Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “Friend? Friend?” By this time Christian had the old woman backed into a corner, and she was getting nervous. “Was this the friend?”

  He produced the photograph and waved it under her nose. The old woman peered at it, and then began to laugh. She twisted her face up at him in malignant triumph.

  This the friend? No, it wasn’t. Cochon. Imbecile—he had it all wrong. Sinclair shared the room with another man, an American also. No, she didn’t even know his name, it was Sinclair who paid the rent. The friend was Sinclair’s age: fat, ugly, hardly spoke French, slunk in and out at all times, and never so much as a word of greeting—bearded, dark—un espèce d’animal…The concierge spat energetically onto the pavement.

  Christian backed off from her in confusion. He had been so certain, for a moment, so certain. He hesitated, and then proffered the photograph again. Had this young woman perhaps visited Sinclair or his friend? Could she have been with them when they left? The old woman showed signs of becoming tearful. Her voice rose in a high-pitched whine.

  She didn’t know. How could she tell? Hundreds of young women came to the house—filthy types mostly, in trousers so tight you could see their bottoms. Not women like that. She flicked the photograph. Not ladies.

  Christian changed tack. He produced a hundred-franc note, which disappeared into her clawlike hand with speed. The note had the required effect. It stopped her whining, and it got him up to the room Sinclair had rented. The old woman gave him the key, and Christian bounded up to the fourth floor, the top floor of the house, and let himself in.

  The room was long and narrow, and—as he had suspected—at the back of the house; it had a certain bohemian charm: old threadbare rugs; two narrow beds; one or two pieces of old furniture that were quite attractive; a view of rooftops; white-painted walls, adorned with posters, most of them for films by the young directors of the nouvelle vague. It had been carefully cleared. Even the wastepaper basket was empty.

  Christian peered around the room. He was beginning to feel extremely stupid. It was odd that Sinclair and his friend should have departed so suddenly. It was odd to leave at five in the morning. Beyond that fact, which could have a thousand explanations, there was absolutely nothing to connect this room or its former occupants with Helen Hartland—other than an overexcited imagination and, Christian thought ruefully, a diet of too many B movies. He was about to leave, when he heard a girl’s voice on the landing outside.

  “Lewis? Lewis? Is that you? I thought I heard something…” Christian froze, and then relaxed when he realized the voice was American. A second later the door was pushed back, and a small plump fluffy-haired brunette came into the room. She was wearing flat ballet slippers, tight trousers, and an oversized sweater; Christian quickly learned, once she had recovered from her surprise at seeing him, that her name was Sharon, and she came from Duluth. It was Sharon who changed everything.

  Christian proceeded to become extremely charming then. Within five minutes Sharon was smoking one of his cigarettes, and sitting beside him on the overstuffed red sofa, chattering away as if she had known him all her life. She seemed surprised to find Lewis gone, and perhaps a little disappointed, but she recovered quickly.

  “Oh, well, he just took off, I guess. Thad too. What do you know?”

  “Thad?”

  She gave a little giggle.

  “His friend. Thad. I don’t know his other name. Thad the weirdo, I called him.” She pulled a face. “Like, hunchback of Notre Dame time, you know? Squat. Kind of gross-looking. Glasses. Frizzy black beard. If you’re a friend of Lewis’s, you must have seen him—they were inseparable—and, you know, once seen, never forgotten, huh?”

  “I’m not a friend of Lewis’s.” Christian took the plunge. “Well, not exactly. I’m looking for someone I thought Lewis knew. This girl. She’s my sister.”

  He produced the photograph, with no great optimism. To his eternal surprise, Sharon bent over it, and the instant she saw it, her face lit up.

  “Hey! It’s Helen! What do you know? Doesn’t she look great? I mean, I guess she always looked great, you know—but I never saw her look like that…”

  “You know her?” Christian stared at Sharon’s excited face. He suddenly felt extremely faint.

