The Ghost(英文版)-第8部分

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been　told　that　the　free　world　was　taking　a　walk　on　the　dark　side。　What　did　people　expect？

　　I　had　a　couple　of　hours　to　kill　before　the　car　was　due　to　collect　me；　so　I　took　a　walk　over　the　wooden　bridge　to　the　lighthouse　and　then　strolled　into　Edgartown。　In　daylight　it　seemed　even　emptier　than　it　had　the　previous　night。　Squirrels　chased　undisturbed　along　the　sidewalks　and　scampered　up　into　the　trees。　I　must　have　passed　two　dozen　of　those　picturesque　nineteenth…century　whaling　captains’　houses；　and　it　didn’t　look　as　if　one　was　occupied。　The　widow’s　walks　on　the　fronts　and　sides　were　deserted。　No　black…shawled　women　stared　mournfully　out　to　sea；　waiting　for　their　menfolk　to　come　home—presumably　because　the　menfolk　were　all　on　Wall　Street。　The　restaurants　were　closed；　the　little　boutiques　and　galleries　stripped　bare　of　stock。　I　had　wanted　to　buy　a　windproof　jacket　but　there　was　no　place　open。　The　windows　were　filled　with　dust　and　the　husks　of　insects。　“Thanks　for　a　great　season！！！”　read　the　cards。　“See　you　in　the　spring！”

　　It　was　the　same　in　the　harbor。　The　primary　colors　of　the　port　were　gray　and　white—gray　sea；　white　sky；　gray　shingle　roofs；　white　clapboard　walls；　bare　white　flagpoles；　jetties　weathered　blue…gray　and　green…gray；　on　which　perched　matching　gray…and…white　gulls。　It　was　as　if　Martha　Stewart　had　color　coordinated　the　whole　place；　Man　and　Nature。　Even　the　sun；　now　hovering　discreetly　over　Chappaquiddick；　had　the　good　taste　to　shine　pale　white。

　　I　put　my　hand　up　to　shield　my　eyes　and　squinted　at　the　distant　strand　of　beach　with　its　isolated　holiday　houses。　That　was　where　Senator　Edward　Kennedy’s　career　had　taken　its　disastrous　wrong　turn。　According　to　my　book；　the　whole　of　Martha’s　Vineyard　had　been　a　summer　playground　for　the　Kennedys；　who　liked　to　sail　over　for　the　day　from　Hyannisport。　There　was　a　story　of　how　Jack；　when　he　was　president；　had　wanted　to　moor　his　boat　at　the　private　jetty　of　the　Edgartown　Yacht　Club　but　had　decided　to　sail　away　when　he　saw　the　massed　ranks　of　the　members；　Republicans　to　a　man；　lined　up　with　their　arms　folded；　watching　him；　daring　him　to　land。　It　was　the　summer　before　he　was　shot。

　　The　few　yachts　moored　now　were　shrouded　for　winter。　The　only　movement　was　a　solitary　fishing　boat　with　an　outboard　motor　heading　for　the　lobster　traps。　I　sat　for　a　while　on　a　bench　and　waited　to　see　if　anything　would　happen。　Gulls　swooped　and　cried。　On　a　nearby　yacht　the　wind　rattled　the　cables　against　a　metal　mast。　There　was　hammering　in　the　distance　as　property　was　renovated　for　the　summer。　An　old　guy　walked　a　dog。　Apart　from　that；　nothing　occurred　in　almost　an　hour　that　could　possibly　have　distracted　an　author　from　his　work。　It　was　a　nonwriter’s　idea　of　a　writer’s　paradise。　I　could　see　why　McAra　might　have　gone　insane。

　　FOUR

　　The　ghost　will　also　be　under　pressure　from　the　publishers　to　dig　up　something　controversial　that　they　can　use　to　sell　serial　rights　and　to　generate　publicity　at　the　time　of　publication。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　IT　WAS　MY　OLDfriend　the　deaf　taxi　driver　who　picked　me　up　from　the　hotel　later　that　morning。　Because　I’d　been　booked　into　a　hotel　in　Edgartown；　I’d　naturally　assumed　that　Rhinehart’s　property　must　be　somewhere　in　the　port　itself。　There　were　some　big　houses　overlooking　the　harbor；　with　gardens　sloping　down　to　private　moorings；　that　looked　to　me　to　be　ideal　billionaire　real　estate—which　shows　how　ignorant　I　was　about　what　serious　wealth　can　buy。　Instead；　we　drove　out　of　town　for　about　ten　minutes；　following　signs　to　West　Tisbury；　into　flat；　thickly　wooded　country；　and　then；　before　I’d　even　noticed　a　gap　in　the　trees；　swung　left　down　an　unmade；　sandy　track。

