The Dark Shore by Susan Howatch Read Free Book Online Page A

that he knew everything there was to know about women, constantly striving to be a second-rate Don Juan, when the only person he ever fooled was himself ... It was painfully obvious that the only reason why women found him attractive was because he led the social life of the motor racing set and had enough money to lead it in lavish style.
    Jon went into Charing Cross Underground Station and shut himself in a phone booth.
    It would be live, of course. Women often made anonymous phone calls. But what did she know and how much? Perhaps it was her idea of a practical joke and she knew nothing at all. Perhaps it was merely the first step in some plan to blackmail him, and in that case ...
    His thoughts spun round dizzily as he found the number in the book and picked up the receiver to dial.
    He glanced at his watch as the line began to purr. It was getting late. Whatever happened he mustn’t forget to phone Sarah at midnight ... Midnight in London, six o’clock in Toronto. Sarah would be playing the piano when the call came through and when the bell rang she would push the lock of dark hair from her forehead and run from the music room to the telephone ...
    The line clicked. “Flaxman nine-eight-double-one,” said a man’s voice abruptly at the other end.
    The picture of Sarah died.
    “Max?”
    A pause. Then! “Speaking.”
    He suddenly found it difficult to go on. In the end he merely said, “This is Jon, Max. Thanks for the welcoming phone call this evening—how did you know I was in town?”
    The silence that followed was embarrassingly long. Then: “I’m sorry,” said Max Alexander. “I hope I don’t sound too dense but I’m completely at sea. John—”
    “Towers.”
    “Jon Towers! Good God, what a sensation! I thought it must be you but as I know about two dozen people called John I thought I’d better make quite sure who I was talking to ... What’s all this about a welcoming phone call?”
    “Didn’t you ring me up at the hotel earlier this evening and welcome me home?”
    “My dear chap, I didn’t even know you were in London until somebody rang up and told me you’d been mentioned in the evening paper—”
    “Who?”
    “What?”
    “Who rang you up?”
    “Well, curiously enough it was that girl I brought down to Clougy with me the weekend when—”
    “Eve?”
    “Eve! Why, of course! Eve Robertson. I’d forgotten her name for a moment, but you’re quite right. It was Eve.”
    “Where does she live now?”
    “Well, as a matter of fact, I think she said she was living in Davies Street. She said she worked in Piccadilly for a firm of diamond merchants. Why on earth do you want to know? I lost touch with her years ago, almost immediately after that weekend at Clougy.”
    “Then why the hell did she phone you this evening?”
    “God knows ... Look, Jon, what’s all this about? What are you trying to—”
    “It’s nothing,” said Jon. “Never mind, Max—forget it; it doesn’t matter. Look, perhaps I can see you sometime within the next few days? It’s a long while since we last met and ten years is time enough to be able to bury whatever happened between us. Have dinner with me tomorrow night at the Hawaii at nine and tell me all you’ve been doing with yourself during the last ten years ... Are you married, by the way? Or are you still fighting for your independence?”
    “No,” said Alexander slowly. “I’ve never married.”
    “Then let’s have dinner by ourselves tomorrow. No women. My days of being a widower are numbered and I’m beginning to appreciate stag-parties again. Did you see my engagement mentioned in the paper tonight, by the way? I met an English girl in Toronto earlier this year and decided I was sick of housekeepers, paid and unpaid, and tired of all American and Canadian women ... You must meet Sarah when she comes to England.”
    “Yes,” said Alexander. “I should like to.” And then his voice added idly without warning: “Is she like