“No, Señor Sanchez. M’sieu Huuygens isn’t here at the moment.”
“I know,” Sanchez said softly. “I saw him leave—waited until he left before I called, as a matter of fact.” There was the briefest of pauses. “Is anyone else there?”
Anita frowned. And what business is that of yours? she wondered.
“No,” she said evenly.
“Good,” Sanchez said. There was no surprise in the voice; he had been sure before he called that Anita was alone. There might, of course, have been a day servant, but that would scarcely interfere with his plans. “In any event, my business wasn’t with him, madame; it was with you.”
“With me?” Anita began to feel a faint stir of unease.
“Yes.” There was a brief pause again. “I understand you were so unfortunate as to be taken ill yesterday while shopping at the supermarket in the Porte de Maillot.…”
The stirring came to a climax in a small electric shock.
“Go on.” Anita waited, suddenly alert. Across the room André sat a bit more erect, his newspaper forgotten, frowning at the expression on the girl’s face. The accented voice waited an appropriate number of seconds for proper effect and then continued smoothly.
“You must be curious as to what happened, where you were for those four hours or more between the supermarket and your coming awake in that taxicab.…”
Anita suddenly found herself angry; her anger wiped away her fear. “What do you know about it?”
Sanchez chuckled, the small laugh of someone sharing an amusing experience with another. “Quite a bit, I assure you, madame. I was, believe me, in a position to take notice. In fact, I’m sure you would find it to your distinct advantage to discover exactly what I do know about yesterday.”
“And how do I go about that?”
“Very simply,” Sanchez said cooperatively. “You meet me.”
“You come here,” Anita said on impulse. Her voice clearly indicated that the burnt child shunned the fire.
“I’m afraid not.” Sanchez sounded more amused than regretful. “One never could guarantee not being interrupted. M’sieu Huuygens’ schedule, I imagine, must be rather elastic. Or other friends might drop in; or even trades people—you never did finish shopping yesterday, did you? All those possible interruptions.… No, I suggest someplace where we will not be disturbed.”
“And if I don’t come?”
The lightness disappeared, replaced by an implacable coldness that threatened, and not lightly. “Then you will find out about those missing hours in what our American cousins call the hard way. No, madame, I suggest quite sincerely that you come. For your own well-being.”
Anita took a deep breath, wondering why she had been playing so hard to get. She had known from his first words that she would meet Sanchez where and when he wished.
“All right. Where?”
Sanchez hid his satisfaction behind a mask of suavity. “Suppose we do it this way—you descend the elevator of your building. You start to walk north on your side of the street, in the direction of the Porte Dauphine. You keep walking until I come along in a taxi and pick you up.”
“All right.”
“And start now,” the voice said coldly. “I’ll be waiting.” The telephone clicked in her ear. She hung up and looked at the big man across the room. André laid aside his newspaper, aware that something was in the air. Anita’s face was expressionless.
“That was Sanchez—”
“Sanchez?”
“He wants to see me alone. About what happened yesterday.” She sounded more relieved than unhappy. “Which means, at least, I’m not losing my mind.” She smiled faintly. “He tried to sound threatening. As if I would be afraid of what he’s going to tell me.”
André snorted and came to his feet, towering in the room. He started to roll down his shirt sleeves, preparatory to putting on his jacket.
“Afraid? Threatening?” Paris was not Barcelona, nor Sanchez Duarte and his boys. André buttoned his cuffs and reached for his jacket. “Either the little man is joking or he’s suddenly gotten delusions of grandeur. I’ll squeeze him through his own right ear like a baker decorating a cake!”
Anita shuddered at the description but shook her head decisively. “No. You stay right here. To begin with, he seems to know what happened at the market yesterday, and I need to know—”
“You’ll know,” André said grimly and slipped into his jacket. “He’ll tell you everything, including his grandmother’s birthday!”
“You will stay right here!” Anita suddenly sounded irked. “I’m sure Kek wouldn’t want Sanchez to know you’re in Paris.”
“Why on earth not?” André demanded, amazed. “The deal’s dead, so what’s the difference?”
“Because if they found out you helped kill it, they wouldn’t be very happy about it.”
“So let them be unhappy,” André suggested. “It’s good for the soul. And will help them appreciate happiness, when they ever see it.” He came back to the subject. “Let me meet Sanchez instead of you. He’ll tell me about yesterday, don’t worry. And have a week or so in a hospital for his sins as a dividend. He won’t—”
Anita held up her hand; the look on her face silenced him.
“He won’t what? So you push him around, so what? You won’t kill him, and even if you did, how on earth would that help? All it would do is to bring in police, which is the last thing any of us want. And if he didn’t tell you about yesterday? Then I’d never know.”
“But—”
“Anyway,” Anita went on, “he won’t harm me. This is Paris in the daytime, not the Casbah at midnight. And I can handle Señor Sanchez. Besides,” she added, “he would be sure I’d leave a note for Kek telling him where I was going, and he’d also be sure the world would be too small a place for him if anything happened to me.” She smiled at André. “Don’t worry. I’ll be safe.”
