The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  Craig relaxed. Everything was beginning to look more normal, even to the cheerful voices of two women who had just entered the café with two joking escorts, a bitter look following them through the doorway from the unhappy young man who was still arguing with his girl. Next came two more men, talking earnestly. Then a man with fair hair and a tightly belted trench coat, soaking wet. All these entered the café, too. “Things are looking up,” Craig said. I guess we got here too early.”

  Sussman was recovering. He even made an effort at normal conversation. “I’ve been thinking about your book,” he said, as if to excuse his silence. “It is a good subject, rich enough for five books. Perhaps you will do that? Now, I think I could help you a little. I still have friends in Italy and Greece who are working on archaeological sites. Some are historians, others are art experts. Would you like me to give you their names? I shall write them to let them know you may call on them.”

  “That would be very useful indeed. Thank you—”

  “I thank you,” Sussman said very softly. “Besides, scholarship is not much different from business or politics—the right connections are always necessary, and usually rewarding.” He pulled out several letters from his jacket pocket, selected an envelope, took out a pencil and glasses. “Give me your address in Paris.”

  “Hotel Saint-Honoré. Rue de Castiglione.” Craig watched his name and address being carefully written on the back of a business envelope.

  “I shall think of the people who would be most interesting for you to meet,” Sussman said, as he put letters and pencil and glasses carefully back into their proper places, “and I shall mail you the list tomorrow, before I leave. When do you expect to be in Greece?”

  “In a couple of weeks. I had the idea—”

  “Excuse me,” a voice said in French. “My watch seems to have stopped. I wonder if you could tell me the right time?” The man in the black coat was standing at Sussman’s elbow.

  It was Sussman, surprisingly, who recovered first. While Craig was still startled by the abrupt interruption, Sussman was taking out a heavy silver watch from an inside pocket. He studied it, looked up at the smiling, polite face looking down at him. “It is exactly twenty-two minutes past six.”

  “Thank you.” The man was on his way, pulling down his hat as he began the short walk towards the boulevard.

  “I didn’t even notice him leave his table,” Craig said, glancing towards it with amazement. In the doorway of the café, he saw the fair-haired man in the wet raincoat watching them. Or perhaps the man had been only gauging the weather, or expecting a friend, for he lit a cigarette as he moved back into the room. Sussman, his eyes on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, was quite silent.

  “So it was the wrong man. You didn’t know him.”

  Sussman said slowly, “On the contrary. That was Heinrich Berg.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “But it’s twenty years since you saw him at Auschwitz.”

  “And thirty years since we were students at Munich University. And fifty-two years since we were born in the little town of Grünwald, not far from Munich. As young boys, we used to play together. Did you notice the twist on his left eyebrow—just a small thin scar, not too noticeable except when he is under tension? He got that from a piece of broken glass when we were climbing over a wall into an orchard. Oh yes, I was quite acceptable then: my father had won a medal in the First World War; my mother had plenty of food on the dinner table for my friends to eat. What astonishes you? That we lived so well? Or that Berg and I are the same age? Or that I remember the expression of his eyes when he was calculating how far he could push me? Clever blue eyes, giving nothing away, hiding his real thoughts, looking so innocent. Yes, he has changed a lot. Once, he was very thin, very blond. But he has not changed in his eyes or in that little twist of the eyebrow where the hair never grew straight again. I know that man. The question is: did he learn that I know him?”

  “You had me convinced that you didn’t.”

  “Then I have to thank you again.”

  “For what?”

  “For my recovery from shock.” Sussman smiled in his relief. “Yes, I handled that quite well, I think. But it was typical... The way he tried to force recognition.”

  Craig felt a little uneasy. The incident had seemed insignificant, normal. He hadn’t noticed any secret challenge in the stranger’s face, or voice. “You are sure that he is Berg?”

  “Positive.”

  “One of those who should be on trial?”

  “Most definitely.”

  Craig, sensing the painful memories that the Frankfurt trials must have aroused in Sussman, said as tactfully as he knew how, “Couldn’t it be possible that you might be—”

  “Mistaken? No. He knew I was in Paris. He probably followed me from my hotel, chose the moment to confront me at the newspaper kiosk. He wasn’t quite sure, he followed me again, and made me face him once more. You saw that part, at least.”

  “But how could he know you were in Paris or where—”

  “It was no secret that I was coming to Paris,” Sussman said angrily. “I was interviewed by a reporter in Frankfurt; I spoke of my plans quite naturally. Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? “Well,” said Craig slowly, uncertainly, “what are you going to do?” There might be a good deal of embarrassment for the professor if he couldn’t bolster his assertions with some solid proof. Suspicions could become a neurosis, even a mania. They could destroy his work, all his career.

  “I’m going back to my hotel and telephone the Embassy. If it is closed, I shall visit it tomorrow morning on my way to the airport. If I get no action there, I shall send a telegram to Frankfurt.”

  Craig was startled by all this unexpected efficiency. The old boy (not so old, if he was the same age as Berg—if that stranger had been Berg, if Berg were still alive and not six feet under Berlin soil) was not only aroused but determined.

