Are You Afraid Of The Dark Part 8

One day, she was having lunch at Restaurant le Cinq at the George V Hotel, when a badly dressed man pa.s.sing by stopped to stare at her. He had the pallid, unhealthy complexion of someone who spent all his time indoors. He was carrying a copy of Elle, opened to a page of photographs of Kelly.

'Excuse me,' the stranger said.

Kelly looked up, annoyed. 'Yes?'

'I saw your-I read this article about you, and it says that you were born in Philadelphia.' His voice grew enthusiastic. 'I was born there, too, and when I saw your pictures, I felt like I knew you and-'

Kelly said coldly, 'You don't, and I don't like strange men bothering me.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' He swallowed. 'I didn't mean to-I'm not strange. I mean-my name is Mark Harris, and I work for Kingsley International Group. When I saw you here, I-I thought maybe you didn't like having lunch alone and that you and I could-'

Kelly gave him a scathing look. 'You thought wrong. Now I'd like you to leave.'

He was stammering. 'I-I didn't mean to intrude. It's just that I-' He saw the look on her face. 'I'm going.'

Kelly watched him walk out the door, carrying the magazine with him. Good riddance, she thought.

Kelly had signed to do a week of layouts for several fas.h.i.+on magazines. The day after her encounter with Mark Harris, she was in the models' dressing room, getting dressed, when three dozen roses arrived for her. The card read: Please forgive me for bothering you. Mark Harris.

Kelly ripped up the card. 'Send the flowers to the children's hospital.'

The next morning the wardrobe mistress came into the dressing room again, with a package. 'Some man left this for you, Kelly.'

In it was a single orchid. The card read: I hope I'm forgiven. Mark Harris.

Kelly tore up the card. 'Keep the flower.'

After that, Mark Harris's gifts came almost daily: a small basket of fruit, a mood ring, a toy Santa Claus. Kelly threw them all into a wastebasket. The next gift that arrived was different: it was an adorable French poodle puppy with a red ribbon around its neck with a card: This is 'Angel.' I hope you'll love her as much as I do. Mark Harris.

Kelly dialled Information and got the number of Kingsley International Group. When their operator answered, Kelly asked, 'Do you have a Mark Harris working there?'

'Oui, mademoiselle.'

'Could I speak with him, please?'

'Un moment.'

A minute later Kelly heard his familiar voice. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'Mr. Harris?'

'Yes.'

'This is Kelly. I've decided to take you up on your invitation to lunch.'

There was a stunned silence, then, 'Really? That's-that's wonderful.'

Kelly could hear the excitement in his voice.

'Laurent today, at one?'

'That will be great. Thank you so much. I-'

'I'll make the reservation. Good-bye.'

Mark Harris was standing, waiting at a table at Laurent, when Kelly strode in, carrying the puppy.

Mark's face lit up. 'You-you came. I wasn't sure that-and you brought Angel.'

'Yes.' Kelly planted the dog in Mark's arms. 'She can join you for lunch,' she said icily, and turned to leave.

Mark said, 'I don't understand. I thought-'

'Well, I'm going to explain it for you for the last time,' Kelly snapped. 'I want you to stop annoying me. Do you understand that?'

Mark Harris's face turned a bright red. 'Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't-I didn't mean to-I just thought-I don't know what to ... I'd like to explain. Would you sit down just for a moment?'

Kelly started to say no, then sat, a look of contempt on her face. Yes?

Mark Harris took a deep breath. 'I'm really so sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you. I sent you those things to apologize for intruding. All I wanted was a chance to-when I saw your picture, I felt as though I had known you all my life. And then when I saw you in person and you were even more-' He was stammering, mortified. 'I- I should have known that someone like you could never be interested in someone like . . . I-I acted like a stupid schoolboy. I'm so embarra.s.sed. It's just that I- I didn't know how to tell you how I felt, and . . .' His voice trailed off. There was a naked vulnerability about him. 'I'm just not good at... at explaining my feelings. I've been alone all my life. No one ever . . . when I was six years old, my parents got a divorce, and there was a custody battle. Neither one of them wanted me.'

Kelly was watching him, silent. His words were resonating in her mind, bringing back long-buried memories.

Why didn't you get rid of the kid before she was born?

I tried to. It didn't work.

He went on. 'I grew up in half a dozen different foster homes, where n.o.body cared. ...'

These are your uncles. Don't bother them.

'It seems I couldn't do anything right. ...'

The dinner is lousy. . . . That dress is the wrong colour for you. . . . You haven't finished cleaning the bathrooms. . . .

'They wanted me to quit school to work at a garage, but I-I wanted to be a scientist. They said I was too dumb. . . .'

Kelly was becoming more and more engrossed in what he was saying.

I want to be a model.

All models are wh.o.r.es. . . .

'I dreamed of going to college, but they said with the kind of work I would be doing, I-I didn't need an education.'

