The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0

by Unknown Author

  We will meet tomorrow at the usual place for lunch, and talk it over. In the meantime you think about it, and I’ll think about it.’

  ‘All right, Harry. At one-thirty tomorrow.’ Inez said as I shepherded them out of the room.

  They left a few minutes later. It was working out fine. They were on the hook, and all I had to do was carefully reel them in.

  Then came a knock on the door.

  It was a grim, morose character, called Paul Bazin.

  I was not glad to see him, and that is putting it mildly. He asked me if I remembered him, and his tone showed that the interview was not going to be a pleasant one.

  ‘I never forget old friends.’ I answered as warmly as I could. ‘We used to be partners.’

  My opening gambit could not have been worse. ‘A partner, eh?’ he snarled. While they hustled me into jail, you hustled off to the Riviera with all the money.’

  I remarked that accidents often happened;

  ‘You’re going to have an accident, too, Harry.’ A gun in his hand showed on what lines his thoughts were running.

  ’They guillotine people here for committing murder.’ I said.

  ‘If they catch them.’

  I tried to make a deal. It was the only way. ‘If you put that gun down, I’ll tell you about a little deal that’s coming off tomorrow. I’ll cut you in on it’ There was a long pause, after which I added: ‘Your share will be two million francs.’

  He gave a gasp, so I went on quickly: ‘Did you see those two women coming out of my suite?’

  ‘I saw them.’

  ’They think that this is a Renoir hanging on the wall. They’re going to give me four million francs.’

  He asked me why I was going to give him two million. He was sure it was not mere generosity.

  .1 went on: ’They’re rich Brazilian ladies. Tomorrow at lunch we’re going to clinch the deal. I want you to be a friend of mine—an art dealer.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about paintings.’

  ‘Neither do they. Is it a deal?’

  He thought for a few moments, and then said that he would phone the women to confirm my story.

  ’They’re not at their hotel yet,’ I objected.

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  I offered him a drink but he refused. I filled my own glass, and we both settled back into our armchairs.

  We waited an hour until Inez and Aurora returned to their hotel. Paul was satisfied that I had told him the truth and he finally left me…until lunch the next day.

  I began to think of a plan to rid myself of this surly and unpleasant fellow. I can’t stand people who hold grudges for years. It’s a sign of immaturity.

  The next day we met at lunch as scheduled. At first it was difficult to steer Bazin successfully through a discussion on Impressionist painting, but he soon lapsed into a moody silence, and they accepted him as an eccentric. Then they broached the subject of the Renoir. For quite a time I stalled them, but Inez eventually asked outright:

  ‘You don’t want to sell it?’

  I was very embarrassed. ‘I do…that is, I must,’ I replied. ‘But you see, after I left you, I had an offer from the Fontaine Galleries for five million. I am very embarrassed by it. I don’t like this kind of business.’

  They objected that I had accepted their offer of four million the previous day.

  ‘I did not make a promise. I said I might sell it for four. You must understand: I am a business man. I must sell to the highest bidder. Why don’t you forget the Renoir. I’ll be glad to show you other paintings—very fine ones by other artists for much less money.’

  Their two heads met over the coffee-cups. There was a whispered conference, and Inez finally looked up. *We will buy it for five. I will write a cheque for you right now.’

  I tried not to look triumphant Explaining that I had some very urgent bills to pay, I asked if I could have the sum in cash. ‘It will take a week to clear your cheque through the bank. I can only wait until -this evening. You get the cheque cashed at your bank, and we can meet for dinner. We’ll have a real big dinner in celebration.’

  ‘You come too, Monsieur Bazin,’ said Aurora.

  I was not surprised when he accepted.

  ‘I’ll bring the painting with me,’ I said.

  Inez asked where we should meet ‘My favourite restaurant is La Rue in the Madeline,’ I replied. And they agreed to meet us there.

  I was quite pleased with the way things were going. My only regret would be the necessity of a forced departure from Paris, and from Aurora, of whom I was beginning to grow fond. She was my type, beautiful and not too encumbered with brains, but she had lots of spirit and exuberance.