  “You are thinking it is all water under the bridge? That I am foolish to take action?”

  “No, no. Not that, exactly. I just see you back at another trial in Frankfurt.” Craig smiled to ease the small tension that had arisen between them.

  “It would be worth it,” Sussman said grimly. Then he smiled, too, rising to his feet, holding out his hand. “Water under the bridge flows on. There are other bridges, other people standing on them such as you and your generation, my friend. You think I should cling to the wreck of my bridge and not try to warn you of the hidden strength of that water?” He was shaking hands with great warmth. “Thank you again. Your moral support was all I needed, it seems.”

  “I’ll walk part of the way with you. How far is your hotel?”

  “Just a short block beyond the boulevard.” He listened to the renewed pattern of rain on the awning overhead, gestured to the splashing downpour on the street. “You stay here, I see.”

  “We’d better have another drink,” Craig suggested. “It can’t last long.”

  Sussman was buttoning his raincoat, pulling a small blue beret out from his pocket. “I’m prepared for it. Good luck, Craig. Write a fine book. Send me the proofs if you want an outside eye to read them.” And he was off, stepping briskly up the street towards the bright boulevard.

  As he stood watching Sussman’s determined stride, Craig listened impatiently to the argument still coming from the bearded young man and his girl. Was this some new way of making love? Idiots, he thought, and turned away from the darkening street and the chill of the pavement to the warmly lit café. Another drink, even of that atrocious Scotch, would be welcome. He stepped quickly aside to avoid a collision with a man in a hurry—the fair-haired man in the damp raincoat, who was too busy looking up the street to notice Craig. Everyone’s crazy except me, he thought in amusement, and I’m beginning to have some doubts about myself. For he was standing at the door, watching Sussman reach the boulevard, and behind him the man who had urgently remembered he had a train to catch. But th
e man’s pace was more normal, now, and he started crossing the boulevard ahead of Sussman, who must have seen him and yet did not swerve or change direction. If Sussman paid no attention to this man, why should you? Craig asked himself: relax, fellow, relax.

  He had his drink at the bar. The room was small, fairly clean, cosy enough, but sadly needing customers. It was just as well that Sussman hadn’t come in here. The talk around the sparsely filled tables was uninspired, and even if French always gave an interesting flavour to the smallest remarks, they were still, when translated, just of the So-I-said-to-him and So-he-said-to-me variety. A large wooden Buddha was fixed up against one wall, smiling down at the tables through his coating of dust. Over the bar, above the bottles and new cheap chrome, hung a large yellowed lithograph of Socrates lifting his cup of hemlock in a farewell toast to his pupils. A little more of this cute irony, Craig thought, and it won’t be this sickly tasting ice that makes me gag. He didn’t finish his drink, but left in almost as great a hurry as the man in the wet raincoat.

  The shower was tapering off. The awning dripped. Only the girl was sitting out there, now. She was sitting very still, hunched together, staring at the blackness of the night. How long had she been alone like this?

  Craig hesitated under the awning’s edge, glanced at her face. She was crying quite soundlessly. He looked away, but he didn’t leave. His excuse could be that he was waiting for the last few splatters of rain to thin into nothing. But the silent crying troubled him. He hesitated, looked again. She seemed aware of nothing. She was trying to rise, stumbling against the corner of a chair. He caught her arm and steadied her. “Are you all right?”

  She understood English, for she nodded. She drew her arm away, took a steadying breath, averted her face. The waiter, apologetic but insistent, called as he hurried out to them, “Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!”

  Craig looked at the tab on her table, left under a saucer, completely forgotten in her man’s Grand Exit. What does Sir Walter Raleigh do, he wondered now: pretend he has noticed nothing and stop embarrassing her? So Craig looked at the street, wet and shining, pulled up the collar of his jacket to protect his shirt from the last drops. She was fumbling with her purse. It dropped and scattered its contents. Sir Walter could at least bend his back and pick up the collection of small objects that bounced and rolled under the chairs. By the time she had paid the waiter, Craig had retrieved a compact, a lipstick, cigarette case and lighter.

  “Anything else missing?”

  First she shook her head, not looking at him. Then she said, in English, “Oh! My keys!” So he found them, too, after a little search. She was in control of herself by the time he had handed them over. She could face him for a moment, saying, “Thank you,” before she stepped out into the street. Quite beautiful, Sussman had said, and the old boy had been right. Smooth black hair, pale fine skin, lips soft in colour and in shape, dark eyes perhaps blue or grey. She drew the heavy collar of her sweater more closely around her neck, tightened the belt of her raincoat for warmth, shivered, and then started up towards the boulevard. Below the coat, her legs were slender, excellently shaped; her feet neat in high-heeled and very thin shoes.

  He caught up with her near the corner. She hesitated there, as if the bright lights and the rush of traffic and the crowd of people, all purposeful, all knowing where they were going, had completely sapped the last remnants of decision. “If,” he said as he stood beside her, “I’m lucky enough to get a cab, can I drop you somewhere?”

  “No thank you.”

  “If I’m lucky enough to get a cab, will you take it?”