　　Until　that　moment　I　was　unfamiliar　with　scrub　oak。　Maybe　it　looks　good　in　full　leaf。　But　in　winter　I　doubt　if　nature　has　a　more　depressing　vista　to　offer　in　its　entire　flora　department　than　mile　after　mile　of　those　twisted；　dwarfish；　ash…colored　trees。　A　few　curled　brown　leaves　were　the　only　evidence　they　might　once　have　been　alive。　We　rocked　and　bounced　down　a　narrow　forest　road　for　almost　three　miles　and　the　only　creature　we　saw　was　a　run…over　skunk；　until　at　last　we　came　to　a　closed　gate；　and　there　materialized　from　this　petrified　wilderness　a　man　carrying　a　clipboard　and　wearing　the　unmistakable　dark　Crombie　overcoat　and　polished　black　oxfords　of　a　British　plainclothes　copper。

　　I　wound　down　my　window　and　handed　him　my　passport。　His　big；　sullen　face　was　brick　colored　in　the　cold；　his　ears　terra…cotta：　not　a　policeman　happy　with　his　lot。　He　looked　as　if　he’d　been　assigned　to　guard　one　of　the　Queen’s　granddaughters　in　the　Caribbean　for　a　fortnight；　only　to　find　himself　diverted　here　at　the　last　minute。　He　scowled　as　he　checked　my　name　against　the　list　on　his　clipboard；　wiped　a　big　drop　of　clear　moisture　from　the　end　of　his　nose；　and　walked　around　inspecting　the　taxi。　I　could　hear　surf　performing　its　continuous；　rolling　somersault　on　a　beach　somewhere。　He　returned　and　gave　me　back　my　passport；　and　said—or　at　least　I　thought　he　said：　he　muttered　it　under　his　breath—“Welcome　to　the　madhouse。”

　　I　felt　a　sudden　twist　of　nerves；　which　I　hope　I　concealed；　because　the　first　appearance　of　a　ghost　is　important。　I　try　never　to　show　anxiety。　I　strive　always　to　look　professional。　It’s　dress　code：　chameleon。　Whatever　I　think　the　client　is　likely　to　be　wearing；　I　endeavor　to　wear　the　same。　For　a　footballer；　I　might　put　on　a　pair　of　trainers；　for　a　pop　singer；　a　leather　jacket。　For　my　first…ever　meeting　with　a　former　prime　minister；　I　had　decided　against　a　suit—too　formal：　I　would　have　looked　like　his　lawyer　or　accountant—and　selected　instead　a　pale　blue　shirt；　a　conservative　striped　tie；　a　sports　jacket；　and　gray　trousers。　My　hair　was　neatly　brushed；　my　teeth　cleaned　and　flossed；　my　deodorant　rolled　on。　I　was　as　ready　as　I　would　ever　be。The　madhouse？　Did　he　really　say　that？　I　looked　back　at　the　policeman；　but　he　had　moved　out　of　sight。

　　The　gate　swung　clear；　the　track　curved；　and　a　few　moments　later　I　had　my　first　glimpse　of　the　Rhinehart　compound：　four　wooden　cube…shaped　buildings—a　garage；　a　storeroom；　and　two　cottages　for　the　staff—and　up　ahead　the　house　itself。　It　was　only　two　stories　high　but　as　wide　as　a　stately　home；　with　a　long；　low　roof　and　a　pair　of　big　square　brick　chimneys　of　the　sort　you　might　see　in　a　crematorium。　The　rest　of　the　building　was　made　entirely　of　wood；　but　although　it　was　new　it　had　already　weathered　to　a　silvery…gray；　like　garden　furniture　left　out　for　a　year。　The　windows　on　this　side　were　as　tall　and　thin　as　gun　slits；　and　what　with　these；　and　the　grayness；　and　the　blockhouses　farther　back；　and　the　encircling　forest；　and　the　sentry　at　the　gate；　it　all　somehow　resembled　a　holiday　home　designed　by　Albert　Speer；　the　Wolf’s　Lair　came　to　mind。

　　Even　before　we　drew　up；　the　front　door　opened　and　another　police　guard—white　shirt；　black　tie；　zippered　gray　jacket—welcomed　me　unsmilingly　into　the　hall。　He　quickly　searched　my　shoulder　bag　while　I　glanced　around。　I’d　met　plenty　of　rich　people　in　the　course　of　my　work；　but　I　don’t　think　I’d　ever　been　inside　a　billionaire’s　house　before。　There　were　rows　of　African　masks　on　the　smooth　white　walls　and　lighted　display　cabinets　filled　with　wood　carvings　and　primitive　pottery　of　crude　figures　with　giant　phalluses　and　torpedo　breasts—the　sort　of　thing　a　naughty　child　might　do　while　the　teacher’s　back　was　turned。　It　was　entirely　lacking　in　any　kind　of　skill　or　beauty　or　aesthetic　merit。　（The　first　Mrs。　Rhinehart；　I　discovered　afterward；　was　on　the　board　of　the　Museum　of　Modern　Art。　The　second　was　a　Bollywood　actress；　fifty　years　his　junior；　whom　Rhinehart　had　been　advised　by　his　bankers　to　marry　in　order　to　break　into　the　Indian　market。）

