Rosie looked at him in amazement. “That’s it, exactly.” By God, he thought, this man is no fool.
“All right,” said Craig, and began his story. “I met him by accident...”
* * *
The story ended. Rosie, his face expressionless, was silent. Craig rose, poured himself a glass of water. It was a relief to get rid of all those facts; it was strange, too, when he had been forced to produce them in sequence, how they began to explain each other. “One thing I do know about you, Rosie,” he said with a smile. “You’re a good listener.”
Rosie had looked up quickly, and then relaxed. “I was just giving thanks,” he said and rose, too. “It is really a pleasure to watch an accurate memory at work. Is that what they teach you in history?”
And what does that small joke mean? That he doesn’t really believe Sussman’s story? He is letting me down lightly? “Isn’t it possible,” Craig tried, “that Berg stopped at our table to point out Sussman to the man in the raincoat? The more I think of the sequence of events—the way Berg waited across the street until his man arrived, as if he had sent for him or—”
“Don’t,” said Rosie gently, “don’t think about them any more.” Pretty good, he thought of Craig’s remarks, pretty good at that.
“You didn’t believe—” Craig began sharply.
“I believe everything you said. I am asking you to forget it. Let me do the remembering. I will.” Rosie was thinking, Berg and Insarov... Yes, that seemed more and more likely. Better get in touch with Partridge and Duclos, as soon as possible. Let them contact Holland and Bernard at the Sûreté.
“Forget it? That’s a steep order.”
“It’s just practical advice. Berg isn’t alone... I can see the mark of an organisation, a well-disciplined and powerful group.”
“An organisation?” Craig didn’t like the sound of that word in the way Rosie had spoken it: it carried a threat. Was Rosie trying to warn him, without giving too much away? “He could have been acting alone, you know—with a friend or paid thug to help him.”
“If he were alone and wanted to escape arrest as a Nazi war criminal, he only had to pick up and run, hide somewhere else, adopt a new name, a new life. There’s plenty of space in this world for clever fugitives. But he wanted to stay here, unmolested. Why? A mission to perform, perhaps? Then he isn’t alone. He didn’t kill Sussman, but he ordered the killing. If he has done that once, he can do it again. And for the same reason: protection of his mission. Dedicated men, you know, have a brutal logic. To them, people like Sussman are just specks of dust in the machinery—to be wiped off, and forgotten.”
“I get the message,” Craig said abruptly. “I don’t talk about Berg.”
“And you follow your own routine exactly, as if yesterday had never happened.”
“You think they’ll be interested in me even if I keep my mouth shut?”
“Very interested—until they are convinced they don’t have to reckon with you. So play it safe, Craig. Play it very safe.”
Craig took a deep breath. He walked over to the window and looked out over the busy street. Beyond it were the Tuileries Gardens, neat paths and flower beds and carefully arranged trees. Children playing, people walking, sitting, talking, thinking. About what? Families and illness and holidays; bills to be paid, a dress to be bought, a new car, a television set; marriages and love affairs, business and pleasure... Nice, normal world, whose worries and alarms now seemed very simple. “And only yesterday morning,” he said with a wry smile, “I was a reasonably happy man.”
“So was I,” said Rosie.
Craig looked back at him. I ought to be thanking him for his warning, he thought, instead of feeling sorry for myself. “When will I see you again? And where? I’d like to know how the action goes. I’ll breathe a little easier when I hear that Berg is arrested.” Now did I say something simple-minded, there? he wondered, as he noticed the amusement showing briefly in Rosie’s eyes.
Rosie came over to stand beside him. “I’ll miss this city when I have to leave it,” he said, looking across the Tuileries to the Seine. “Possibly the next time we’ll meet will be in New York in the fall.”
“I’d like to know sooner than that.”
“I’ll telephone you, keep you posted. But no meetings here. No visible contact.”
“Are you sure they won’t tap my ’phone at the hotel?” Craig asked, half joking, half annoyed.
“They might at that. If I can’t risk telephoning, then I’ll have to send someone with a message.”