  But, as they say in France: ‘Les affaires sont les affaires.’

  However, I had one real problem: to get rid of Bazin. He was sticking to me like a tree to the earth. Eventually I persuaded him to go back to his room and pack. We should meet in my suite at five o’clock. He agreed with bad grace.

  ‘All right. But if you try any tricks, Harry, I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you. I mean it.’

  ‘I know you are a sincere fellow,’ I replied. ‘Meet me at five—I’m going to grab this cab.’ So I left him on the pavement, hoping that our paths would not cross again.

  I had to work fast now that I was rid of Bazin. I hurried to my hotel and began to pack my clothes. Then I telephoned my two Brazilian customers, and regretfully informed them that I had just learned that La Rue’s was closed that night and that we had better meet at an Italian restaurant called ‘Casa Bellini’.

  I finished packing quietly, wrapped up the painting and made ready to leave. The sooner I left my suite the better: I had a feeling that Bazin would change his mind and come early.

  I crossed the room with my suitcase, and my hand was just reaching out towards the door knob, when the door began to open. Paul Bazin stepped into the room.

  I explained that I was just going downstairs to pay my bill. He had a nasty suspicious mind and thought that I was going to run away and that he had just caught me in time. I tried in vain to persuade him that my motives had been innocent. Eventually I got exasperated and said:

  ‘Look here, Paul, we have three hours until we go to La Rue’s. You are not going to stand there with the gun in your pocket all afternoon?’

  ’That is exactly what I am going to do,’ he replied, sitting down in a chair.

  I offered him a drink; he refused. I offered to play cards with him, to play dice with him or to order him a sandwich: he refused.

  Finally I asked: ‘You just want to sit?’

  ’That’s right.’

  He would not let himself become off guard. He sat in the chair and kept a beady eye on me. I don’t mind people staring at me, but Bazin had a gun and when he discovered my defection, he would become peeved and kill me.

  He sat there a long time, and then even he became bored with just sitting. He tilted his chair against the wall, rocking himself to and fro, with the pressure of his toes against the floor. A sudden kick against the back legs of the chair when he was tilted would certainly give me an advantage.

  No sooner had I thought of it than I went into action. As he fell backwards I hurled myself at him, pinioning his arms. He managed to get the gun out of his pocket, but I rolled the chair over his arm and he let go of the gun. I seized it and placed it against the back of his head with considerable force.

  The fight had lasted less than* a minute. He lay there quietly, and I reckoned that he would be out for an hour at least He seemed to trust me completely for he didn’t say a word when I tiptoed out of the room, with my baggage and the painting. Bazin was out of the picture.

  I met the girls as arranged and made excuses for Paul’s absence. Then I suggested that we might talk business before dinner.

  ‘Let’s eat first. There’s no hurry—we have all night.’ said Inez.

  This disturbed me. They didn’t seem to be so eager for the painting as they had been a
t lunch. Perhaps they were only hungry…perhaps. I didn’t like their attitude at all.

  At length we appeared to have run the gamut of the courses. They said it was the best meal that they had had in Paris.

  ‘I am very pleased that you are pleased.’ I said. ‘And now that we have eaten, let us finish our business. The Renoir is all wrapped up…’

  ‘But we haven’t had our brandy yet, Harry.’ interrupted Inez.

  There was definitely something wrong. They were obviously stalling. But stalling for what? I was getting very uneasy. The waiter brought the cognac and they sipped it a drop at a time. For fifteen minutes they dawdled over it. I decided I could not wait any longer and forced the issue.

  ‘And now, if you will forgive me.’ I said, ‘I must bring up the matter of the painting again. If you haven’t got the money, why don’t you say so? It’s perfectly all right. But I am afraid that we will have to do it right now or not at all.’

  They looked at each other for a moment. Then Aurora passed an envelope over to me. ‘Here’s the money; you can count it.’ she said.

  ‘I trust you. I won’t even open the envelope. And here is your Renoir. I hope you will enjoy it as I have/

  At that moment a little man in a shabby suit came over to our table. ‘I’m sorry to be late; I just couldn’t get away.’ he said to the two girls.

