to be the rainiest month in the history of the French weather bureau. By the first of August, Charles Martel had lost every centime of the money he had stolen. He was filled with a fear such as he had never known.
“We’re flying to Argentina next month,” Hélène had informed Charles. “I’ve entered a car race there.”
He had watched her speeding round the track in the Ferrari, and he could not help thinking: If she crashes, I’m free.
But she was Hélène Roffe-Martel. Life had cast her in the role of a winner, just as it had cast him in the role of a loser.
Winning the race had excited Hélène even more than usual. They had returned to their hotel suite in Buenos Aires, and she had made Charles get undressed and lie on the rug, on his stomach. When he saw what she had in her hand as she straddled him, he said, “Please, no!”
There was a knock on the door.
“Merde!” Hélène said. She waited, silent, but the knocking was repeated.
A voice called, “Señor Martel?”
“Stay here!” Hélène commanded. She got up, whipped a heavy silk robe around her slim, firm body, walked over to the door and pulled it open. A man in a gray messenger’s uniform stood there, holding a sealed manila envelope.
“I have a special delivery for Señor and Señora Martel.”
She took the envelope and closed the door.
She tore the envelope open and read the message inside, then slowly read it again.
“What is it?” Charles asked.
“Sam Roffe is dead,” she said. She was smiling.
CHAPTER 5
London.
Monday, September 7.
Two p.m.
White’s Club was situated at the top of St. James’s Street, near Piccadilly. Built as a gambling club in the eighteenth century, White’s was one of the oldest clubs in England, and the most exclusive. Members put their sons’ names in for membership at birth, for there was a thirty-year waiting list.
The facade of White’s was the epitome of discretion. The wide bow windows looking out on St. James’s Street were meant to accommodate those within rather than to satisfy the curiosity of the outsiders passing by. A short flight of steps led to the entrance but, aside from members and their guests, few people ever got past the door. The rooms in the club were large and impressive, burnished with the dark rich patina of time. The furniture was old and comfortable—leather couches, newspaper racks, priceless antique tables and deep stuffed armchairs that had held the posteriors of half a dozen PrimeMinisters. There was a backgammon room with a large, open fireplace behind a bronze-covered rail, and a formal curved staircase led to the dining room upstairs. The dining room ran across the entire breadth of the house, and contained one huge mahogany table which seated thirty persons, and five side tables. At any luncheon or dinner the room contained some of the most influential men in the world.
Sir Alec Nichols, Member of Parliament, was seated at one of the small corner tables, having lunch with a guest, Jon Swinton. Sir Alec’s father had been a baronet, and his father and grandfather before him. They had all belonged to White’s. Sir Alec was a thin, pale man in his late forties, with a sensitive, aristocratic face and an engaging smile. He had just motored in from his country estate in Gloucestershire, and was dressed in a tweed sports jacket and slacks, with loafers. His guest wore a pinstripe suit with a loud checked shirt and a red tie, and seemed out of place in this quiet, rich atmosphere.
“They really do you proud here,” Jon Swinton said, his mouth full, as he chewed the remains of a large veal chop on his plate.
Sir Alec nodded. “Yes. Things have changed since Voltaire said, ‘The British have a hundred religions and only one sauce.’”
Jon Swinton looked up. “Who’s Voltaire?”
Sir Alec said, embarrassed, “A—a French chap.”
“Oh.” Jon Swinton washed his food down with a swallow of wine. He laid down his knife and fork and wiped a napkin
“We’re flying to Argentina next month,” Hélène had informed Charles. “I’ve entered a car race there.”
He had watched her speeding round the track in the Ferrari, and he could not help thinking: If she crashes, I’m free.
But she was Hélène Roffe-Martel. Life had cast her in the role of a winner, just as it had cast him in the role of a loser.
Winning the race had excited Hélène even more than usual. They had returned to their hotel suite in Buenos Aires, and she had made Charles get undressed and lie on the rug, on his stomach. When he saw what she had in her hand as she straddled him, he said, “Please, no!”
There was a knock on the door.
“Merde!” Hélène said. She waited, silent, but the knocking was repeated.
A voice called, “Señor Martel?”
“Stay here!” Hélène commanded. She got up, whipped a heavy silk robe around her slim, firm body, walked over to the door and pulled it open. A man in a gray messenger’s uniform stood there, holding a sealed manila envelope.
“I have a special delivery for Señor and Señora Martel.”
She took the envelope and closed the door.
She tore the envelope open and read the message inside, then slowly read it again.
“What is it?” Charles asked.
“Sam Roffe is dead,” she said. She was smiling.
CHAPTER 5
London.
Monday, September 7.
Two p.m.
White’s Club was situated at the top of St. James’s Street, near Piccadilly. Built as a gambling club in the eighteenth century, White’s was one of the oldest clubs in England, and the most exclusive. Members put their sons’ names in for membership at birth, for there was a thirty-year waiting list.
The facade of White’s was the epitome of discretion. The wide bow windows looking out on St. James’s Street were meant to accommodate those within rather than to satisfy the curiosity of the outsiders passing by. A short flight of steps led to the entrance but, aside from members and their guests, few people ever got past the door. The rooms in the club were large and impressive, burnished with the dark rich patina of time. The furniture was old and comfortable—leather couches, newspaper racks, priceless antique tables and deep stuffed armchairs that had held the posteriors of half a dozen PrimeMinisters. There was a backgammon room with a large, open fireplace behind a bronze-covered rail, and a formal curved staircase led to the dining room upstairs. The dining room ran across the entire breadth of the house, and contained one huge mahogany table which seated thirty persons, and five side tables. At any luncheon or dinner the room contained some of the most influential men in the world.
Sir Alec Nichols, Member of Parliament, was seated at one of the small corner tables, having lunch with a guest, Jon Swinton. Sir Alec’s father had been a baronet, and his father and grandfather before him. They had all belonged to White’s. Sir Alec was a thin, pale man in his late forties, with a sensitive, aristocratic face and an engaging smile. He had just motored in from his country estate in Gloucestershire, and was dressed in a tweed sports jacket and slacks, with loafers. His guest wore a pinstripe suit with a loud checked shirt and a red tie, and seemed out of place in this quiet, rich atmosphere.
“They really do you proud here,” Jon Swinton said, his mouth full, as he chewed the remains of a large veal chop on his plate.
Sir Alec nodded. “Yes. Things have changed since Voltaire said, ‘The British have a hundred religions and only one sauce.’”
Jon Swinton looked up. “Who’s Voltaire?”
Sir Alec said, embarrassed, “A—a French chap.”
“Oh.” Jon Swinton washed his food down with a swallow of wine. He laid down his knife and fork and wiped a napkin
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