The White Room Read online

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  THE WHITE ROOM

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  THE WHITE ROOM

  L. P. DAVIES

  * * *

  PUBLISHED FOR THE CRIME CLUB BY

  DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC., GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER 69-2OO97

  COPYRIGHT ©

  1969 BY L. P. DAVIES ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  * * *

  For my wife

  1

  He needed time in which to think, in which to collect all the various pieces together and form them into an understandable whole. For Axel Champlee, being who and what he was, a strange and disturbing experience. Up until this moment he had always been able to cope with any problem that came along, cope quickly and efficiently no matter what the magnitude. But this time it was different. He could concentrate, yes, but only up to a point. It was all there in his mind, but it was as if each and every item had been isolated from the rest and surrounded with a cotton padding.

  There were seven windows to the long room, seven tall french windows that opened onto the stone terrace. He stood by the centre one, his back to the room. The window was closed, they were all closed. Outside, the August sun was shining, shadows evening-long across the strip of lawn, the high wall behind, a mosaic of dark emerald creeper and golden brick. It was warm in the lounge, almost uncomfortably so. But all the windows were closed because Carla, who for all her eternal, unshakeable serenity had the one small weakness of at times inclining to the dramatic, had asked him to close them. Because there was something she had to tell him, something very important that must be discussed. They must not be overheard. You can never trust servants, not even those who have been with you for years.

  She had told him. Or part of it. There was still more to come; her expression made no secret of that. Axel turned to look at her. There were those times when he found himself thinking of her not as an older sister, fifteen years older, but as the mother he had never known.

  She sat erect on her chair, sitting, in no way resting, scorning the high carved back and the lion-headed armrests. Even when lying down she never seemed to relax wholly. Always stiff and unbending …

  A statue now, unmoving, only the cold grey eyes alive in the long, narrow high-boned face that was almost the same colour as her hair: ivory flesh with age lines that might have been painted on, so delicate they were; lines she was never afraid to turn full to glaring light, that she never attempted to hide. And the frame for that porcelain brittleness, the snowy pile of hair, sculptured, not a convolution that wasn’t part of the whole, moulded, pressed into a semblance of something solid. Blue was her colour, always clear ice-blue. This evening her dress was of plain, unadorned silk. No jewelry frivolity. Occasionally, pendant ear-rings. Not this evening. Only the plain gold band of a wedding ring.

  “Kendall,” Axel breathed softly, looking at that ring.

  Carla’s lips barely moved. “That other time should have served as a warning.”

  “The Greyfell affair.” Axel needed no reminding. “That was five years ago. The Board accepted his explanation.”

  “It should have put you on your guard.”

  “He is your husband, Carla.”

  “What he is, is of no importance.” Her frown was a faint marring of the parchment ivory of her brow. “You do realise what all this means, Axel? A quarter of a million Goddard Mills represents over half the issue. Over a million De Lavelle Textiles is virtually the entire issue. Two hundred thousand—”

  He broke into the list. “I realise the implications well enough, Carla. At a rough estimate, something like six millions sterling. How long has he been buying?”

  “I’m not sure. Three, four weeks.”

  “Kendall doesn’t have that kind of capital.”

  “No,” Carla said drily. “You don’t need me to spell it out for you. He doesn’t have it, but someone else does.”

  “Farofex,” he said tonelessly.

  “They’ve tried before.”

  Twice before. Only this time it was different. This time, from the inside.

  No bastions to storm the hard way, Axel thought. Instead, a fifth column, a traitor in the camp to open the back door. My own brother-in-law.

  He looked past his sister to the wall behind, to the line of portraits that hung there. Gerald Champlee, his father, killed by a stroke eleven years ago. Next to him, Axel Champlee, Old Axel, white-bearded and grey-suited Grandfather Axel.

  And the rest of them … Faces, clothes, backgrounds from the past. Godfrey Champlee, who had played Vicar of Bray, provisioning two companies of Cromwell’s Ironsides after the tide had turned following the defeat of the Royalist army. An army which had been partly made up of three troops of cavalry kitted out with Champlee money.

  And further along, Sedgewick Champlee. Personal friend of the Iron Duke. Out of his own resources he had equipped an entire foot regiment of the line. After Waterloo he had refused a knighthood. But had accepted without qualms the government long-term contracts which had been the unofficial alternative.

  They were all there, all the Champlees, nine faces all cast from the same mould, right back to Etienne, the Founder. The Year of Our Lord, fourteen hundred and eleven …

  “It’s no use looking at them,” came Carla’s cold voice. “They can’t help you now.”

  But perhaps they could. They could give him courage, if nothing else. Each of those men up there had had to fight, each in his own way, to retain the heritage that had been handed down to them. Their blood was in his veins. What they had done, he could do now. Fight. Even though, if what Carla had told him was correct, the battle was lost before it had even started. A traitor in the camp … A traitor who sat on the Board, who in that capacity had access to all the files and documents.

