The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “He has never failed us yet. When something is impossible, he says so frankly. His judgment is good. He is cautious. He is punctual. He does not do this for the money. He is dedicated, completely.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that. Pity, though, that we haven’t something to hold him—if necessary. Weren’t there photographs?”

  “We have some, taken at a Moscow party,” Peter said nervously. “But we have never needed to use them.” And we never will, he hoped. His own contributions to that party still made him sweat cold. He repressed a shiver, and smiled.

  “Then good.” Insarov stopped smoothing his hair; the frown vanished. “We needed an American with the right connections for this job. We have one.” He pulled on his coat. “Make sure the corridor is safe.”

  Peter moved to the door, then, with his hand on the key, paused to ask, “That other American—Craig—I think we should keep an eye on him.”

  “Just normal surveillance until you are satisfied.” Insarov did not seem too worried by that problem.

  “But does Craig really disbelieve Sussman’s story?” Peter asked, frowning. “Berg is important to us, isn’t he?”

  Insarov’s handsome face was bland. “I really don’t know,” he said, and shrugged. “Now I’ll say good night. Or is it good morning? I shall be in touch,” he promised. As he signed to Peter to open the door, he smiled at his understatement. In the next ten days, he would keep Peter very busy indeed. But had he been noncommittal enough about Berg? Uninterested enough in Craig so as not to stress any personal connection with Berg? As for Craig—he would be watched, his background checked, more thoroughly than Peter was planning to do. Fate took care of those who take care of themselves, and Insarov was one who took most excellent care. Even his wildest risks were calculated. Methodical Peter would shudder at them, but that was why he would always stay second in command. Without risk, there was no victory. “Good night, Comrade Makarov,” he murmured as he stepped into the silent corridor.

  Peter stared after him. So he knows about that, too? Peter’s rising terror needed all of the ten minutes of waiting, while Insarov walked through the dark streets, before it was repressed. He might think he had mastered it, but it would never leave him. It would ensure complete obedience, a nicely conditioned devotion. He would be praised for his loyalty to Insarov, and he would be flattered by such a public image, even come to believe it himself and maintain it wholeheartedly.

  A strenuous day, thought Insarov as he entered the waiting car. He said nothing to the driver, who knew his business. In silence, they headed south towards the Seine, crossed it, and turned east to the labyrinth of the Left Bank. A successful day, he thought, as they reached the Saint-Germain district once more. At the intersection of two small, scarcely lighted streets, he got out, waited in a doorway for the car to speed away, and then strolled back to his rented apartment.

  5

  John Craig had slept too well, but that left him with such a feeling of energy and general cheerfulness that he had no qualms over the small margin he had given himself to reach the Meurice. He shaved, showered and dressed in twelve minutes. He was putting the last things into his pockets, searching for a small map of Paris to make sure he wandered in the right directions once he had said goodbye to Sue and George, congratulating himself on having made it as he picked up his key, when the telephone rang. There were two gentlemen downstairs who wanted to see him most urgently. “Sorry,” he told the desk clerk, it would have to be some other time; he was leaving for breakfast. “They are already on their way, monsieur,” the clerk said and hung up. Like hell they are, Craig thought, and locked his door.

  They came out of the elevator just as he was starting along the corridor. They were mild-looking men, who appraised him with sad thoughtful eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have an engagement at nine o’clock.”

  “We shall not detain you long, Monsieur Craig,” the younger one said in good English. He gestured to his friend. “This is Detective Galland of the Sixième Arrondissement—the Sixth District, you would say? I am Tillier, also of that arrondissement. Perhaps we should go to the shelter of your room? Just a few questions, only formalities. We visited your hotel last evening, about ten o’clock, but we were told you were out for the evening.” Carrying a bottle of champagne, he remembered. Who said the police of Paris were tactless? “We thought you might not be returning until very, very late. And so we must catch you at this hour. Because we should like to have your opinion of Professor Sussman.”

