Pirate

Chapter Fifty-three

Southampton, New York

THE OLD TOPPING ESTATE, NOW SOUTHAMPTON HOSPITAL, had sprouted wings over the years. New, modern additions had been built in the last century to better serve the current local population of four thousand souls. That number tripled in the summertime when New Yorkers fled the city for the beaches of the South Fork and the Hamptons. July, especially, put more stress on everyone at the hospital, from the emergency room to the very expensive florist in the main wing.

Ambrose Congreve was lucky on two counts. Despite multiple gunshot wounds, he was still alive when the EMS personnel rolled him into the ER. And, having survived that ordeal, he was soon removed from Intensive Care to a private room on a private floor. The room became available after its occupant, a society matron with a liver condition, expired. And after Jock Barker, a member of the hospital’s board, had let it be known that he was to be notified immediately should such a room become available.

The English detective was ensconced, still in critical condition, on the top floor of the old original building. His view, though he could not see it, was a good one. His two windows had eastern exposure, overlooking potato fields blooming with snow-white mansions and aqua swimming pools. Beyond lay the blue Atlantic, sparkling in the midday sun.

Ambrose lay propped up in his bed, his face pale, asleep under the blissful wand of sedation. A woman sat in a comfortable chair by his bed, reading. She had suffered a gunshot wound as well. However, hers was not severe. The flesh wound to her shoulder had been dressed and she had been discharged just two hours after she and Ambrose had arrived some time after eight the previous evening.

Lady Diana Mars was reading poetry to Ambrose, even though she was well aware that he was drifting in and out of consciousness. His breathing sounded more regular when she read aloud to him, and the nurses all agreed that the poetry was beneficial. At the moment, she was reading a favorite poem in a loud, clear voice:

“I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty—”

“That’s lovely,” the man entering the sunny room said. He took off his grey fedora. “Please, don’t let me stop you.”

She put the slim volume down across her knees and slowly looked up. The man was not tall, but ruggedly handsome, dark hair, silver at the temples and built like a footballer. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Captain John Mariucci,” he said, offering his hand. “New York Police Department.”

“Diana Mars,” she said, shaking it. “Won’t you sit down? Now I know who you are. I’m sure Ambrose would appreciate your coming.”

“Yeah, well, we’re buddies, you know. Pretty tight. He’s asleep, huh?”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, you know what I’d really like?”

“Please tell me.”

“If you’d finish that poem.”

“I’d be happy to, Captain. Ambrose keeps asking for it when he’s awake. Sit.”

He pulled up the second chair and sat. “That would be nice, hear how it turns out.”

She continued,

“Nor law nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.”

Diana Mars closed the book and smiled at the policeman.

“I’ll tell you something,” Mariucci said, wiping some speck from the corner of his eye, “I don’t know anything about poetry, but that’s a hell of a poem. Who wrote that?”

“William Butler Yeats. An Irishman.”

“Figures he’d be Irish, right? Fucking micks can write like angels—I’m sorry—excuse the language. I’m just a little emotional right now, you know what I’m saying?”

“Don’t worry about it, Captain. I’ve heard worse.”

“What’s it called, that poem?”

“‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’”

“He knows he’s going to die but he’s okay with it. Man oh man.”

“Yes.”

“Doctor says it looks pretty good. The prognosis.”

“Pretty good.”

“He’ll probably pull through, I mean. If they can keep him stable long enough to operate. They’re moving him to New York Hospital. He’ll undergo surgery there. Remove the bullet from his spine.”

“That’s what they said this morning.”

“Awful. Just goddamn awful.”

“He’s alive. He saved my life.”

“Yes, he did. I read your statement, Lady Mars. You got a good look at the assailant. She was actually known to you, is that correct?”

“Yes. Bianca Moon is her name. She’s apparently been in league with my former butler, a murderer named Simon Oakshott, for some time now. According to Ambrose, probably on her payroll. He killed a man named Henry Bulling, Ambrose’s cousin. I think he was there last night, too, at the Barkers’ party. He’d cut off all his hair. Changed the color. He was wearing heavy black glasses. Disguised himself as a waiter. Unfortunately, I’d had more than a bit of champagne. Wasn’t really paying too much attention to anything and I—didn’t recognize him in time to—to prevent—to stop…”

“No need to go through all that now, ma’am. The Southampton detective got it all in your statement last night. I, uh, I just came here to see Ambrose. I brought him this. Maybe you could give it to him when he wakes up?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a get-well card. My granddaughter made it for him.”

“Very kind, Captain. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“Hey! What are you going to do, right?” He laughed, but he had something in his eye again. He got up and went to the window.

“Do you think you’ll catch her?”

“Absolutely. I got two men sitting not twenty feet away from her right now. Interpol.”

“Seriously?”

“She’s on a British Airways flight to Hong Kong. Took off two hours ago from JFK. We found Oakshott washed up on the beach with a bullet in his brain. Disposable. We’re going to watch her for a few days. See where she goes, who she meets.”

“This woman, Moon. She’s somehow connected to the case you and Ambrose were investigating. That awful business out at Coney Island.”

“Very definitely connected, Lady Mars.”

“Call me Diana. Please.”

Mariucci sat back down. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and said, “She’s Chinese secret police, Diana. She was in this country to kill the two remaining witnesses in this old homicide Ambrose was working on. Ambrose screwed up her plans. She was looking for revenge, maybe.”

“He told me about the confession. At the Ferris wheel.”

“Yeah. Weird case. We’re about to charge the president of France with murder.”

“A delicate political situation.”

“Yeah. With an indelicate solution.”

“What do you mean, Captain?”

“Well. The Chinese put this guy Bonaparte in power. They’d like him to stay there. He’s promised them a million barrels a day of oil from Oman. And that’s just for starters. We’ve got other plans for him. I want to introduce him to Old Sparky.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s the electric chair, as we call it.”

“Ah,” she said.

“You didn’t see the news this morning?”

“No.”

“French troops are preparing to come ashore in Oman. They claim the sultan of Oman invited them. Put down some kind of insurrection. It’s total bullshit. But the Chinese are backing them up.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“That’s the big one. The United States and Britain are giving the French forty-eight hours to withdraw their troops. The French refuse.”

“Now what?”

“China needs the oil. She’s ready to go to war over this.”

“Good heavens.”

“Hullo?”

Ambrose’s voice was so weak he barely made himself heard. His eyelids were fluttering and he was trying in vain to lift his head from the pillow.

“Darling,” Diana said, taking his hand, “Look who’s come to see you.”

“Alex? Alex Hawke?” Congreve said, struggling to sit up.

“Lay back, dear. It’s all right. It’s not Alex. It’s Captain Mariucci come to see you! Isn’t that nice?”

Ambrose’s voice was ragged. “I had—had a dream. An awful dream. Something…bad happened. Something terrible happened to Alex. The most horrible thing! I—I must help—help him…”

Diana rang for the nurse.

“I’ll give him your granddaughter’s card, Captain. Thanks so much for coming.”

Mariucci put on his hat and went to the door.

“Take good care of him, Diana.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly why I met him, Captain.”