The Ghost(英文版)-第11章
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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