  Craig, who hadn’t budged an inch towards his door, looked at them sharply, then moved back towards his room. So Sussman went to the police, he thought; he must really be desperate. “Come in,” he said. “I know that Professor Sussman’s problem isn’t actually in your line, but I hope you’ll help him and perhaps even get in touch with the right people who could—”

  “Monsieur Craig,” Tillier said gently, “the professor is dead.”

  Craig stared at Tillier, then at Galland. “What?”

  “A suicide. Yesterday evening.”

  Craig sat down on his bed. Galland talked in quick French to Tillier, who nodded. The American’s shock was very real, he decided. No need to waste too much time here. “If you could just explain this?” He pointed to the envelope that Galland drew out of his pocket. It was the one on which Sussman had written down Craig’s address.

  “He was going to send me some names of his friends in Rome and Athens—I’ll be travelling in that direction soon—and I gave him that address when we had a drink together yesterday.”

  “When and where?”

  Craig answered the question briefly. Tillier was making notes.

  “Was he depressed when you saw him?”

  “At first, yes.”

  “He stopped being depressed?”

  “Not exactly. He was—” Grim, determined, shocked; but also confident, hopeful, looking forward to his return to California and his family. “Suicide?” asked Craig angrily. “I don’t believe it. He wasn’t the type—”

  “But he was depressed. You said so. And that verifies what his wife’s relatives in Paris have told us. He was very morose, gloomy.”

  “He disliked them. No wonder he felt morose when he had to visit them.”

  Tillier nodded, but hesitated in entering that in his note-book. “Have you met them? Are they disagreeable?”

  “Never seen them. Look, I’m not a close friend of Sussman. I only met him by accident yesterday. But I do know—at least I feel sure—that he didn’t commit—”

  “It would have been impossible for his death to be caused by an accident, Monsieur Craig.”

  “How did he die?”

  The two policemen exchanged glances. “He fell from his window,” Tillier said. “And it was of such a nature, I assure you, that he could not have overbalanced and fallen. There is a railing, as high as my waist, outside of his window, and I am taller than he was. And much heavier. No, even if he stumbled at his window, he would not have fallen over into the courtyard of his hotel. Have you visited him there? Then perhaps you remember—”

  “I don’t even know the name of his hotel.”

  “You did not expect to meet him again?”

  Craig shook his head. “He was leaving today for America.” The telephone rang. “That’s my breakfast engagement,” Craig said, and picked up the telephone before Galland could reach it. It was Sue. He wasn’t forgetting; no, far from it, he reassured her: it was just that two policemen were here asking him about Sussman, yes, Sussman; they said he had committed suicide and he was telling them that he couldn’t believe it. Then he stopped as he heard some mumbling, an exclamation, at the other end of the line. Galland was looking at him with tight lips. “Sue... Sue—are you there?” he asked.

  A man’s voice took over. “Look, Craig, I want to make sure that these two guys are policemen. Put one of them on the line.”

  “They say they’re from the sixth arrondissement.” And what’s the additional fuss about?
he wondered.

  “Put one of them on the line.”

  Craig gave the receiver to Galland, who was standing at his elbow. He took it, answered curtly, speaking in French. Yes, of the Sixth District...the Twenty-fourth Precinct, Saint-Germain-des-Prés... Fourteen Rue de l’Abbaye... Yes, of course... He quite understood... But yes, certainly... And he was politely at ease again as he handed the receiver back to Craig.

  The man’s voice—was it Rosenfeld’s?—told Craig briskly, “Just say goodbye and get over here. Don’t argue the toss with them. Or else you’ll spend the next eight weeks hanging round Paris while they investigate. Got it?”

  Not quite. But I’ll catch on, Craig thought. He said, “I’ll be over in five minutes.”

  Gallant had been talking quickly to Tillier. “Just one thing,” Tillier suggested, as Craig turned away from the telephone, “if it was not suicide, if it could not be an accident, then what? Murder?”