Disguises are coming off, thought Craig: Rosie trusts me a little, at least. And that restored something of his good humour. Distrust, when it wasn’t earned, had a savage bite.
“He will know you,” Rosie went on. “He’ll make contact quite easily.”
“You disappoint me, Rosie. No high-signs?”
“Oh, he will shake hands, and leave a nickel in your palm.”
“I’ll end up rich if you send me enough contacts.”
Rosie laughed, clapped his shoulder. “See you in New York, Craig, and you can tell me all about Troy. That’s one place I really want to visit. I’d like to stand on the walls, look out over the plain down to the sea where the Argive fleet—” He laughed at the expression on the younger man’s face. “Do you know what I once thought I was going to be? An archaeologist.” He moved, still shaking his head, to the bedroom door. “All clear, Sue. Do I rate a farewell kiss, or aren’t you talking to me any more?” His goodbye was easy and affectionate, and remarkably quick. Craig, watching it from the window, had to admire the tact with which Rosie could fend off questions and yet give acceptable answers. In two minutes, Sue, who thought she was being considerably enlightened, had learned exactly nothing.
“But how nice,” she said as the door to the sitting-room closed, and they were left alone, “how nice that Rosie knows someone at the police station who can really keep your name out of the papers. I want to see Sussman’s murderer caught, but I don’t want to see you mixed up in it. These Nazis can be so vindictive, you know.”
“Suicide. Not murder. And I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Now what about your appointment? I’ll walk you there, and we can talk about Father. I’m more anxious about him than I admitted last night.”
“What?” she said, her worries flowing into new channels. And how’s that for a brief imitation of Rosie? he asked himself as they set out together. It worked, too. It was family, family, all the way, until the last kiss and parting hug.
6
“Follow your own routine,” Rosie had told him, and that was exactly what John Craig did for the next five days.
He admired some of the pictures at the Louvre and most of the sculpture, preferred Sainte-Chapelle to Notre-Dame, took refuge from Sacré-Cœur in Saint-Pierre-de-Montmartre, spent an afternoon in Versailles, a day at Chartres, wandered through Les Halles (and ate one of the best luncheons he had in Paris in the packed company of solid merchants and stall-holders testing the meat and cheese they had sold that morning), exploring the various little quartiers, looked at Paris from all sides of the Eiffel Tower, loitered at the bookstalls when he meant to be walking through more museums, got some almost-exercise in the parks, took in a couple of night clubs and three movies, tried several restaurants with stars before their names (he balanced this expenditure with bistros and Left Bank brasseries), and blessed the prevalence of the French café as pleasant easement for tired feet.
And no one followed him. Or perhaps he was trying not to notice, and succeeding remarkably well. There was, he decided, no use worrying over something beyond his control. He was a traveller on his first voyage of discovery to Europe, something he had begun to plan as far back as his Korean days, when his one ambition was to get as far away from the Pacific as possible and leave the mysterious East to newcomers who didn’t remember foxholes. And the plans had lain at the back of his mind during the years at college, during the postgraduate grind, and the extra jobs, and the teaching,
and all the damned budgeting for pleasures and week-ends that disrupted his time but were a hell of a lot of fun, too, and the articles and reviews that had led gradually, slowly but surely, to this visit to Europe. It was more than a bit of travel: it was the culmination of hopes and despairs, of dreams and decisions, twelve years in the making and now actually his.
Or was it?
He might not have noticed anyone trailing behind him trying to play the invisible man, but strange encounters were not so easily ignored. There had been several of them, most of them either definitely or possibly innocent; but two were more serious (although if Rosie hadn’t planted a warning in his mind, he might have just classified them under odd coincidence, the kind of thing that added a little spice to life), and one took his breath away. Fortunately, no one was testing his pulse at that moment.
Under definitely innocent came the old lady who had lost the right Métro; the young Dutch couple who wanted their photograph taken against the gargoyles of Notre-Dame (they had set the focus; all he was asked to do was to push the button of their camera); an American who was looking for a restaurant where prices were reasonable and the waiter might say thank you for his tip.