  “Know her? I sure do. She was here a week—the first week of August. Slept in my room—I work nights in a bar over in the Pigalle district, so I sleep days—I just got off duty now. I did it as a favor to Lewis—like she had no money, no place to stay, you know? Wow! And she’s your sister? How about that? I wondered what had happened to her…you know, she just took off. Madame Mystery. Even Lewis had no idea where she’d gone…”

  Christian stood up: he held out his arm.

  “Sharon,” he said gallantly, “this calls for a drink. You must tell me more…”

  “A drink?” Sharon blushed and giggled. “It’s not even seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “In Paris one can get a drink at any hour of the day or night. It is one of the most civilized aspects of the city…”

  “It sure beats Duluth.” She giggled again.

  “We shall go to a bar I know, and we shall have champagne.” He took Sharon’s arm and propelled her to the door. “And then you will tell me everything…”

  “I’ll try…Say—do all Englishmen talk like you?”

  “Very few now, alas.” Christian gave her his most dazzling smile. “You are looking, Sharon, at a vanishing breed…”

  “Too bad,” Sharon said, and trotted happily after him.

  “Okay, this is the way it was.” Sharon took a sip from her glass of champagne, rested her elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “I’ve been in Paris since May. I first met Lewis in July sometime, at the Café Strasbourg. He was waiting tables, and he got me a job there—I didn’t stay long though. That creep Schreiber!” She pulled a face. “Like, starvation wages, you know?”

  “I can imagine.” Christian smiled encouragingly. “Lewis didn’t mind the wages, presumably?”

  “Lewis? You’ve got to be kidding! Lewis is loaded. That job is just a gas to him—a way of passing the time. Thad made him take it. To keep him out of trouble, he said. That’s all. You do know who Lewis is, I guess?”

  “I met him only briefly…Ivy League, I thought.”

  Sharon giggled. “Right. With that accent he could chip glass, huh?” She paused. “Lewis is Old Money. Lots of it. Daddy’s the Sinclair in Sinclair Lowell Watson—and they’re the biggest investment bank on the East Coast. Lewis is the only son and heir.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Christian leaned back thoughtfully while a quiet and efficient waiter served them their food: lightly scrambled eggs decorated with shavings of black truffle. Warm brioches. It looked delicious, and Sharon began to eat with relish, but Christian suddenly found he had no appetite. Helen Hartland seemed to have a gift for attracting rich men, he thought. He did not look forward to telling Edouard that fact. “So—” Sharon forked up some eggs, and smiled. “So—Lewis did me a favor, and I did him one. I got him the room back there, just across the hall from me. He and Thad moved in sometime in July.”

  “This Thad seems an odd kind of friend for a man like Lewis Sinclair.” Christian frowned. “Did he work at the Café Strasbourg as well?”

  “Thad? No way.” She gave him a scornful glance. “I told you, Thad’s weird. He never had a job—all Thad did was go to the movies.”

  “The movies?”

  “Sure. He’s crazy about them. Spends all day watching them. Starts right in after breakfast, and goes on from movie theater to movie theater, all day. You can do that in Paris, you know. Imagine—being in a city like this, and spending day after day in the dark in some flea pit—”

  “And Thad’s American too?”

  “Oh, sure. From L.A., I think. I don’t know—I don’t know much about him one way or another. Just that he was always around. Whenever I went into their room—there he’d be. Sitting in the corner, never saying a word…” Sh
e gave a little shiver. “I tell you, Thad gave me the creeps…”

  “But Lewis liked him, presumably?”

  “Oh, he and Lewis were like that…” She held up her hand, with two fingers crossed. Christian looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Sharon giggled, and blushed.

  “Okay. I’ll say it. I really liked Lewis, you know—like, I saw him, and I flipped. He’s a really good-looking guy, right? But he never asked me out on a date—nothing. And after a while I did begin to wonder about him and Thad—whether they might be, well, fairies, you know…”

  Not Sinclair, Christian thought, knowing his instinct in such matters was near infallible. Sinclair had struck him as aggressively heterosexual. He smiled obligingly: Sharon, whose instincts in this respect were clearly less developed than his own, was looking at him slightly flirtatiously.

