cb.damnationgame-第58节

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　Marty　doubted。　But　she　was　willing　to　offer　a　tantalizing　trailer。　〃There　was　mutilation；〃　she　promised；　〃unrecognizable；　even　to　her　nearest　and　dearest。〃　〃Are　you　sure？〃　The　woman　looked　affronted　by　this　smear　on　her　authenticity。
　　〃She　either　did　it　to　herself；　or　else　somebody　did　it　to　her　and　kept　her　in　there；　locked　up；　bleeding　to　death。　For　days　and　days。　The　smell　when　they　opened　the　door…〃　The　sound　of　the　slushy；　lost　voice　that　had　answered　the　telephone　came　back　to　Marty；　and　he　knew　without　doubt　that　Toy's　lady　had　already　been　dead　when　she　spoke。　Mutilated　and　dead；　but　resurrected　as　a　telephonist　to　keep　up　appearances　for　a　useful　while。　The　syllables　ran　in　his　ear：　〃Who　is　this？〃　she'd　asked；　hadn't　she？　Despite　the　heat　and　light　of　a　brilliant　July；　he　started　to　shiver。　Mamoulian　had　been　here。　He'd　crossed　this　very　threshold　in　search　of　Toy。　He　had　a　score　to　settle　with　Bill；　as　Marty　now　knew；　what　might　a　man　not　plan；　while　the　humiliations　festered；　in　return　for　such　violence？
　　Marty　caught　the　woman　staring　at　him。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　she　said。
　　〃Thank　you。　Yes。〃　〃You　need　some　sleep。　I　have　the　same　problems。　Hot　nights　like　these：　I　get　restless。〃　He　thanked　her　again　and　hurried　away　from　the　house；　without　looking　back。　Too　easy　to　imagine　the　horrors；　they　came　without　warning；　out　of　nowhere。
　　Nor　would　they　go　away。　Not　now。　The　memory　of　Mamoulian　was　with　him…night　and　day　and　restless　night…from　then　on。　He　became　aware　（was　it　just　his　dream　life；　denied　its　span　in　sleepless　nights；　spreading　into　wakefulness？）　of　another　world；　hovering　beyond　or　behind　the　facade　of　reality。
　　There　was　no　time　for　prevarication。　He　had　to　leave；　forget　Whitehead　and　Carys　and　the　law。　Trick　his　way　out　of　the　country　and　into　America　any　way　he　could；　away　to　a　place　where　real　was　real；　and　dreams　stayed　under　the　eyelids；　where　they　belonged。
　　
　　51
　　Raglan　was　an　expert　at　the　fine　art　of　forgery。　Two　telephone　calls　located　him；　and　Marty　struck　a　deal　with　the　man。　The　appropriate　visa　could　be　forged　in　a　passport　for　a　modest　fee。　If　Marty　could　bring　along　a　photograph　of　himself　the　job　could　be　done　in　a　day；　two　at　the　most。
　　It　was　the　fifteenth　of　July：　the　month　was　simmering；　a　few　degrees　off　the　boil。　The　radio；　blaring　from　the　room　next　door；　had　promised　a　day　as　faultlessly　blue　as　the　one　preceding；　and　the　one　preceding　that。　Not　even　blue；　white。　The　sky　was　blind　white　these　days。
　　Marty　set　out　for　Raglan's　house　early；　partially　to　avoid　the　worst　of　the　heat；　and　partially　because　he　was　eager　to　get　the　forgery　made；　buy　his　ticket；　and　be　away。　As　it　was；　he　got　no　further　than　Kilburn　High　Road　Tube　Station。　It　was　there；　on　the　cover　of　the　Daily　Telegraph　that　he　read　the　headline：　MILLIONAIRE　RECLUSE　FOUND　DEAD　AT　HOME。　Beneath　it；　a　picture　of　Papa；　a　younger；　beardless　Whitehead；　snapped　at　the　height　of　his　looks　and　influence。　He　bought　the　paper；　and　two　others　that　carried　the　story　on　their　covers；　and　read　them　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　pavement；　while　harried　muters　nudged　and　tutted　at　him　as　they　surged　down　the　stairs　into　the　station。