Under possibly innocent came the two English girls who attached themselves to him as a useful translator and then proceeded to give him a history lesson through the corridors of Versailles, ending with a shy invitation to a nice spot of tea somewhere in the little town before they all caught the bus back to Paris; and the Algerian student, of an age that indicated he was one of the chronics—the perpetual undergraduates who followed a policy of drift and never took a degree in anything. He shared Craig’s lunch table in an overcrowded brasserie, talked volubly about universities and politics, expressed the wish to visit the United States and, in between scathing denunciations of imperialism in Cuba and Viet Nam, wondered what American scholarships or grants he could get to keep him at a college there. He ended with a handsome invitation for the evening: he would act as Craig’s guide to the more recherché night clubs in Montmartre. He seemed disconsolate over Craig’s smiling but definite refusal, the end of a most promising friendship as well as a free night out on the town.
* * *
But two encounters were more serious, definitely disturbing. Their skill and effrontery might have been amusing if they hadn’t left Craig with the feeling that he was skirting disaster. The first was with a man possibly in his late twenties, nice clean-cut American-boy type, who bumped into him in the lobby of his own hotel, late Saturday afternoon.
“Pardon me,” the stranger said, and then grinned widely as he caught Craig’s arm. “Hi! Remember me? I’m Willis Jordan, Columbia ’fifty-nine. Now let me see, you’re—yes, you’re Craig. How’s that for memory?”
It was pretty good, Craig thought. He hadn’t the smallest recollection of Jordan. Not that that proved anything. Columbia University was a big place. He shook hands, half expecting to feel a nickel crushed into his palm, but there was nothing. “Frankly, I don’t remember you at all,” he said, keeping his voice friendly. After all, he had just shaken hands.
“Why should you? I was just one of the college boys trying to crash an advanced course on ancient history. You were one of the regulars, a graduate student no less. You didn’t think much of us, did you? Quite right. We didn’t last more than three lectures. Way beyond me, that stuff. But it made us feel good at the time. Big deal. Between you and me, did you ever learn much from old Sussman? He was the worst lecturer I ever heard, couldn’t make out what he was saying most of the time. Or was that just because I was stupid? Could be.” He laughed very generously at himself. “Come on and have a drink, just one, and give me all the news on Columbia. Haven’t seen it in years.”
And how do you know that I have? Craig wondered, and let that slip pass. The rest was so very good; simple and friendly, a little overconfident, like the undergraduate who had crashed Professor Sussman’s course. He resisted the impulse to say goodbye and clear out, but that would look as if the name of Sussman had scared him off. “Fine,” he said, and led the way into the hotel bar. It was small, square in shape, discreetly lit from the shaded brackets on its walls, a pleasant little place whose nineteenth-century elegance was fading into something cosy and comfortable. There were a few tables, thoughtfully spaced, and green velvet armchairs to match the antique green walls. Everything was old, a little worn, but clean and welcoming. Rather like the solitary bartender, behind his small mahogany counter with its three stools, stirring a dry Martini for a quietly dressed American with light sandy hair, a high forehead and thin-framed glasses. Craig had seen him around on other evenings, so he was a guest here, too. He could have been a young college professor, only his interests—judging from the magazines he always seemed to be reading—lay in auctions and antiques. “No luck at all, today,” he was answering the barman, as Craig and his hail-fellow came to stand beside him. “Nothing but junk, Jules, nothing but trash held together by some glue.”
Jules shook his head over the temerity of the furniture market, poured the Martini carefully, said, “You should try the Loire Valley, Monsieur Partreege. There are fine things to be discovered there.”
“Perhaps I shall. Thank you, Jules.” The American took his glass, tasted the Martini, nodded his approval, and left the bar for the one table still free, where he could study his catalogue in peace.