  “But you decided you were wrong?” he prompted her.

  “Yeah. When Helen—when your sister turned up.” Sharon paused, and Christian sat very still. Sharon sighed.

  “I can’t blame him,” she went on. “I mean, she’s just so incredible looking. And Lewis was crazy about her—that stuck out a mile. Thad, too, maybe. With him it was difficult to tell. All I know is, I went in their room one evening, and they couldn’t take their eyes off her. Like, she hardly said a word, and they both kept staring at her. I felt jealous at first. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Do you know how they met?”

  “I’m not sure. It was more or less a straight pickup, I guess. Like, she was just off the boat from England, and one of them ran into her in the street—Lewis, I think. And she had hardly any money and no place to go, as I said, so they took her back to their place, and fixed it for her to stay in my room. It wasn’t for long. Seven days—eight maybe. Then she went out one evening, and never came back.” She frowned, and her wide blue eyes took on an anxious expression. “So—I don’t know where she is now, or where she’s been since. I just hope she’s all right. I liked her, you know?”

  “Did you talk to her much? You can’t remember anything she said that might give me an idea where she is now?”

  “No. I talked to her a little, once or twice. But she seemed very withdrawn, you know? Sad, maybe. Kind of lost. I caught her crying one time, just sitting in my room, and I tried to cheer her up. But she just went out. She went out a lot, Lewis said. All day. On her own…”

  “Not with Thad? Or Lewis?”

  “No. She kept them at arm’s length, the same way she did me.”

  “So…” Christian paused. “You wouldn’t have said she was—involved with either of them. Having an affair, anything like that?”

  “No way.” Sharon pushed her empty plate aside and leaned forward again on her elbows. “She was grateful to them, I could see that. And she must have been lonely, but nothing more than that. I mean, she wouldn’t have looked at Thad—what woman would? And if Lewis had got lucky, I’d have known—he boasts, you know—and besides, he’s not too good at hiding his feelings. That’s what drove him so crazy, I thought. I mean, Lewis is the kind of guy most girls fall over for, right? And she used to look at him like he wasn’t there. He’s not used to it. It drove him wild…I tell you, your sister has some technique. I could really learn from her…”

  “You thought that’s what it was, technique?” Christian was beginning to feel much better. He even managed to eat a little of his food.

  “Not really. No. It just seemed to come natural to her. Like, the original ice princess, you know? If you’re worried on that score, I don’t think you need be…” She paused. “Lewis was really broken up when she left.”

  “You don’t think she could have come back? In the last couple of days…”

  “She could have.” Sharon blushed a little. “I haven’t been back to my room that much—not for a week or so. I met this really terrific guy—you know how it is…” She hesitated, as if expecting him to be censorious, and when Christian patted her hand, and assured her that indeed, he did know, only too well, she grinned.

  “So. She could have been there. I think Lewis still has the key I gave Helen before. And that old witch of a concièrge is half blind—she’d never know. She doesn’t know half of what goes on around there. Maybe she did come back. Maybe that’s why they took off. I mean, that surprised me. Lewis hadn’t mentioned a thing. But then, Lewis gets around anyway. He’s got the bread, and he likes to party. I was surprised he stayed in Paris as long as he did. I used to tease him. Say I’d look him up when we both got back to the States, invite myself up to Boston…”

  “And would you?”

  Sharon gave him a scornful glance. “Give me a break. You think I’m stupid? Paris is one thing. Back home, a guy like Lewis wouldn’t give me the time of day. Your sister, yes. But then, your sister’s got class…” She sighed, and Christian found himself liking her. Her acceptance of the social division between herself and a man like Sinclair was wry and realistic—but not bitter. He gestured to the waiter, and then turned back to her.

  “I want to thank you,” he said simply. “You’ve been a great help. And it’s very important to me—my sister, well, you could say she’s causing a lot of heartache…”

  “Oh, I’ll bet.” Sharon looked at him speculatively. “She’ll cause a lot more before she’s through.” She paused. “She’s not your sister, is she? Am I right?”

  Christian sighed. “No. All right. She’s not.”

