He took out his key.
They went right up the staircase to his room.
He opened the closet and took out a valise. "You empty those drawers," he said to the boy. "I’ll get another suitcase."
He left the room for a moment and when he returned, his companion was holding a picture of Rina that had been standing on the bureau.
"Who's this?"
"My wife," Claude answered tersely. Then he giggled. "Will she be surprised when she gets home and finds I'm gone."
"You Rina Marlowe's husband?"
Claude nodded.
"But not for long now, thank God!"
The boy looked at him strangely.
"What do you want to walk out on a dish like that for?" he asked.
Claude snatched the picture angrily from his hand and threw it against the wall.
The glass shattered and fell into tiny bits on the carpet.
He turned and walked into the bathroom.
He took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He turned on the taps to wash his hands but the sound of the water rushing into the basin reminded him suddenly of the time he had walked into the solarium.
He remembered the sound the water had made in the fountain as he became aware of Rina, lying nude on the table, being given a massage by Ilene.
Ilene was nude to the waist, her lower half enclosed in the tight-fitting black trousers she usually wore.
He noticed the stringy muscles working along her back as her hands moved gently over Rina's body.
Rina had one arm thrown over her face to shield her eyes from the sun. Her body writhed sensuously under Ilene's touch. When they became aware of his presence, Rina lifted her arm.
He felt a vague surprise at the straight flatness of Ilene's chest.
"Don't stop, darling," Rina said huskily to Ilene. Obediently Ilene began to massage again. The sensuous rhythm seemed to return to Rina's body as she lay there, her head turned to the side, watching him. After a moment, she put her arms up and drew Ilene's head down to her hips, "Kiss me, lover," she commanded, her eyes still watching Claude.
He turned suddenly and fled from the room, the sound of her mocking laughter, mixed with the sound of the water from the fountain, echoing in his ears.
Remembering, he lifted his hands to his face. It was bathed in perspiration. His clothing clung to him stickily. His skin began to feel crawly.
He decided to take a shower.
The hot needle spray of the shower began to relax him. It seemed to bring the inner warmth of the whisky to the surface of his skin.
Luxuriously he lathered himself with the delicately scented soap his mother ordered from London especially for him.
He stepped out of the shower, rubbing himself vigorously.
He looked down with satisfaction at his pink, tingling skin.
He liked being clean.
He looked for his robe, but it wasn't on its usual hook.
"Would you get the blue robe from the closet for me, please," he called automatically, without thinking.
He took the bottle of cologne down from the shelf and sprinkled it lavishly into his hand, then began to rub himself down.
Some instinct caused him to look up into the mirror.
The boy was standing in the open door, watching him.
The robe was thrown over his arm.
He had taken off his yellow jacket, revealing a dirty white T-shirt.
Claude saw the thick black hair that sprouted wildly from the young man's arms, shoulders and chest. A feeling of distaste ran through him.
"You can leave it on the chair," he said, covering himself partly with the towel.
Instead, the boy grinned knowingly at him and came into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.
Claude turned around angrily. "Get out of here!"
The young man didn't move. His smile grew even broader.
"Aw, come off it, old man," he said. "You didn't really bring me up here to help you with your packing, did you?"
"Get out or I’ll call for help," Claude said, feeling a strangely exciting fear.
The boy laughed. "Who'll hear?" he asked. "I was wise to you the minute you told me the servants were off."
"You horrible thing!" Claude screamed.
He felt a stunning blow on the side of his head and he fell sprawling. He pulled himself to his hands and knees. "Please go," he whispered, his voice breaking. The young man raised his hand threateningly.
Instinctively Claude shrank back but he wasn't quick enough. The open palm cracked smartly across the side of his face, knocking his head sideways against the toilet bowl.
He stared up at the boy with frightened eyes.
"You don't really want me to go, do you?" the young man said, his hand tugging at the black leather belt around his waist. "You're the kind that likes to get roughed up a little first."
"I am not!"