  Inez introduced us. ‘Monsieur Bordet—Harry Lime.’

  ‘Monsieur Bordet is an expert on Renoir’s paintings. He’s from the Louvre Museum,’ added Aurora.

  There was silence for a moment. I looked around to see if I could make a quick dash for it, but Monsieur Bordet had brought a gendarme with him. He knew it was a fraud. There was nothing I could do but sit and wait. He unwrapped the picture carefully and slowly. Then he looked it over, his brow wrinkled in furrows.

  ‘How much did you pay for this, mademoiselle?’ he asked at length.

  ’Five million francs.’

  ‘Amazing!’ he said to himself.

  Inez asked him what he meant.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ he went on.

  ‘What’s wrong with it.’ asked Aurora.

  He looked up. ‘It’s genuine. It’s a real Renoir. It’s worth twenty million francs! ’

  So it turned out that I was honest after all. The shock of it disturbed me for many days. And I was not only honest but generous. The museum offered the girls fifteen million francs for the painting.

  I had one consolation, however: Aurora was very sweet to me during the rest of her stay. It was a very sad farewell, when she departed for Brazil. She wept bitterly, and I promised to wait for her return to Paris.

  Perhaps we will meet again. It’s all in the hands of fate. But I think that fate had better decree otherwise. It will be wiser if our friendship always remains just a beautiful memory.

  For at our parting I unwittingly took a string of sapphires from her neck. I didn’t send them back to her. I reckoned they were small compensation for the profit she had made out of me.

  LOVE AFFAIR

  by

  Sigmund Miller

  Like a will-of-the-wisp borne on the winds of adventure, 1 dropped in on that curious adventure of modern and ancient that comprise the tiny city of Becurata, hidden away in a remote corner of Soudi-Arabia. Mines of black gold—oil derricks—dot the landscape as far as the eye can see: and huddled beneath these modern steel skeletons lies a city as old as the Orient. Curio dealers hawk their wares in the narrow, winding streets; beggars doze in shadowed doorways; robed Arabs mingle with Europeans in soiled whites; and the city drowses with the indolence of Asia—an ideal place for a murder and a double double-cross. For the oil wets there to grease the skids of fortune for …Harry Lime.

  I was in a café with a character called Schweig who was anxious for me to clinch an oil contract with the Alafin—the local ruler—on behalf of his government. I, too, was anxious…to get paid. I told him that I had an appointment with Alafin at his summer palace late that afternoon and that I hoped to clinch the deal then. I brought up the matter of payment again; and he passed a slip of paper across the table.

  ‘Hey, what’s this.’ I said as soon as I’d taken one look at it. ’This hardly covers my hotel bill and my fare getting here. Are you trying to…’

  ‘I leave Becurata today, but your final payment will be waiting for you at the Bank Internationale…when you have concluded the negotiations.’ His tone was final.

  ‘But how will anyone at the bank know when I’ve ’They’ll know, Harry, they’ll know.’

  I was still burning about the size of the cheque as I left Schweig and headed for the Bank Internationale. I wondered how it was possible for someone employed by the bank to know when the Alafin had acceded to my 'requests’. As I entered the shabby monument to finance I searched the bland, inscrutable faces behind the cages, but they told me nothing. Well, I’d come to cash the cheque, not to play charades. I slid the infuriating piece of paper through the opening in the window of the chief teller—a lovely looking lad, if you care for pockmarked, beady-eyed, murderous type. He glanced at the cheque and then up at me.

  ‘Do you want my credentials?’ I asked.

  ’That won’t be necessary. You’re already well known in the city, Mr. Lime.’

  I was on my way back to my hotel, with the miserable pittance that Shweig’s government thought a suitable reward for my services, when a stranger came up to me. ‘I apologise for approaching you on the street, but I must speak to you at once,’ he said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name wouldn’t mean anything to you, but I can tell you this: I am no friend of Karl Schweig./

  I took a look at him. A man who would have passed unnoticed in a crowd, his face had a certain strength of character- when you took a second look.

