Read Online The Holcroft Covenant by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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mister?”
“What?”
“I mean, have you been there a long time?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think maybe you’ve been drinking.…”
“What the hell are you talking about?! Who
is that woman?
”
“Not
is
, mister.
Was
. The blond woman you’re talking about was Mrs. Palatyne. She died a month ago.”
Noel sat in the chair in front of the window, staring across the courtyard. Someone was trying to drive him crazy. But why? It did not make sense! Fanatics, maniacs from thirty years ago, had sprung across three decades, commanding younger, unknown troops thirty years later. Again,
why?
He had called the St. Regis. Room four-eleven’s telephone was working, but it was continuously busy. And a woman he had seen clearly did not exist. But she did exist! And she was a part of it; he
knew
it.
He got out of the chair, walked to the strangely placed bar, and poured himself a drink. He looked at his watch; it was one-fifty. He had ten minutes to wait before the overseas operator would call him back; the bank could be reached at two A.M. , New York time. He carried his glass back to the chair in front of the window. On the way, he passed his FM radio. It was not where it usually was of course; that was why he noticed it. Absently, he turned it on. He liked music; it soothed him.
But it was words, not music, that he heard. The
rat-tat-tatting
beneath an announcer’s voice indicated one of those “all-news” stations. The dial had been changed. He should have known.
Nothing is as it was for you
.…
Something being said on the radio caught his attention. He turned quickly in the chair, part of his drink spilling onto his trousers.
“… police have cordoned off the hotel’s entrances. Our reporter, Richard Dunlop, is on the scene, calling in from our mobile unit. Come in, Richard. What have you learned?”
There was a burst of static followed by the voice of an excited newscaster.
“The man’s name was Peter Baldwin, John. He was an Englishman. Arrived yesterday, or at least that’s when he registered at the St. Regis; the police are contacting the airlines for further information. As far as can be determined, he was over here on vacation. There was no listing of a company on the hotel registry card.”
“When did they discover the body?”
“About a half hour ago. A maintenance man went up to the room
to
check the telephone and found Mr. Baldwin sprawled out on the bed. The rumors here are wild and you don’t know what to believe, but the thing that’s stressed is the method of killing. Apparently, it was vicious, brutal. Baldwin was garroted, they said. A wire pulled through his throat. An hysterical maid from the fourth floor was heard screaming to the police that the room vas drenched with—”
“Was robbery the motive?” interrupted the anchorman, in the interests of taste.
“We haven’t been able to establish that. The police aren’t talking. I gather they’re waiting for someone from the British consulate to arrive.”
“Thank you, Richard Dunlop. We’ll stay in touch.… That was Richard Dunlop at the St. Regis Hotel, on Fifty-fifth Street in Manhattan. To repeat, a brutal murder took place at one of New York’s most fashionable hotels this morning. An Englishman named Peter Baldwin …”
Holcroft shot out of the chair, lurched at the radio, and turned it off. He stood above it, breathing rapidly. He did not want to admit to himself that he had heard what he had just heard. It was not anything he had really considered; it simply was not possible.
But it
was
possible. It was real; it had happened. It was death. The maniacs from thirty years ago were not caricatures, not figures from some melodrama. They were vicious killers. And they were deadly serious.
Peter Baldwin, Esq., had told him to cancel Geneva. Baldwin had interfered with the dream, with the covenant. And now he was dead, brutally killed with a wire through his throat.
With difficulty, Noel
“What?”
“I mean, have you been there a long time?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think maybe you’ve been drinking.…”
“What the hell are you talking about?! Who
is that woman?
”
“Not
is
, mister.
Was
. The blond woman you’re talking about was Mrs. Palatyne. She died a month ago.”
Noel sat in the chair in front of the window, staring across the courtyard. Someone was trying to drive him crazy. But why? It did not make sense! Fanatics, maniacs from thirty years ago, had sprung across three decades, commanding younger, unknown troops thirty years later. Again,
why?
He had called the St. Regis. Room four-eleven’s telephone was working, but it was continuously busy. And a woman he had seen clearly did not exist. But she did exist! And she was a part of it; he
knew
it.
He got out of the chair, walked to the strangely placed bar, and poured himself a drink. He looked at his watch; it was one-fifty. He had ten minutes to wait before the overseas operator would call him back; the bank could be reached at two A.M. , New York time. He carried his glass back to the chair in front of the window. On the way, he passed his FM radio. It was not where it usually was of course; that was why he noticed it. Absently, he turned it on. He liked music; it soothed him.
But it was words, not music, that he heard. The
rat-tat-tatting
beneath an announcer’s voice indicated one of those “all-news” stations. The dial had been changed. He should have known.
Nothing is as it was for you
.…
Something being said on the radio caught his attention. He turned quickly in the chair, part of his drink spilling onto his trousers.
“… police have cordoned off the hotel’s entrances. Our reporter, Richard Dunlop, is on the scene, calling in from our mobile unit. Come in, Richard. What have you learned?”
There was a burst of static followed by the voice of an excited newscaster.
“The man’s name was Peter Baldwin, John. He was an Englishman. Arrived yesterday, or at least that’s when he registered at the St. Regis; the police are contacting the airlines for further information. As far as can be determined, he was over here on vacation. There was no listing of a company on the hotel registry card.”
“When did they discover the body?”
“About a half hour ago. A maintenance man went up to the room
to
check the telephone and found Mr. Baldwin sprawled out on the bed. The rumors here are wild and you don’t know what to believe, but the thing that’s stressed is the method of killing. Apparently, it was vicious, brutal. Baldwin was garroted, they said. A wire pulled through his throat. An hysterical maid from the fourth floor was heard screaming to the police that the room vas drenched with—”
“Was robbery the motive?” interrupted the anchorman, in the interests of taste.
“We haven’t been able to establish that. The police aren’t talking. I gather they’re waiting for someone from the British consulate to arrive.”
“Thank you, Richard Dunlop. We’ll stay in touch.… That was Richard Dunlop at the St. Regis Hotel, on Fifty-fifth Street in Manhattan. To repeat, a brutal murder took place at one of New York’s most fashionable hotels this morning. An Englishman named Peter Baldwin …”
Holcroft shot out of the chair, lurched at the radio, and turned it off. He stood above it, breathing rapidly. He did not want to admit to himself that he had heard what he had just heard. It was not anything he had really considered; it simply was not possible.
But it
was
possible. It was real; it had happened. It was death. The maniacs from thirty years ago were not caricatures, not figures from some melodrama. They were vicious killers. And they were deadly serious.
Peter Baldwin, Esq., had told him to cancel Geneva. Baldwin had interfered with the dream, with the covenant. And now he was dead, brutally killed with a wire through his throat.
With difficulty, Noel
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