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a lot of meetings go on in the house. People in and out all the time. That’s why Mr. Whitehead’s so security conscious.”
“Does he ever go down to London?”
“Not now,” she said. “He used to jet around quite a bit. Off to New York or Hamburg or some such place. But not now. Now he just stays here all year round and makes the rest of the world come to him. Where was I?”
“Staff.”
“Oh, yes. The place used to swarm with people. Security staff; servants; upstairs maids. But then he went through a very suspicious patch. Thought one of them might poison him or murder him in his bath. So he sacked them all: just like that. Said he was happier with just a few of us: the ones he trusted. That way he wasn’t surrounded by people he didn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know me.”
“Maybe not yet. But he’s canny: like nobody I’ve ever met.”
The telephone rang. She picked it up. He knew it must be Whitehead on the other end. Pearl looked caught in the act.
“Oh . . . yes. It’s my fault. I kept him talking. Right away.” The receiver was quickly replaced. “Mr. Whitehead’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry. He’s with the dogs.”