  ‘May I drive you back to your hotel.’ he continued.

  ‘I…I have my own car.’ It was a lie.

  ‘You do not own a car, Mr. Lime, and the Citroen that you rented—you did not use it today. You left it in the hotel garage to be serviced. You want it in good running order for your trip to the Alafin’s summer palace later in the day.’

  He seemed to know everything, and I wanted to know more about him, so I said that I would be delighted to accept a lift in his car. When we were settled in the back seat of his luxurious limousine, and were speeding towards my hotel, he drew a packet from his pocket, and, without saying a word, handed it to me. I opened it and saw…a stack of American hundred-dollar bills.

  ‘It’s yours.’ he said.

  I must have looked quizzical, for he went on:i ‘My name is Mordecai Varin…,’

  I couldn’t help interrupting. ‘Well, so far you’re being honest. A man wouldn’t invent a name like that.’

  He smiled. ‘I shall continue to be honest.’ There was a pause, during which he looked at me, and then continued: ‘Mr. Lime, we are both here in Becurata for the same thing. There are two major differences; you want the leases for the country who gave you that niggardly cheque you just cashed at the bank.

  I want the leases for another power. To date, you have been successful; I have not been/

  ‘I have no signed agreements.’ I pointed out.

  ‘You will have. Authoritative sources tell me that it has become a personal thing between you and the Alafin. You’ve exercised great charm on him. He will sign the leases made out by you—to whatever power you select.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘I know how your mind works. I’ve worked with men like you for years. Your loyalties belong to the highest bidder. In your hand you hold the highest price yet offered for your services. When you present the contracts to the Alafin, I am sure they will contain the name of the right country.’

  A moment later I was walking towards the bar of my hotel. I wasn’t clutching the money Varin had offered me, in my tight little fist any more. No. It was making a comforting bulge in my wallet. But, as I reached the bar, I was w
ondering how I was going to keep all my ‘customers’ happy. The long mahogany gate to forgetfulness was deserted except for a character by the name George Harris, a creep who earned his meagre income by acting as a sort of glorified guide for American tourists.

  You may gather that Harris and I were scarcely the best of buddies. One thing that irked me in particular was his habit of giving a little indoctrination lecture to his charges, a part of which was a warning to keep away from a very unsavoury American expatriate by the name of Harry Lime.

  So I decided that the open air would be a good place to get his stink out of my nostrils, and went out of the other door into the piazza. And there…well, there was a new note…a lovely, fresh-looking girl—American, to judge by her looks. She had the sort of innocence that only a Reynolds could have captured…or a Harry Lime. And there wasn’t a hovering mother, chaperon, or a tourist’s guide in sight.

  ‘I say…you didn’t drop your handkerchief,’ I said.

  It was a variation of the old gambit.

  ‘What!’

  ‘If you had, I could have picked it up and returned it to you. We would have started talking, and I could have offered to show you the city.’

  ‘I have a guide, thank you,’ but she was smiling…a charming, innocent, yet provocative smile.

  ‘Yes, but I could show you places that George Harris wouldn’t dream of taking a seventeen-year-old girl to.’

  ‘I’m nineteen.’

  She was weakening, so I went on: ’Oh, I’d been wondering…I’ve been wondering about a few other things, too…’

  But she suddenly became cold. ‘You must be the Harry Lime Mr. Harris was telling me about.’

  ‘Surely I’m not the only man in Becurata capable of speculating a bit about a beautiful American girl.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Lime, but the others will be coming out of lunch soon. I mustn’t be seen talking to you in broad daylight.’

  ‘But it won’t be broad daylight for ever. Perhaps we’ll meet this evening, Miss…?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  And she was gone.

  The girl was lovely, but with all her loveliness she was pushed to the back of my mind as I neared the summer palace of the Alafin later that afternoon. I had plenty to think about. I was committed to two countries. Schweig had agents in the city to see that the oil leases were awarded to his country; and I was sure Varin had men watching to see that I didn’t double-cross him.