Mr. Jordan seemed relieved that the other American had gone. “Now we’ll have room for our elbows,” he said, grinning widely. “What’s yours, Craig? Scotch? I’ll try one of Jules’ Martinis.” Jules hardly flickered an eyebrow even if his first name was reserved for guests who came steadily. Jordan was too busy to notice. He was studying Craig, his smile still in place, trying to get back on to the subject of Sussman. “And what are you doing here?”
“Seeing Paris.”
“For how long?”
“Another few days.”
“Thinking of going skiing?”
Craig stared. “It’s a bit late in the year for that.”
“You know, funny thing, that’s how I remembered your face. I’ll never forget you hobbling on crutches around the campus—broke a leg, didn’t you? Made a big impression on me. Here’s someone who goes skiing and can understand Sussman, too!”
And here’s someone who has been reading through the old class yearbooks, thought Craig. Then he had a stab of guilt. Perhaps he was being too unkind to Mr. Jordan, perhaps the man had really been around Columbia from 1955 to 1959. “It’s easy enough to go skiing if you do tutoring on the week-end; and your pupil has an uncle who owns a ski lodge.”
But Jordan twisted back to the real subject. “And how is old Sussman? Still teaching away?”
Craig looked at the smiling face and took a deep breath. Then he said, very quietly, “He’s dead.”
“When?” The smile faded perfectly.
“Three days ago. In Paris. It was in all the papers. Suicide.” And that, thought Craig grimly, will save unnecessary questions.
“Now what could have caused it, d’you suppose?” Jordan’s sympathy was even harder to take than his genial curiosity. Craig shrugged. “Tough,” said Jordan. “You always liked him. When did you last see him?”
“We had a drink together on the day he died.”
“How was he then? I mean—it’s a really terrible thing, suicide. Didn’t you feel something was wrong?”
“No. Or I wouldn’t have said goodbye to him and let him walk away.”
“You mean, he was quite normal—just sat talking about nothing, passing the time of day?”
“I hope not. He asked me about my work, gave me some advice, a lot of encouragement.”
“I can see why you feel so bad, talking about yourself and all the time he must have been worrying about something else.”
“Now look here, Jordan—” Craig began in real anger, and stopped. Don’t be goaded, he reminded himself. “How the hell do I know what you’re thinking? You might be planning suicide right now. How does
a man read another’s thoughts? Sussman was depressed, yes: he had just been giving testimony at Frankfurt. I thought some talk about his own subject would get his mind off those trials, make him forget. I was wrong. So—”
“Hold on, hold on, I didn’t mean it that way. Of course you couldn’t guess. But something must have been troubling him badly. Now you’d think, wouldn’t you, that he had a fine chance to tell you his problems when he met you, and get rid of them? You knew him well—”
“I guess I didn’t know him well enough,” Craig said sadly, honestly. He frowned at his drink. I used to laugh at movies where one guy at a bar hit out at another guy, but I swear if Jordan doesn’t take that sympathetic voice out of my hearing in the next three minutes, he isn’t going to have much voice left. One sharp blow across his throat with the back of my hand—yes, just the way I used to practise it in Korea for night-patrol work. Karate in Saint-Honoré bar. A nice headline.
“Now that’s an interesting thought, whatever it is,” Jordan said, watching his face.
“Who knows anyone well enough?” Craig finished his drink. “What about another? You haven’t told me yet what you’re doing in Europe. Business or pleasure?”
Jordan looked at his watch. “It’s past six. Got to get going. I have to meet a lawyer tonight; I’m publicity man for Eurasia Films, and we’re running into trouble over distribution of a movie about the French Army.”
“Business on a Saturday night? That’s working you hard.”
“Has to be, has to be... I’m back in Brussels tomorrow. That’s the way it goes. Well, good to see you again. Here, Jules, keep the change.” He pushed some ready francs across the counter, patted Craig’s shoulder, and left.
“Another Scotch, Mr. Craig?”
Craig nodded. If ever a man needed grog it was John Craig, standing in a quiet and pleasant little bar, with the gentle hum of innocent voices rising from the tables behind him.
“And what about you, Mr. Partreege?” Jules asked of the thin-faced American, who had come back to the bar.
The Double Image Page 9