　　〃The　death　was　announced　today　of　Joseph　Newzam　Whitehead；　the　millionaire　head　of　the　Whitehead　Corporation；　whose　pharmaceutical　products　had；　until　recent　falls；　made　it　one　of　the　most　successful　panies　in　Western　Europe。　Mr。　Whitehead；　sixty…eight；　was　found　at　his　hideaway　sanctum　in　Oxfordshire　in　the　early　hours　of　yesterday　morning　by　his　chauffeur。　He　is　believed　to　have　died　of　heart　failure。　Police　say　there　are　no　suspicious　circumstances。　For　Obituary；　see　page　seven。〃　The　obituary　was　the　usual　amalgam　of　information　gleaned　from　the　pages　of　Who's　Who；　with　a　brief　outline　of　the　fortunes　of　the　Whitehead　Corporation；　plus　a　spicing　of　conjecture；　mostly　concerning　the　corporation's　recent　fall　from　financial　grace。　There　was　a　potted　history　of　Whitehead's　life；　though　the　early　years　were　skimpily　reported；　as　though　there　was　some　doubt　as　to　the　details。　The　rest　of　the　design　was　there；　albeit　threadbare。　The　marriage　to　Evangeline；　the　spectacular　rise　in　the　boom　years　of　the　late　fifties；　the　decades　of　consolidation　and　achievement；　then　the　withdrawal；　after　Evangeline's　death；　into　mysterious　and　unilluminating　silence。
　　He　was　dead。
　　Despite　all　the　brave　talk；　all　the　defiance；　all　the　contempt　for　the　machinations　of　the　European；　the　battle　was　lost。　Whether　it　was　indeed　a　natural　death；　as　the　papers　reported；　or　Mamoulian's　doing；　Marty　could　not　know。　But　there　was　no　denying　the　curiosity　he　felt。　More　than　curiosity；　grief。　That　he　had　a　capacity　for　sorrow　at　the　old　man's　death　came　as　a　shock；　perhaps　more　of　a　shock　than　the　sorrow　itself。　He　hadn't　counted　on　the　ache　of　loss　he　felt。
　　He　canceled　the　meeting　with　Raglan　and　went　back　to　the　flat；　there　to　study　the　newspapers…over　and　over　again；　squeezing　out　every　drop　from　the　text　about　the　circumstances　of　Whitehead's　death。　There　were　few　clues；　of　course：　all　the　reports　were　couched　in　the　bland　and　formal　language　of　such　announcements。　Having　exhausted　the　written　word　he　went　next　door　and　asked　to　borrow　his　neighbor's　radio。　The　young　woman　who　occupied　the　room；　a　student；　he　thought；　took　some　persuading；　but　she　eventually　relinquished　it。　He　listened　to　the　half…hourly　bulletins　from　midmorning　on；　while　the　heat　rose　in　his　room。　The　story　had　some　prominence　until　noon；　but　thereafter　events　in　Beirut　and　a　drugs　coup　in　Southampton　claimed　the　bulk　of　the　time；　the　report　of　Whitehead's　death　steadily　slipping　from　a　major　story　to　news…in…brief；　and　thence；　by　mid…afternoon；　into　invisibility。
　　He　returned　the　radio；　declining　a　cup　of　coffee　with　the　girl　and　her　cat；　the　smell　of　whose　uneaten　food　hung　around　the　narrow　room　like　the　threat　of　thunder；　and　returned　to　his　own　quarters　to　sit　and　think。　If　Mamoulian　had　indeed　murdered　Whitehead…and　he　didn't　doubt　that　the　European　had　the　skill　to　do　it　undetected　by　the　acutest　pathologist…it　was　indirectly　his　fault。　Perhaps；　had　he　remained　at　the　house；　the　old　man　would　still　be　alive。　It　was　unlikely。　Far　more　likely；　he　too　would　be　dead。　But　the　guilt　still　nagged。
