The Lemur by Benjamin Black Page A

smoldering Antonini. He went back to gazing at the ceiling.
    “A young man called Dylan Riley,” he said. “Computer wizard. Would-be spy.” And? Go on, say it. “Researcher.”
    “And the police were calling you why?”
    “He had phoned me, this Riley.”
    “He had phoned you.”
    “Yes. This morning. And in the afternoon he was killed. Murdered. Shot through the eye.”
    “My God.” She sounded more indignant than shocked. “But why was he phoning you, this person—what did you say his name was?”
    “Riley. Dylan Riley. Doesn’t sound like a real name, does it, when you say it out loud?”
    He picked up a copy of The New Yorker from the low table in front of him. Sempé. The Park, spring leaves, a tiny dog.
    “Are you,” Louise said, “going to tell me what this is about, or not?”
    “It’s not about anything. I contacted this Riley because I thought he might do some research for the book. He called me back. Mine happened to be the last number on his cell phone. Hence the call from the police.” She still sat turned toward him from the waist, her arm still resting on the back of the chair, the fountain pen in her fingers. “The nib will dry up,” he said. “I remember that, how the nib would dry up and then you had to wash it out with water and fill it in the inkwell again.”
    “The inkwell ?” she said. “You sound like someone out of Dickens.”
    “I am someone out of Dickens. That’s why you married me. Bill Sikes, c’est moi. ”
    Clara the maid came in to announce dinner. She was a diminutive person. Her color, deep black with purplish shadings, fascinated Glass; every time he saw her he wanted to touch her, just to know the feel of that satiny skin. In her little white uniform and white rubbersoled shoes that Louise made her wear she had the look of a hospital nurse. When she was gone, Louise whispered: “You must remember to compliment her. She’s made a soufflé. It’s a big moment.” Louise had been teaching Clara how to cook, with considerable success, which was fortunate for Clara, since otherwise she would have gone by now—Louise did not entertain failure.
    In the dining room the lamps burned low, and there were candles on the table, their flames reflected in countless gleaming spots among the silver and the crystal. It occurred to Glass that what he had admitted a moment ago was true, that he was coarse, compared to all this that Louise had set in place, the elegant table, the soft lights, the fine wines and delicate food, the expensively simple furniture, the Balthus drawing and the Giacometti figurine, the leather-bound books, the white-clad maid, the Glenn Gould tape softly playing in the background—all the rich, muted, exquisitely tasteful life that she had assembled for them. Yes, he fitted ill, here; he had tried, but he fitted ill. He wondered why she had tolerated him for so long, and why she went on tolerating him. Was it simply fear of another divorce and her father’s rage? No doubt it was. He was perfectly capable, was Big Bill, of cutting off her inheritance. So much would go, for her and for David Sinclair, if those millions went—not just the house in the Hamptons, the rooftop suite at the Georges V in Paris, the account at Asprey’s in London, but most important, control of the Mulholland Trust. That was what Louise prized most; that was the future.
    Clara’s spinach soufflé was excellent, and Glass remembered to compliment her on it, and she fled back to her kitchen in confusion. Louise had put down her fork and was gazing at him. “You can be so sweet, sometimes,” she said.
    “Only sometimes?”
    “Yes. Only sometimes. But I’m grateful.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    Still she watched him, at once frowning and smiling. “You have been up to something,” she said, “haven’t you. I can see it in your eye.”
    “What sort of something?”
    Her face, candlelit, was reflected in the window by which she sat. Outside in the darkness the crowns