  She looked down at her purse, briefly, shook her head.

  He remembered the bill she had given the waiter, not even bothering to wait for her change. Only a couple of francs, a few centimes left? As if to force the issue, he saw a taxi and signalled. Miraculously, it stopped.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” he said firmly.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk. Thank you.” The quiet voice was less icy.

  “Oil those wet streets, in these shoes? You’re crazy.” He held the door open. The driver looked round impatiently, firing off a staccato burst of short sharp syllables. “Get in,” Craig told her. “I won’t bite. I won’t even bark.” She stepped in.

  “Now where?” he asked more gently. It would be just his luck if she lived out by the Champs-Elysées, or somewhere high on Montmartre. He would be late for Sue and George: a fine way for young brother to welcome them back from Moscow; a first meeting in almost four years and he wouldn’t even have time to change his shirt and brush his hair. He glanced at his watch, but—he hoped—not too noticeably. “Where do I drop you?”

  “Rue Bonaparte at the Quai Malaquais.”

  “That’s no detour at all. Right on my way.” And somehow, he was very sorry about that.

  She sat very still, head up, eyes front, her arms tightly folded as if to warm her body. He didn’t press her for an exact address. He didn’t ask her name, or where she lived in the United States. He kept his promise, and did not talk at all. He had a feeling she was very close to a second bout of tears. When he helped her out of the taxi, he only said, “I’d recommend two aspirin and a hot toddy.”

  She tried to smile, gave him her hand. “I hope I didn’t make you late. I—” She turned away quickly, cutting her goodbye short. He watched her for a brief moment, and then got back into the cab.

  Blue eyes. Of that, he was sure now. And a pity, a pity about everything. He hoped she’d have better luck with her next young man. Or perhaps tomorrow night she’d be sitting at another café table taking another emotional beating. Sussman, echoing Shaw, had been right: youth was far too good to be wasted on the young. Of course, Sussman probably included him among the oblivious; thirty-two would seem almost juvenile to Sussman. Good God, he thought suddenly, Sussman was just about my age when he was caught by the Gestapo. A cold finger touched his spine. If I had been he, would I have made as good a showing with my next twenty years? Some generations really got the sharp-toothed end of the stick.

  He put these thoughts aside as they crossed the Seine. They were hardly good preparation for a family reunion. So he concentrated on the buildings rising around him, scrubbed back to the colour they had been centuries ago. Calculated lights outlined their proportions, discovered their detail, added drama and grace to their solid strength. Trees along the winding river were covering bare arms with bright spring dresses. And above the rooftops, above the glow of a large city, high overheard in a clearing sky, there were the first stars shining into view. Paris in April. This was how it should be.

  2

  When a man was thirty minutes late for a party, he might as well take ten more and arrive in a clean shirt—especially when he was armed with a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, 1955, to launch his apologies. The Farradays were at the Meurice, probably because that was the place most diplomats seemed to drift into. Fortunately, it was only a short distance from Craig’s hotel, although a long way in price and style. But as his brother-in-law explained once the exuberant welcome eased off, he was celebrating hard, and Sue deserved a suite no less, and in any case it was only for one night, and even a press attaché who didn’t rate this splendour could damned well dip into his own pocket for that length of time.

  Craig had never heard so much rush of self-explanation from George. He was a lot thinner and looked more than his thirty-eight years. Sue, on the other hand, had put on some weight, cut her fair hair short and brushed it straight. Not pregnant, John Craig decided, glancing at her thickened hip line; just an excess of solid-silhouette food, and not enough exercise. That accounted also for the loss of colour in her face. Her lipstick was much too dark and vivid, a remembrance of days past. It was the shadows under her eyes that really troubled him, along with the worry creases on her brow. But she was still as quick and sensitive as ever, still with her sense of humour. For she was laughing in the old way, pulling down the skirt of her dress from its wrinkles around the waist, guess
ing his thoughts correctly, saying, “George is the lucky one. When he worries, he loses weight. All I do is eat and eat. And sit brooding. Don’t be so alarmed, John. I’ll soon get rid of this.” She smacked her waistline lightly, threw her arms wide. “I’m free, I’m free, I’m free! Oh, it’s wonderful; wonderful. Wonderful to see you, wonderful to talk my head off, wonderful to go where I want when I want, wonderful—” She broke off, almost in tears. “John, you look exactly the same, and thank God for that.” She gave him a very intense hug: he had always been her favourite brother.

  Craig patted her shoulder, ruffled her hair, and looked over her head at George. “What was that you said about one night?” he asked, trying to get emotions calmed down. “I thought you were planning to be here for a week.” And that’s why I had planned two weeks in Paris, he thought ruefully: one week for family, one week to recover and see the town on my own.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow for Washington. Say, you got this champagne iced!”

  “Four hours, courtesy of the barman at my hotel.” And a nice-sized tip.

  “Then it’s just right for drinking. Sue, get some glasses—sure, these will do, over on the table.”

  Craig noticed that a little dining table, places for three, flowers, candles and all, had been set up near the window of the sitting-room.