Free Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas Page A

was built of soft, red used brick which was supposed to make it look old and almost succeeded. There was no garage that I could see and I assumed that it was discreetly out of sight in back along with the swimming pool and the servants’ quarters.
    The Cadillac crunched up the drive and stopped in front of the entrance to the house which was dominated by a huge wrought-iron lantern that hung on a thick metal chain. The chauffeur was out and had the door open on my side of the car almost before it came to a full stop. I climbed out and paused when I noticed that Ruffo made no move.
    â€œAren’t you invited?” I said.
    â€œThis is as far as I go, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said and let me have another look at his winning smile. “As you say, I just run the pickup and delivery service.”
    I didn’t have to ring the bell at the wide double doors that served as the entrance to the white-columned mansion. One of them opened as soon as I mounted the thirteen steps and started to cross the bricked veranda. And if I expected a silver-haired, Negro butler in a white coat, I was in for a disappointment. The man who opened the door was young, tanned, and dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He looked at me carefully, taking his time, and when he was through he said: “Mr. Cauthorne.”
    â€œYes.”
    He nodded and stepped back, opening both of the double doors wide as he did so. “Mr. Cole is expecting you in the library.” In back of me I could hear the Cadillac move off, bearing the polite Mr. Ruffo to wherever he went that time of evening.
    I followed the young man in the black suit into a formal entrance hall that was paved with large squares of black and white marble. There was an immense crystal chandelier about halfway down the hall and its lights played upon some pieces of cherrywood and walnut furniture that looked old and well cared for and terribly expensive. To the right of the chandelier was a gracefully curving staircase that floated up to the second floor, but we didn’t get that far. Instead, the young man stopped at a paneled sliding door, knocked once, and then pressed a button that caused the door to move silently into its recess in the wall. The young man entered first and I followed. Then he stopped, stepped to one side, and in a flat voice, without inflection, said: “Mr. Cole, Mr. Cauthorne is here.”
    It was a big room, oblong in shape, and it smelled of leather and the burning apple wood that flamed and crackled in the fieldstone fireplace which, at first glance, looked large enough to roast a medium-sized ox. A man rose from one of the dark leather chairs that were placed on either side of the fireplace, dropped a newspaper to the floor, and moved towards me, his right hand outstretched. I stood where I was and it took him a while to walk the thirty or so feet from the fireplace across the thick, dark brown carpet to where I waited.
    â€œMr. Cauthorne,” he called, “I’m delighted you could come.”
    â€œEverybody is delighted but me,” I said and took the proffered hand and shook it politely. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do.
    Charles Cole turned to the young man in the black suit. “We’ll dine in here, I think, Joe.” Not Jonathan, or James, or even Malcolm. Just Joe. “But first,” Cole added, “I suggest that we have a drink.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Cole,” Joe said. He turned and disappeared through the sliding paneled door which closed behind him. For the first time, I noticed that the door had no handles.
    â€œThere’s a bit of a chill in the air for so late in the spring,” Cole said as he took my arm and steered me towards the fireplace. “I thought a fire would be pleasant.”
    He indicated that I should take one of the leather chairs and he lowered himself into the other one. Then he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, formed a steeple of his