“All right,” André said doubtfully. “But—”
“And don’t try to follow me,” Anita said briskly, reaching for her purse. Now that she was ready to leave for the meeting, she seemed almost businesslike about it. “He’s somewhere close enough to the building to have seen Kek leave and to be ready to pick me up. He’d spot you in five seconds. That build of yours doesn’t exactly lend itself to hiding,” she added, not unkindly.
André sighed, defeated. “I suppose you’re right.”
Another thought came to Anita. She paused. “And one more thing. I don’t want Kek to know of this.”
André stared in astonishment. “Why on earth not?”
“I don’t want him to worry. He had enough worry over yesterday. Tell him I went out to meet an old girlfriend who’s come to town and called.” She looked at André seriously. “That’s more than a simple request—that’s a plea. Please don’t try to help me by telling Kek.”
“But—” André rubbed one fist into the palm of the other and stared at the rug. He hated being in a helpless position. He suddenly remembered something else and looked up. “You can’t go. You’ve got to stay here. The doctor’s coming again in an hour.”
“I doubt I’ll need him,” Anita said and took a light coat from the closet. She put it on and moved to the door. Her voice was dry. “I have a strong feeling Señor Sanchez can explain yesterday much better than any doctor.”
“But Kek said you should—”
“However,” Anita added with her pixie grin, her hand on the knob, “if the doctor brings a rabbit with him, put it in the icebox and we’ll have it for dinner.” Her face became sober. “And no word to Kek. You promise?”
“I—” Her violet eyes were fixed on his. André sighed and shook his head. “No word to Kek. I promise.”
“Thank you.” She closed the door behind her.
André stood and stared at the panel in indecision and then made up his mind. Maybe no word to Kek, but that didn’t mean he had to stay home with his thumb in his ear! He reached into the closet for his cap and then put his e
ye to the peephole. The elevator was just engulfing Anita. He nodded in satisfaction, waited until the cab door had slid shut, and left the apartment almost at a run. The stairway was the only thing for it; he took the steps three at a time, swinging around landings with the newel post as a pivot, clattering downward with no regard for the silence normally preserved in such an edifice. He burst through the door to the lobby and slowed down to a more respectable pace, walking almost sedately to the street door and peering cautiously around the lintel.
It was impossible! Anita was nowhere in sight!
He turned and marched back to the desk of the little concierge; the tiny man was pointedly paying no attention to his antics. It had finally come across to him that this uncouth monster actually was a friend of M’sieu Huuygens, hard as that was to understand, and that he was also slightly mad, as witness the manner in which he had just entered the lobby. He became aware that he could not avoid the giant forever and looked up, tense as always with this horror. The ogre was glaring at him as if something were his fault.
“What happened to madame?”
The concierge stared. He had expected anything but this. “What?”
André’s voice tightened. It promised action in a hurry if a satisfactory response was not tendered, and at once. “I said, what happened to madame?”
The concierge stared. What had happened to madame was what every tenant in the building prayed would happen to them once in a while. He drew himself up.
“Madame came down in the elevator and a cab pulled up just as she came to the door, and that’s just luck at this hour, and she took it, naturally, and—”
But he was talking to empty air. André had stamped back to the door and out into the street. He stared down the sidewalk, swearing under his breath. But then, he was forced to concede, whatever else he was, Sanchez had never been stupid. How better to reduce the chances of being trailed than to allow the minimum of time for the opposition to find means of trailing? The concierge was right; taxis were rare in the area. He marched back into the lobby and savagely punched the button for the elevator. The fact that the cab was not waiting did nothing to improve his temper. He peered through the glass; at long last he noted the cables descending silently in the gloom of the shaft. A moment later the door opened with its usual diffidence; he entered, glaring downward. The gnome shuddered, closed the door as quickly as he could, and pushed the lever over.
André was borne aloft, kicking himself mentally for having missed Anita in the lobby. And, far worse, for having made that idiotic promise.…
8
The taxi that had pulled up as soon as Anita emerged from the apartment building now swung right into the Avenue Foch, took the short arc around the Etoile, and started down the Champs-Elysées. Anita would have liked to show her enjoyment of the ride—the day was a sparkling example of autumn at its best in Paris, and the scenery had always been her favorite in the world—but she felt it would not be germane at the moment. She glanced from the window rather than face the man at her side; the trees bordering the broad boulevard were still rich with plumage; the people walking briskly along past the elegant shops seemed happy to be alive, to be in Paris, to be walking down the Champs-Elysées. The sidewalk cafés were busy despite the faint touch of chill in the air, with people sipping their hot chocolate behind the protective barrier of journals or sipping a morning bière while watching the girls. Even the police directing the heavy traffic seemed to be in good moods.
Anita, having established her mood of unease since entering the car, decided the sight-seeing had been sufficient. She turned to Sanchez, her nervousness apparent.
“Now, what did you want to tell me about yesterday?”
“All in good time,” Sanchez said and shrugged lightly. He reached over casually and took her purse before she could clutch it. “May I?” His eyes went to the driver’s back warningly, and Anita subsided. Sanchez opened the purse, riffled through its contents quickly, and closed it, handing it back. “You’ll have to pardon me, but I would not want a”—he looked at the driver’s back again and, instead of speaking, made a revolver of his thumb and forefinger, flexing the thumb—“pointing at me when I least expect it.”