　　From　somewhere　inside　the　house　I　heard　a　woman　with　a　British　accent　shouting；　“This　is　absolutely　bloodyridiculous　！”　A　door　slammed　and　then　an　elegant　blonde　in　a　dark　blue　jacket　and　skirt；　carrying　a　black…and…red　hardcover　notebook；　came　clicking　down　the　corridor　on　high　heels。

　　“Amelia　Bly；”　she　said　with　a　fixed　smile。　She　was　probably　forty…five　but　at　a　distance　could　have　passed　for　ten　years　younger。　She　had　beautiful　large；　clear　blue　eyes　but　wore　too　much　makeup；　as　if　she　worked　at　a　cosmetics　counter　in　a　department　store　and　had　been　obliged　to　demonstrate　all　the　products　at　once。　She　exuded　a　sweetly　opulent　smell　of　perfume。　I　presumed　she　was　the　spokeswoman　mentioned　in　that　morning’sTimes　。　“Adam’s　in　New　York；　unfortunately；　and　won’t　be　back　till　later　this　afternoon。”

　　“Actually；　forget　I　said　that：　it’sfucking　ridiculous！”　shouted　the　unseen　woman。

　　Amelia　expanded　her　smile　a　fraction；　creating　tiny　fissures　in　her　smooth　pink　cheeks。

　　“Oh；　dear。　I’m　so　sorry。　I’m　afraid　poor　Ruth’s　having　‘one　of　those　days。’”

　　Ruth。The　name　resonated　briefly　like　a　warning　drumbeat　or　the　clatter　of　a　thrown　spear　among　the　African　tribal　art。　It　had　never　occurred　to　me　that　Lang’s　wife　might　be　here。　I　had　assumed　she　would　be　at　home　in　London。　She　was　famous　for　her　independence；　among　other　things。

　　“If　this　is　a　bad　time—”　I　said。

　　“No；　no。　She　definitely　wants　to　meet　you。　Come　and　have　a　cup　of　coffee。　I’ll　fetch　her。　How’s　the　hotel？”　she　added　over　her　shoulder。　“Quiet？”

　　“As　the　grave。”

　　I　retrieved　my　bag　from　the　Special　Branch　man　and　followed　Amelia　into　the　interior　of　the　house；　trailing　in　her　cloud　of　scent。　She　had　very　nice　legs；　I　noticed；　her　thighs　swished　nylon　as　she　walked。　She　showed　me　into　a　room　full　of　cream　leather　furniture；　poured　me　some　coffee　from　a　jug　in　the　corner；　then　disappeared。　I　stood　for　a　while　at　the　French　windows　with　my　mug；　looking　out　over　the　back　of　the　property。　There　were　no　flower　beds—presumably　nothing　delicate　would　grow　in　this　desolate　spot—just　a　big　lawn　that　expired　about　a　hundred　yards　away　into　sickly　brown　undergrowth。　Beyond　that　was　a　pond；　as　smooth　as　a　sheet　of　steel　under　an　immense　aluminum　sky。　To　the　left；　the　land　rose　slightly　to　the　dunes　that　marked　the　edge　of　the　beach。　I　couldn’t　hear　the　ocean：　the　glass　doors　were　too　thick—bullet…proof；　I　later　discovered。

　　An　urgent　burst　of　Morse　from　the　passage　signaled　the　return　of　Amelia　Bly。

　　“I’m　so　sorry。　I’m　afraid　Ruth’s　a　little　busy　at　the　moment。　She　sends　her　apologies。　She’ll　catch　you　later。”　Amelia’s　smile　had　hardened　somewhat。　It　looked　as　natural　as　her　nail　polish。　“So；　if　you’ve　finished　your　coffee；　I’ll　show　you　where　we　work。”

　　She　insisted　that　I　go　first　up　the　stairs。

　　The　house；　she　explained；　was　arranged　so　that　all　the　bedrooms　were　on　the　ground　floor；　with　the　living　space　above；　and　the　moment　we　ascended　into　the　huge　open　sitting　room；　I　understood　why。　The　wall　facing　the　coast　was　made　entirely　of　glass。　There　was　nothing　man…made　within　sight；　just　ocean；　pond；　and　sky。　It　was　primordial：　a　scene　unchanged　for　ten　thousand　years。　The　soundproofed　glass　and　under…floor　heating　created　the　effect　of　a　luxurious　time　capsule　that　had　been　propelled　back　to　the　Neolithic　age。

　　“Quite　a　place；”　I　said。　“Don’t　you　get　lonely　at　night？”

　　“We’re