The Account. Roderick Mann

made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

      ‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

      ‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

      Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

      ‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

      Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

      Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

      ‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

      ‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

      She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

      The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

      As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

      ‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

      Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

      Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

      At 11 p.m. on Friday in Geneva, Paul Eberhardt picked up the telephone in his study and dialled the number of Georges di Marco.

      ‘Georges, I’m sorry to worry you so late but there are a couple of papers here that require your signature.’

      ‘My signature?’ The old man’s voice was vague. He sounded as if he’d been dozing. ‘Surely it can wait until Monday?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. I must express them to New York tomorrow. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll send someone round with them.’

      ‘It’s very late, Paul. I was about to retire …’

      ‘I realize that, but this is really urgent. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you otherwise. I’d bring them round myself but I am still at the office.’

      ‘What papers are they, Paul? I don’t recall –’

      ‘The de Boissy estate.’

      ‘I thought that was all settled.’

      ‘There are a couple of loose ends.’

      ‘Very well. Send them round.’

      ‘The messenger will wait and bring them back.’ Eberhardt paused. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, I suppose?’

      ‘Second thoughts?’

      ‘Our discussion the other morning.’

      ‘No, Paul. No second thoughts.’

      ‘Then you must do what you think is right, Georges. We must all do what we think is right.’

      When the buzzer sounded di Marco pressed the button to open the street entrance and unlocked the door of his apartment. He went into the bedroom to remove his comfortable slippers and put on more formal black shoes.

      When he returned to the living room he was surprised to find the messenger standing by the open door with a large envelope in his hand.

      ‘I did knock,’ the man said.

      ‘That’s all right. Come in, come in. I just have to sign a couple of papers.’

      He took the envelope from the messenger, a burly young man, and went over to the desk by the window. Inside the envelope were two blank sheets of paper. He turned, bewildered.

      ‘There’s nothing –’

      Before he could finish his arms were pinioned behind him and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He let out a whimper of fear.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      Before he could say more another tape was pasted over his mouth.

      Eyes wide with fright, the old man was hustled out of his apartment. The door slammed behind him.

      The morning following the cocktail party Julia had arranged to have breakfast with an American travel writer and take him on a tour of the hotel. When she finally got to her office Emma was waiting for her.

      ‘I hear it was a great success,’ she said. ‘Everyone was there.’

      ‘Not everyone,’ Julia said. ‘The Foreign Secretary didn’t make it.’

      ‘Oh pooh,’ Emma sniffed. ‘Who cares about him? Robert Brand was there, wasn’t he? Imagine him turning up.’

      ‘Life is full of surprises.’

      There was a pile of messages on Julia’s desk, together with that morning’s mail.

      ‘Anything important?’ She flicked through the notes.

      Emma held up a letter. ‘There’s an invitation to speak on public relations at the annual conference of the International Travel and Tourism Research Association in Acapulco. Expenses paid.’

      ‘Acapulco,’ Julia signed. ‘Wouldn’t I just love to do that. But how can I get away now?’

      ‘Tell Moscato to get stuffed and go.’

      ‘Don’t tempt me.’

      Emma chuckled. ‘So what shall I tell them?’

      ‘When is the conference?’

      Emma consulted the letter. ‘A couple of months’ time.’

      ‘Don’t reply just yet. Who knows what’s going to happen?’

      Emma turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of champagne in your bottom drawer. Came an hour ago.’

      After Emma returned to her own office Julia opened the drawer. Wrapped in Cellophane was a bottle of Krug ’81. Thank you for inviting me, the card read. It was signed: Robert Brand.

Chapter 5

      Julia Lang stood by the bedroom window of her flat, sipping a glass of white wine, looking out over the darkened town. It was a cold, wet night, the sky a seemingly endless panoply of grey. The lights of the pub on the corner were hazy in the light mist. Across the street she could see directly into another flat. In one brightly lit room a man and a woman were sitting in armchairs, reading. They looked comfortable, settled, at ease. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She was, she knew, ambivalent about marriage. Did she really want it? Would she trade her independence for a shared life with a man? When she had first come to London from Birmingham her one aim had been to have a career of her own. To abandon that plan now, to marry and have children – was she ready for that?

      She knew she really liked Michael Chadwick, the man with whom she had been involved for a year. He was a design artist