  Craig began to catch on, all right. “I just don’t know,” he said. And that was true enough. He had no proof of anything, just a lot of vague suspicions running wild; it would take more than eight weeks to check them out, if they could be checked. The police would end by thinking he was crazy, just as he had thought Sussman was a little crazy. “If it is, I hope you catch him,” he added grimly.

  “Well, that’s about all.” Tillier closed his note-book quickly, and followed Galland to the door. “We regret we made you late for the farewell breakfast party with your sister.”

  Rosenfeld really had pulled sentiment, Craig thought. “That couldn’t be helped.”

  “Your brother-in-law has our address. If we have any more questions, he assures us that you will be delighted to pay us a visit.”

  Craig nodded. Brother-in-law, he was thinking. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  * * *

  In the blue-and-gold sitting-room, Sue was pouring coffee at the table near the opened window, George was busy looking through a newspaper with a quick and practised eye, Rosenfeld was finishing his third croissant as he listened. “I tell you,” Craig said, ending his brief recital of the detectives’ visit, “I don’t believe that Sussman committed suicide.”

  George folded the newspaper quickly, pointed to a small corner tucked away on the back page. “Just a moment! Here it is: Professor Jacob Sussman et cetera, et cetera, suicide, by throwing himself from his hotel-room window. Estimated time of death, between seven and eight-thirty, when the body was discovered. Had been suffering from severe depression. Hotel owner says he behaved oddly when he returned to his room about seven. American Consulate is taking charge of arrangements, et cetera, et cetera.” He handed the paper over to Rosenfeld’s outstretched hand, then glanced at his watch and shook his head. “I’ll have to run. Got meetings of one sort or another till late this afternoon. Rosie, you take charge here. Tell John to relax and leave police business to policemen. Especially when he’s a foreigner.”

  But Rosenfeld was getting to his feet. “I’d better move out, too.” And again avoid the front lobby, he thought. No use having Sue and George identified with this visit of his to the Meurice. Keep them out of trouble; they’ve had enough of their own in the last few weeks. He had managed to pick up the information he had come here to find; it solved nothing. Still, it did narrow the field, and that was always a small step in the right direction. The three guests who had called off from last night’s party were no longer interesting. Two were French reporters who had been sent to Marseilles yesterday morning in order to cover the heroin-factory story. The third man was a Canadian, but he had eliminated himself by falling in his bathtub a couple of days ago and was in the hospital at the time the stranger in the Bois de Boulogne had been collecting that chewed-up pencil stub. As for the guest who had practically invited himself to the party, there were two candidates for that distinction, one of them slightly more emphatic than the other. Wilshot had telephoned to say he was coming to welcome the Farradays that evening. Bradley was more diplomatic: he had called to ask when he’d have a chance of seeing them, and been invited. And their height? Around average, no more than a couple of inches’ difference between them. They both could qualify. So did every other man at the party, last night, except Craig and the Australian. Rosenfeld looked at Craig’s set face, now, and hesitated. Better spend a few more minutes here, he thought, and keep Craig out of trouble, too. He’s in a dangerous mood. George’s advice has riled him. Rosenfeld said gently, “George is right, you know. But so are you, possibly.”

  Craig looked at him with renewed interest.

  “Judging by that newspaper report,” Rosenfeld went on, “I shouldn’t wonder if the police agree with you. Why else should they let that item be published and still go on checking every lead?”

  “You mean the report is a smoke screen?”

  Rosenfeld waited until George and Sue, comparing their timetables for today, had drawn out of earshot. “It could be. They never would have bothered visiting you this morning if they were quite sure it was suicide. So you just leave it to them. They are very good. Don’t worry about that.”

  But Craig’s worry was about something else. “I ought to have stayed and talked. If they are thinking about murder—perhaps they would have listened to me after all.”

  “Talk about what?” Rosenfeld was instantly alert. “About Berg being seen? About Sussman’s suspicion?”

  “About the man I saw leaving the café in such a damned hurry. He was right on Sussman’s heels. At the time—well, I thought I was starting to imagine things, like Sussman.”