What the h.e.l.l do you need to go to school for? With your looks, you could peddle your a.s.s. . . .

'When I got a scholars.h.i.+p to MIT, my foster parents said I would probably flunk out, and should go to work at the garage. . . .'

College? You'll waste four years of your life. . . .

Listening to this stranger was like hearing a replay of her own life.

Kelly sat there, deeply touched, feeling the same painful emotions as the stranger seated across from her.

'When I finished MIT, I went to work for a branch of Kingsley International Group in Paris. But I was so lonely.' There was a long pause. 'Somewhere, a long time ago, I read that the greatest thing in life was to find someone to love, who loved you . . . and I believed it.' Kelly sat there, quiet. Mark Harris said awkwardly, 'But I never found that person and I was ready to give up. And then that day I saw you . . .' He could not go on.

He stood up, holding Angel in his arms. 'I'm so ashamed about all this. I promise never to bother you again. Good-bye.'

Kelly watched him start to walk away. 'Where are you going with my dog?' she called.

Mark Harris turned, confused. 'I'm sorry?'

'Angel is mine. You gave her to me, didn't you?'

Mark stood there, nonplussed. 'Yes, but you said-'

'I'll make a deal with you, Mr. Harris. I'll keep Angel, but you can have visiting rights.'

It took him a moment and then his smile lit up the room. 'You mean I can-you'll let me-?'

Kelly said, 'Why don't we discuss it at dinner tonight?'

And Kelly had no idea that she had just set herself up as a target for a.s.sa.s.sination.

CHAPTER 11.Paris, France TOUR EIFFEL SUICIDE INVESTIGATION.

At Reuilly Police Headquarters on Henard Street, in the Twelfth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt in Paris, an interrogation was taking place. The superintendent of the Eiffel Tower was being questioned by Detectives Andre Belmondo and Pierre Marais.

Monday, May 6 10 a.m.

Subject: Rene Pascal BELMONDO: Monsieur Pascal, we have reason to believe that Mark Harris, the man who supposedly fell from the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, was murdered.

PASCAL: Murdered? But-I was told it was an accident and- MARAIS: He could not possibly have fallen over that parapet by accident. It is much too high.

BELMONDO: And we have established that the victim was not suicidal. In fact, he had made elaborate plans with his wife for the weekend. She's Kelly-the model.

PASCAL: I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I don't see what that-why was I brought here?

MARAIS: To help us clarify a few matters. What time did the restaurant close that night?

PASCAL: At ten o'clock. Because of the storm, the Jules Verne was empty, so I decided to- MARAIS: What time did the elevators shut down?

PASCAL: They usually run until midnight, but on that night, since there were no sightseers or diners, I closed them down at ten p.m.

BELMONDO: Including the elevator that goes to the observation deck? Pascal-. Yes. All of them.

MARAIS: Is it possible for someone to get to the observation deck without using the elevator?

PASCAL: No. On that night everything was closed off. I don't understand what this is all about. If- BELMONDO: I will tell you what it is all about. Monsieur Harris was thrown from the observation deck. We know it was the observation deck because when we examined the parapet, the top had been sc.r.a.ped, and the cement embedded in the soles of his shoes were flakes that matched the sc.r.a.ped cement on the parapet. If the floor was locked off, and the elevators were not working, how did he get up there at midnight?

PASCAL: I don't know. Without an elevator, it would be-it would be impossible.

MARAIS: But an elevator was used to take Monsieur Harris up to the observation tower, and to take up his a.s.sa.s.sin-or a.s.sa.s.sins-and bring them down again.

BELMONDO: Could a stranger run the elevators?

PASCAL: No. The operators never leave them when they are on duty, and at night the elevators are locked down with a special key.

MARAIS: How many keys are there?

PASCAL: Three. I have one, and the other two are kept here.

BELMONDO: You are certain that the last elevator was shut down at ten o'clock?

PASCAL: Yes.

MARAIS: Who was running it?

PASCAL: Toth. Gerard Toth.

MARAIS: I would like to speak with him.

PASCAL: So would I.

MARAIS: I beg your pardon?

PASCAL: Toth has not shown up for work since that night. I called his apartment. There was no answer. I got hold of his landlord. Toth has moved out.

MARAIS: And left no forwarding address?

PASCAL: That's right. He's vanished into thin air.

''Vanished into thin air'? Are we talking about the Great Houdini or a d.a.m.ned elevator operator?'

The speaker was Secretary General Claude Renaud, in charge of Interpol Headquarters. Renaud was a short, dynamic man in his fifties, who had worked his way up the police hierarchy over a period of twenty years.

Renaud was chairing a meeting in the main conference room at the seven-story Interpol Headquarters, the international police organization that is the clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries. The building was located in Saint-Cloud, six miles west of Paris, and the headquarters was manned by former detectives from the Surete Nationale, and the Paris Prefecture.

There were twelve men seated at the large conference table. They had been questioning Detective Belmondo for the past hour.