  “I guessed as much.” Sharon patted his hand, then drew her own away quickly. “Well. I wish you luck. You’ve been nice. I just wish I could help you more.”

  Christian signed the bill, and then glanced up. He could see that she was thinking, hesitating.

  “Is there something else?” He leaned forward. “You can tell me. Whatever it is, I need to know…”

  Sharon frowned. She leaned back in her chair. “Well, it’s nothing, I guess. Just an impression I got—I could be wrong. But it did strike me as odd…”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I was thinking—when you were asking those questions earlier, about Lewis and Thad. You see, if I’d had to say Helen was interested in one or the other, the answer would have been yes, up to a point. But it would have been Thad.”

  “Thad?” Christian stared at her, and Sharon gave a quick gesture of the hand.

  “Oh, not romantically. I don’t mean she was attracted to him or anything like that, don’t get me wrong. Just that he interested her. He was different when she was around. Like, normally, he’s as silent as the grave, right? Never talks. And when she was there—he did. Droned on and on for hours. It bored the pants off me. I think it got on Lewis’s nerves too. But Helen, she just sat there as still as a mouse, taking it all in…”

  “She did?” Christian regarded her with interest. “Can you remember what he was talking about?”

  Sharon grinned. “Sure. I told you. The movies—what else?”

  “I have the rundown on Sinclair Lowell Watson. It came through by Telex an hour ago. Together with some subsidiary information on Lewis Sinclair. There’s more to come. I know the bank, in any case. We’ve had dealings of a minor nature with them in the past…”

  Edouard passed some Telex sheets across the plain black surface of the desk in his Paris office. He sounded dismissive—but then, to Edouard, Sinclair Lowell Watson was small. Christian sighed, and glanced down at the papers in his hand. He had telephoned Edouard that morning, the moment he left Sharon; Edouard had left the Château de Chavigny immediately, in his private plane. It was now two o’clock on the same day.

  Christian looked up at his friend. Of the man so close to the breaking point the previous day, there was now no trace. There were still the shadows beneath the eyes, betraying the lack of sleep, but he was elegantly and immaculately dressed in a three-piece black suit, freshly bartered, freshly shaved. He radiated a cold purposive energy. Christian felt very strongly, at that moment, he would not have liked to be Lewis Sinclair.

  “We don’t know for certain that
she went back to that house, Edouard,” he began mildly. “Or that she left with Sinclair and his friend…”

  “Sinclair left abruptly at five in the morning, shortly after you had gone to the Café Strasbourg and asked questions. I think the conclusion is obvious.” Edouard cut him off coldly. He tapped the surface of his desk with his platinum pen.

  “They seem just to have been friends, Edouard. Hardly that—casual acquaintances. Really, all it amounts to is that they helped her find a room…”

  “We know of no other friends. I think it is possible that Hélène returned there, and that when Sinclair realized someone was looking for her, he and his friend spirited her away. At five o’clock in the morning. Until I come up with a better possibility, I intend to pursue this one. That’s all.”

  Christian shrugged. He knew better than to argue with Edouard when he was in this mood. He bent his head to the Telex sheets and began to read. As he read, his admiration for Edouard, and his nervousness, increased. The papers gave him a brief and extremely thorough rundown on Sinclair Lowell Watson itself—its past history and current standing, most of which, he suspected, Edouard would already have known. It also gave him a brief, but telling, biographical sketch of Lewis Sinclair.

  Aged twenty-five, as he had thought. The only son, with four elder sisters. The recipient of a trust fund from his Sinclair grandfather, which brought him an income of around one hundred thousand dollars a year. Educated at Groton and Harvard: an undistinguished university career from an academic point of view. A suggestion that a place had been obtained with some difficulty, probably on the strength of the family’s long connection with the university, though possibly on the strength of Lewis’s athletic ability. Lewis Sinclair had been the Harvard University football team’s star running back. Christian smiled to himself, and congratulated himself on his own instincts. The golden boy. The footballer. The—what was the American term? Oh, yes—the jock. He looked up.