Ritual by Graham Masterton Page A

‘No charge. I’m not
going to get myself involved in an argument about it.’ He raised his eyes. ‘All
the same, I’d like to know who told you to expect me.’
    The maitre d’
shrugged, and flapped at Charlie’s coat with a napkin to brush off the crumbs
of peach-pie. ‘The restaurant business is a brotherhood, sir.’
    ‘Like the Cosa Nostra,
you mean?’ said Charlie sarcastically.
    ‘No, sir. More like monks, or friars.’ Charlie looked away.
The maitre d’ was obviously drunk.
    Either drunk, or so disaffected with his job that he didn’t care
what he said, or to whom he said it. Monks or friars,
Christ Almighty. The only possible religious ingredient in the
restaurant business was the prayers of forgiveness they said when they wrote
‘Fresh’ and ‘Home Cooked’ on the menus.
    The maitre d’
said, ‘How about that glass of brandy? Come on, friend. It’s on the house.’
    A little
wearily, Charlie nodded. The maitre d’ clapped his hands and the wine waiter
came over, a stocky, unsmiling type with a tight maroon coat and a tight maroon
face to match. ‘Give the gentleman .a glass of the Courvoisier, Arnold. You’d
like it in the lounge, sir? In the lounge, Arnold. Next to the fireplace.’
    Charlie sat in
a high leather-upholstered library chair nursing his brandy while two large
logs smouldered in the olde colonial fireplace like the last remains of a
derelict building. Across the lounge, sitting in profile to him, was a
thirtyish woman with ash blonde hair and a tight sapphire-blue dress and a
little more jewellery than was tasteful, especially for a country mausoleum
like the Windsor. Charlie surmised that she was a woman of relatively easy
virtue, if not an out-and-out hooker. She made a big play of lighting a
cigarette and blowing the smoke across the lounge. Charlie sipped his brandy
and thought that she had a pretty impressive chest, even if her hips were on
the wide side.
    After about ten
minutes, the woman stood up and came across to the fireplace. She stared down
at the logs, the elbow of her smoking arm cupped in
the hand of her other arm, her chin slightly lifted.
    ‘I always think
a real fire is so romantic, don’t you?’ she asked Charlie, without looking at
him.
    ‘I don’t know
about this one,’ said Charlie. ‘It looks half dead to me.’
    ‘Ashes to
ashes,’ the woman remarked. Then, ‘Are you travelling alone?’
    ‘Not entirely.
I have my son with me.’ ‘Do you usually travel alone?’ For the first time she
turned to catch him with a blue-eyed stare. She was
good-looking, in a Hollywood kind of a way, short-nosed, broad-cheekboned, almost baby-faced; except of course that the crisscross
lines were beginning to show in the corners of her eyes. A diamond brooch in
the shape of a star reflected the light from one of the ceiling lamps. Charlie
thought: Genuine. This woman has been places, and done things, and men have
showed their approval in the time-honoured way.
    Charlie said,
‘I’m not looking for company, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘You look
unhappy,’ the woman told him. ‘I can’t bear to see anybody looking unhappy.’
‘I’m a little tired is all. ’
    ‘Would you mind
if I sat down beside you and talked to you?’ Charlie nodded toward the chair
next to his. ‘It’s a free country. I can’t guarantee that you’ll get any
answers.’
    She sat down
and crossed her legs. Her blue shiny dress rode higher on her thighs than it
ought to have done. She smelled of Obsession by Calvin Klein. She blew smoke
over him, but he wasn’t sure that he particularly minded. The top three buttons
of her dress were unfastened and Charlie could see a very deep cleavage indeed. White breasts with a single beckoning mole between them.
    ‘I saw you
arguing with Bits,’ she said. ‘You mean the maitre d’? Is that his name?’ ‘It
makes him sound like a gangster, doesn’t it? But his real name’s Arthur. They
call him Bits because when he was younger he was