  “How old was this man?”

  “He was young. Fair hair, wet raincoat...” Craig paused, looked at Rosenfeld speculatively. “Berg was much older, about fifty, I’d guess.”

  Rosenfeld’s face went completely blank with the shock. His voice dropped. “You saw Berg? Craig—” He gestured to two chairs in a quiet corner of the room.

  But George Farraday, his last-minute instructions to Sue now ended, came over to join them for a hearty but hurried goodbye to Craig. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked Rosenfeld.

  “Shortly.”

  “That’s too late for me. I’m already ten minutes behind schedule. What about meeting me for lunch, along with Sutherland and three fellows from the—”

  “No. In fact, George, you haven’t met me today at all.” George Farraday half-smiled. “I haven’t? Okay. Anything else I haven’t done?”

  “You haven’t heard that your brother-in-law was visited by the police this morning. And you haven’t heard him say Sussman wasn’t a suicide. You only know what he told you last night. And that goes for Sue, too. Right?”

  Farraday said, “There dies another good story. Surprising how many of them, nowadays, have got to be smothered.” He seemed to be joking, but his eyes were thoughtful.

  “That keeps it a lot safer for everyone.” Rosie looked pointedly at Craig. “Goodbye, George. And take off the pack. I’ll handle this.”

  That reassured George. A last kiss for Sue, a wave to Craig, a nod to Rosie, and he was out of the room. She wasn’t easily persuaded. Perhaps she didn’t know Rosie as well as she thought she did. “You mean there could be danger for John in all this business? Good heavens, Rosie, he only gave the poor man a drink!”

  “Oh, not any real danger. Just publicity in newspapers, delays in getting away from Paris, complications... You know, Sue. Now, I want to hear from John everything he can tell me about Sussman’s career. So why don’t you start changing into street clothes, and pack your overnight things, and make a list of all that shopping you want to get done.”

  Sue went towards the bedroom, even if a little reluctantly. She had a busy day ahead of her, that was true. “I had some things to discuss with John,” she protested faintly. “Don’t be too long, Rosie. I have a hairdresser’s appointment at half-past ten. And don’t tell me my hair looks fine as it is!” She closed the bedroom door with a firm little bang.

  “Craig—” Rosenfeld was beginning exactly where he
had been interrupted. “Let’s sit over here. Tell me what happened yesterday when you met Sussman, from the very first minute you saw him until the last. Anything could be important, even a seemingly stupid detail. It’s all fresh in your memory, isn’t it?” For Craig still hesitated, as if he were weighing him up. “Why am I so damned curious, is that what you’re thinking? Well, it’s obvious that this could have been a political murder, an assassination. Right? In that case, I wouldn’t advise you to take your story to the sixth arrondissement. It isn’t in their line of business. You need something like the Sûreté for this. I have made some friends in Paris who have certain contacts, even some influence, there. They are the kind of people you should be getting in touch with. You give me the facts and I’ll see they get them. Today.”

  Craig was watching him, with amusement showing in his cool grey eyes.

  “Well, what?”

  “I was just wondering how many refrigerators you do sell.”

  “Refrigeration. Not refrigerators.” Rosenfeld grinned, inclined his head. “I like your caution, anyway.” He lit a cigarette, sat back, did no more persuading. A man like Craig made up his own mind. It would be easy to enlist Craig’s help by explaining a number of facts about Heinrich Berg; it was also impossible. He thought, perhaps—if he won’t talk now—I’ll have to get Bernard at the Sûreté to send a couple of men and pick Craig up at his hotel. He wouldn’t like that. Nor would I. It could put him in danger, bring his name into the open. And much might be lost: time, surprise, Berg himself. Rosenfeld drew a deep, silent breath.

  And Craig was thinking, I’ll have to trust him. George does, that’s evident. And who else is there, anyway? “Sussman’s death is more than a French problem. Is that it, Rosie?” he asked quietly.