  No, not all…

  And then, a faint glimmer of hope. Axel brought his gaze back to his sister’s face.

  “They are working in the dark,” he said steadily. “Farofex can have no knowledge of the full extent of my holdings. That is something which even Kendall doesn’t know. They are buying without knowing how much they must buy before coming out into the open. At least I have that—”

  “No,” Carla said flatly, and moved at last, breaking the pose, turning to reach for the handbag she had earlier laid across the corner of the tea trolley that had been wheeled in an hour, a lifetime ago. The silver tea set was disarranged now, the cups used, the plates soiled.

  “Have this cleared away,” she said with distaste in her tone, putting the sleek leather handbag unopened on her lap.

  At a time like this, to be concerned about a few dirty plates … But Axel obediently walked to the end of the line of windows to set his finger against the bell.

  The maid, small and dark, grey-silk-uniformed, came from the kitchen.

  “We’ve finished. Hazel,” Axel told her.

  She made a gesture that wasn’t far removed from being a curtsy, a small bobbing of a small head that was directed more in Carla’s direction than toward the master of the house. “Very good, sir.”

  A tall, thin man wearing a black suit had followed her into the lounge. He waited for the trolley to be wheeled away before looking in Axel’s direction, coughing gently, one hand to his mouth and asked deferentially: “Will you be dining at home, sir?”

  “Dining …” Axel looked at his si
ster.

  “There will be two for dinner, Gregson,” she said without turning.

  ‘Thank you, madam.” And to Axel: “Sir.”

  The maid had left the kitchen door open for the manservant to follow. Carla waited for it to be closed behind both of them before opening her handbag. She took out a folded sheet of paper. Axel had to walk back along the windows to take it from her. She had it unfolded ready. His eyes travelled down a column of names and figures. When he looked up, his face was grey, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Where did you get this from?”

  “I copied it from the list I found in Kendall’s locked desk this morning.” Carla smiled faintly without any trace of humour. “I had duplicate keys made some time ago. For reasons of my own.”

  “They’re all here …” He couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. “All my holdings. Impossible … From Kendall’s desk.” His gaze lifted from the paper to the closed study door. “There is only the one list. I keep it in my safe. I’m the only one who knows the combination. If it had been forced, I would have known.”

  “The only one?” Her brows lifted a fraction.

  “Apart from Romaine. She keeps some of her things in there-”

  “Your wife,” Carla said.

  He stared at her. “You’re not trying to suggest that Romaine—?”

  She met his angry eyes with her cold, steady ones.

  “You have been blind, Axel. Blind to what has been going on under your nose. I have had my suspicions for a long time. It was a different matter obtaining proof.”

  “Suspicions?” He held up the paper. “About this?”

  “About Kendall and Romaine. About your wife and my husband.”

  “What are you saying?” he flung at her.

  “You hold the proof right there in your hand.” She might have been talking about the weather. “Do I have to spell it out for you? That list was copied from the one I found in my husband’s desk. He could only have copied that from the original in your safe. Romaine is the only person who could have laid her hands on the original.

  “Whatever else she might be, your wife is certainly no fool. As it has turned out, she is more clever than even I had given her credit for. She knows that in the wrong hands and put to a certain use, the contents of that list could mean the end of ISI as an independent corporation. She knows that if ISI is ever absorbed by Farofex you would be ruined. She married you only for your money. She would have no use at all for a penniless husband.” Carla paused. “Do I have to continue?”

  Axel’s hand tightened into a fist, crumpling the stiff paper to a ball. “Why Kendall?” he asked through tight lips.

  “Because she has been having an affair with him for over a year. Because he is the one who will step into your shoes as soon as Farofex take over.”

  “All laid on,” he said thickly. “How long—this—between them?”

  “Pull yourself together,” Carla said coldly. “Get yourself a drink.”

  He needed a drink. The massive sideboard was a mile away, at the other end of the room. He sleep-walked towards it, stumbling against the corner of a table. Decanters and glasses had been set out ready. He splashed whiskey into a glass, filling it to the brim, raising it to his lips with a hand that shook, draining it at a gulp. The spirit was tasteless, cold, ineffective. He filled the glass again and turned to look at his sister.

  She shook her head. “No.” It was unusual for her to refuse.

  “You must try to find how much time you have,” she said as, glass in hand, he came back to the windows. “Buying under cover, how fast can a man work?”

  Axel’s mind was functioning again. But only after a fashion. The blurring, the muzziness was still there. It took a conscious effort to turn thoughts into words, assemble words into sentences.

  “With the right connections,” he said, “very quickly.”

  “We know he has those. How long is it since Romaine was last here, in this house?”

  He had to think hard before he could remember. “Three-no, four days. She was here on Tuesday.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “Only about an hour. Long enough to pick up some of her clothes. She was on her way to Richmond.”

  “And before that?”

  Now he knew what Carla had in mind, where all these questions were leading.