　　For　the　next　couple　of　days　he　did　very　little：　entropy　had　poured　lead　into　his　bowels。　His　thoughts　were　circular；　almost　obsessional。　In　the　private　cinema　of　his　skull　he　ran　the　home　movies　he'd　accrued；　from　those　first；　uncertain　glimpses　of　the　private　life　of　power　to　his　later　memories…almost　too　sharp；　too　detailed…of　the　man　alone　in　a　glassfloored　cage；　the　dogs；　the　dark。　Through　most；　though　not　all；　the　face　of　Carys　appeared；　sometimes　quizzical；　sometimes　careless：　often　sealed　from　him；　peering　up　between　the　bars　of　her　downcast　lashes　as　if　envying　him。　Late　at　night；　when　the　baby　had　fallen　asleep　in　the　flat　below；　and　the　only　sound　was　the　traffic　on　the　High　Road；　he'd　rerun　those　most　private　moments　between　them；　moments　too　precious　to　be　conjured　up　indiscriminately　for　fear　their　power　to　revive　him　wane　with　repetition。
　　For　a　time　he　had　tried　to　forget　her：　it　was　more　convenient　that　way。　Now　he　clung　to　thoughts　of　that　face；　bereft。　He　wondered　if　he　would　see　her　again。
　　The　Sunday　newspapers　all　carried　further　reports　on　the　death。　The　Sunday　Times　gave　over　the　front　of　its　Review　section　to　a　thumbnail　sketch　Of　BRITAIN'S　MOST　MYSTERIOUS　MILLIONAIRE；　written　by　Lawrence　Dwoskin；　〃longtime　associate　and　confidant　of　England's　Howard　Hughes。　〃　Marty　read　the　piece　through　twice；　unable　to　scan　the　printed　words　without　hearing　Dwoskin's　insinuating　tone　in　his　ear　。　。　。　he　was　in　many　ways　a　paragon；　〃　it　read；　〃。　…　。　though　the　almost　hermitlike　history　of　his　latter　years　gave　rise；　inevitably；　to　reams　of　gossip　and　tittle…tattle；　much　of　it　hurtful　to　a　man　of　Joseph's　sensibilities。　Through　all　his　years　in　public　life；　exposed　to　the　scrutiny　of　a　press　that　was　not　always　beneficent；　he　never　hardened　himself　to　criticism；　implied　or　explicit。　To　we　few　who　knew　him　well　he　revealed　a　nature　more　susceptible　to　barbs　than　his　outward　show　of　indifference　would　ever　have　suggested。　When　he　found　rumors　of　misconduct　or　excess　being　circulated　about　him；　the　criticism　bit　deeply；　especially　as；　since　his　beloved　wife　Evangeline's　death　in　1965；　he　had　bee　the　most　fastidious　of　sexual　and　moral　beings。　〃　Marty　read　this　simpering　cant　with　a　bitter　taste　in　his　throat。　The　canonization　of　the　old　man　had　already　begun。　Soon；　presumably；　would　e　the　biographies；　authorized…and　then　bowdlerized…by　his　estate；　turning　his　life　into　a　series　of　flattering　fables　by　which　he　would　be　remembered。　The　process　nauseated　him。　Reading　the　platitudes　in　Dwoskin's　text　he　found　himself　fiercely　and　unpredictably　defensive　of　the　old　man's　foibles；　as　though　everything　that　had　made　him　unique…made　him　real…now　stood　in　danger　of　being　whitewashed　away。
　　He　read　Dwoskin's　article　to　its　maudlin　end　and　put　it　down。　The　only　detail　in　its　length　that　was　of　interest　was　mention　of　the　funeral　service；　which　was　to　be　held　in　a　small　church　at　Minster　Lovell　the　following　d