“I never carry—” Anita dropped the subject as being time-consuming and without purpose. “What about yesterday?”
“As I said, all in good time.” Sanchez glanced from the window of the cab in leisurely fashion and then looked back at the girl. She was quite upset, he was pleased to see, even though she managed to hide it rather well. Still, there was no doubt. It was a good sign, he felt. He smiled at her gently. “Where would you like to go?”
“Go?” She stared at him with a combination of stupidity and fear. Sanchez continued to smile. Why did men such as Huuygens always get themselves stupid girls? Just because they were beautiful? It scarcely seemed reason enough.
“Yes, go. You’re not being kidnapped, you know. You came of your own volition.” Sanchez kept his voice low, but his tone contained a note of humor, so that the driver, should he hear, would know it was all in fun. He spread his hands expressively, offering the world. “The Louvre? Or a sidewalk café? Merely someplace where we can speak together for a few minutes undisturbed.”
“The Louvre—”
“An excellent place to talk, actually,” Sanchez said. “The Cour Carrée, or the Pavilion de l’Horloge—marvelous for privacy, although I must admit they have an echo, even for whispers.” He suddenly grinned, showing his stained and crooked teeth. “And quite appropriate, the Louvre, when you think about it. All those nudes.…”
“What do you mean?” The sudden tightening in the girl’s voice, the quick clutching of her fingers, clearly showed her growing panic. Sanchez cautioned himself not to rush things; panic in a taxi could be embarrassing.
“On the other hand,” Sanchez went on, quite as if Anita had not spoken, “possibly a bench in the park would be better. Fresh air.” He looked sideways at her, as if querying her opinion. “Or, better yet—” He smiled at the thought that had just come to him and leaned forward, giving new directions to the driver.
The cab obediently turned down the Avenue Alexandre III and pulled to the curb at the river, facing the bridge. Sanchez descended first and handed Anita down quite gallantly. She looked about with a frown as he paid the cab, almost as if the location were strange to her, and then felt his skeletal fingers on her arm. She walked beside him docilely, like an automaton; he hoped she would not collapse completely when they came to business. They came to a wide set of stone steps and descended. At the foot of the stairway a quai edged along the water’s edge, bifurcated by trees; stone benches provided resting places. The curve in the river hid the Ile de la Cité, but in the opposite direction the steel lacework of the Eiffel Tower shone against the deep blue of the sky. An artist was seated on a camp stool trying to capture its beauty; to Sanchez’s relief he glared at them for their intrusion, folded his stool and easel, and tramped away, muttering. Sanchez led their way a bit along the quay to a bench that promised privacy and made a slight bow, indicating the stone seat.
“Madame.…”
Anita sat down abruptly, clutching her purse tightly. The hard, slightly damp surface of the bench seemed to fit into the nightmare quality of the scene as she envisioned it. She turned to Sanchez, fighting for composure, trying to appear assured, ready for whatever terrible revelation he might produce.
“Señor … you promised, you said … about yesterday.…”
“Ah, yes; yesterday.”
Sanchez prayed the girl would hold out through the entire affair. It was evident he would have to choose his words with care or he was apt to have a hysterical woman on his hands. Could Rosa have used too much of the drug? Well, it was a little late to worry about that. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and brought forth an envelope, but instead of handing it over, he merely tapped it idly against the knuckles of his other hand. His eyes were fathomless.
“What I need, of course, is
help,” he said quietly. They might have been discussing the requirements of a cocktail party or an investment on the bourse. For a moment Sanchez wondered if perhaps he was going about it a bit too carefully; the girl looked at him with complete blankness in her lovely eyes. He decided to plow on along that course for a while longer, at least. “Your help,” he added quietly.
The girl drew in her breath. “My help? But I thought you were going to give me your help.…” She looked at him piteously. “Please don’t play with me, señor. About yesterday—”
Sanchez came to the conclusion that he was somehow handling the thing wrongly and with time he would probably end up making a complete hash of the matter. In which case, he thought, he could imagine Duarte’s reaction. He would just have to take his chances on the girl going to pieces. He took a different tack, holding out the envelope in one thrust.
“Perhaps madame would care to see these.”
It was a statement, not a question. Sanchez watched the girl with narrowed eyes as she reached out with unsteady hands and took the packet from him. She opened the envelope and brought forth the photographs; Sanchez heard her catch her breath, saw her shocked expression. She looked sick a moment; he could imagine the thoughts fighting each other in her horrified mind, imagine her disgust and shame at the poses she was viewing. Sanchez answered the unspoken thought in a dry voice, like a professor expounding to a class.
“Much more effective,” he assured her, pleased that she had not screamed or fainted. “And if you are worried about it, madame, nothing happened that is not in the pictures. It was a temptation, I admit, but one which I managed to control.” He looked over her shoulder at the pictures; Anita blushed and tried to place her hand over them protectively. When this failed she turned them over on her lap with unsteady fingers, staring away from him, refusing to face the leer that had appeared. “They came out well, don’t you think?”
The Tricks of the Trade Page 8