  “Before that, she’d been away for almost two months. Cannes. Norville’s yacht. Kendall joined them there about a month ago. He came back with Romaine on Tuesday. But you know all that as well as I do.”

  “I wanted you to work it out for yourself. Now you know how long he’s been buying.”

  “Four days,” Axel said. “Not four weeks.”

  “I’ve checked the list of his purchases with that in your hand, Axel. Another two days and he will be home and dry.”

  “I can’t buy time.”

  “You don’t have to.” Carla leaned forward a little, her eyes fixed on his face. “He’s working on his own. The capital may have come from Farofex, but they won’t come out into the open until he’s finished buying. Up until then, they will have no active connection with him. Which means you have only the one man to contend with, Axel. Only one man to stop.”

  “Two days …” He shook his head. “No. I need at least ten.”

  “Perhaps not.” She glanced at her wristwatch. His gaze went automatically to the ormolu clock on the marble overmantel. The time was twenty-five to seven.

  “Think about it,” Carla said. “There is one way of stopping him. Don’t take me into account. I never had any great love for my husband. You know that. And my own private nest is very adequately feathered.”

  He didn’t grasp her meaning, failing to sec any connection between her feelings towards Kendall and the fact that even without him she was financially secure.

  Carla came to her feet. She spoke slowly, perhaps more loudly than was her wont.

  “What arc you going to do?” she asked.

  He was aware of a sudden and inexplicable feeling of emptiness, as if the contents of both body and mind had been drained away, leaving behind an empty shell that was incapable of emotion, sense, even the power of thought. The room and its contents blurred. Shapes melted, colours fading, running into one another. He swayed, the glass tilting in his hand, its golden contents spilling onto the carpet, soaking into the thick red pile.

  The thing passed as suddenly as it had come. Shapes returned to normal, the room became steady. Axel took a long, deep breath. Reaction, he blamed it on, delayed shock reaction, and closed his eyes for a moment.

  When he opened them again Carla was walking towards the kitchen door. She opened it and then paused on the threshold, turning to look back at him over her shoulder, the brighter light behind her outlining the piled snow-sculpture of her hair. She looked, turned and went into the kitchen, leaving the door open.

  In invitation, it seemed to Axel, and he followed her, expecting to find her waiting for him inside, perhaps to tell him something, perhaps to show him something.

  But the room was empty. She had carried right through without stopping, leaving yet another door open behind her, another frame for another white-walled vista.

  Without warning, the sensation of sickening emptiness returned, much stronger this time, the vertigo intense enough to make him lose all sense of balance, so that he had to clutch at the side of the door to keep from falling.

  He closed his eyes. There was a taste of salt on his lips. He had never experienced anything like these two attacks before. No pain, no pain at all, just the emptiness that was infinitely worse than physical pain.

  The spasm passed. Axel opened his eyes and stood upright again, one hand to his forehead, the hand that still held the ball of paper. The tumbler—where was that—he trod on it as he turned away. He knelt to collect the fragments, thrusting the paper into his pocket to leave both hands free. Ring for the maid, Carla would have said; let her do that…

  He put the bottom
of the glass on the sideboard and poured slivers into it from his cupped palm. There was a minute bead of scarlet on the pad of one finger. He touched it with the tip of his tongue. Warm blood; he could taste blood as he had tasted the salt of sweat. But the whiskey, earlier, had been tasteless. No—he frowned—not tasteless; it had tasted—wrong. Taking the crystal top off the decanter he sniffed at the contents. No smell. There was no smell to the whiskey which he had drunk and which Carla, for some reason, had refused.

  Replacing the stopper carefully, so that there was no clink of glass against glass, he stepped away from the sideboard and turned to look round a room that had suddenly become strange, artificial, reality and unreality at the same time, like some elaborate stage setting. Seeking reassurance in the one thing he knew could bring it, he looked up at the line of portraits, faces that he saw every day of his life, that he saw every time he looked in a mirror. In different dress, against different backgrounds, he could have sat for any one of those paintings.

  Down through the years the Champlee features had remained unchanged. His own face, now, was that of the first Champlee, five centuries and more ago. The same distinctive irregular hair line, high at one side, low at the other. The same softly waved red-brown hair, the same downsloping grey eyes, the same over-solid nose—the Champlee nose. The same broad upper lip and deeply cleft chin. Thickset features, ageless because they were so solid. His own face now, at forty, was that of his father at sixty, of Etienne at seventy.

  They looked down at him. Axel had the sudden feeling that eyes other than the painted ones were watching him. So strong was that hair-bristling impression that he swung sharply round. He was alone, the room was empty. But the sensation persisted.

  Those two attacks, and now this. Unnatural, all three. Something had happened to him to bring about those terrifying spasms of emptiness and this present feeling of unreality. Something had caused his senses to become dulled. Something … A drug? The whiskey that Carla had watched him drink, but which she had refused to touch.