A Killing for Christ by Pete Hamill

Author:Pete Hamill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2018-03-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Malloy turned off the main road into a lane fenced by high, hidden trees. Electric candles in discreet frosted globes marked the way. For two hundred yards, gravel kicked against the mudguards of his car, and then the road became smoother and quieter. From the road, nothing had indicated that the house even existed; suddenly, it was before him, all stone and glass, lying low and hidden, like a cardinal’s private fortress. A cluster of yellow lights burned a greeting above a bronze-studded oaken door. Malloy had his windows open, and heard a meld of noise drifting across the night: fugitive Latin chords entwined with the insistent thump of a rock band; a door slamming; sudden laughter punctuating the steady hum of many people. A dull muted brightness rose beyond the wall to his right. Several uniformed Italians were planted in the flagged walkway before the entrance, and as he got out of the car, he could smell pine, dirt, paint, and the hard machined dampness that goes with a swimming pool. One of the uniformed Italians handed him a slip of paper, asked for the keys, and drove Malloy’s car into the darkness. He felt conscious of the Roman collar, hesitated a moment, and went up three steps, grasped a bronze lion’s face, and knocked.

The door opened, and he saw a tall, neckless, thick-shouldered man with yellow hair and a pug’s mashed nose. He was wearing a tuxedo and holding a clipboard with both hands. His eyes looked as if someone had washed socks in them. The eyes looked at Malloy’s face, and then down at the collar, and then up again. His head never moved.

“Nime, please.”

“Malloy. Father Robert Malloy.”

The man ran his fingers down the third page of his list, his lips moving in silent concert with his fingers. He looked up at Malloy.

“No Malloy here. Sorry.” He started to close the door.

“Just a second,” Malloy said. “I’m invited. Look at the end of the list. I was added today.”

“Sorry, mite. No names, no hadmittens. That’s me orders.”

He flipped the pages abstractedly, not really looking at them. Well, Malloy thought, it’s a new style in British butlers.

“Nothing ’ere. Better move it.”

“Would you please page the Count?” Malloy said. “I’m sure there’s just been a mix-up. Someone’s waiting for me in there.”

“Impossible. Nime, please?”

There were people behind him: a girl with an iron laugh, tall and dark-haired, on the arm of a man with a toothbrush moustache who looked like an out-of-uniform French general. The British butler nodded to them, checked their names with an elaborate gesture, and stepped aside. They went past him into a long hall where a woman in a blue maid’s uniform took their coats.

“Look, mite, you can’t stand around here.”

“I’d like to leave a note.”

“I ain’t your secretary, mite. You’d better clear out. In about ten seconds. Or I’ll have the coppers ’ere to help you.”

Malloy heard gravel kicking against mudguards, doors opening and closing, thumping with the luxury of money. The hell with it, he thought.

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