“Better to get his news this way,” Rosie said tersely.
“Someone still interested in you?”
“Infatuated with me, damn them. But let’s disappoint them, shall we?” His smile became blandly innocent. “And what’s exciting the French?”
“A night club called Le Happening. And guess who gave them the break on this? Interpol.”
“Interpol? What were they expecting at Le Happening—heroin or white-slave traffic?”
“Either. One of the part-owners was almost convicted twelve years ago of smuggling drugs and shipping stranded chorus girls into the slave states. So when this new club was started a few months ago with no visible backers, Interpol took a quiet interest. The Paris police co-operated and placed three of its agents as a waiter, a stagehand, and the cloakroom biddy. She reported that last Wednesday night, or rather, in the small hours of Thursday morning, a blonde girl waited for an American in the lobby. He wore dark glasses. He carried a book in a bright jacket, and displayed a pair of new gloves quite prominently. He also had a folded newspaper under his arm in a distinctive alphabet—she thought Greek. He just dumped his coat on the counter, keeping his face turned to the girl. They did not call each other by any name when they met. They only stayed a brief time. The girl left first. The American collected his coat—he had a handkerchief up at his face, blast him—and then made for the men’s room. But he didn’t go in. He kept on going, past the back of the stage, to the rear of the building. He never came back. Must have left by one of the old entrances to the delivery yard.”
“Good for the hat-check chick!” Rosie was always delighted by efficiency.
“She’s reaching sixty. One of the best operatives in the Narcotics Branch. She knows a recognition signal when she sees one. Oh, yes—the girl wore odd earrings: one emerald, one ruby. Sounds charming, don’t you think?”
“And what did the Narcotics Squad find next morning—I suppose they searched the back premises?”
“They certainly did. In the hours when the place is closed except for cleaners, they got one of their men to slip into the back corridor. Storage and unused dressing-rooms. Nothing there in the way of cartons or containers. No sign of heroin in the dust on the floor. But there was a mirror on the wall between two rooms. A see-through mirror.”
“Well, now—the clever little rascals.”
“That was when Interpol and the French police decided it might be espionage, and not drug-smuggling. They handed the problem over to the Sûreté. Bernard has been working on it.”
“He has, has he?”
“I think he was waiting to get some results before he told us about it,” Partridge said tactfully.
“Very thoughtful of him.” Rosie took a long breath. “Cooperation! Oh well, it’s his country. But dammit, you’d think—He caught hold of himself. “Perhaps I’ve lived too long here. I’m beginning to assume this is partly my country, too. All right, all right... He’s working on the problem?”
“He had some of his experts install a listening device in the rooms with the connecting mirror. It wasn’t too easy—no furniture worth mentioning, no lamp shades, and the electric bulbs are doubtless changed regularly.” Partridge’s amusement boiled over into a fit of laughter. “So they wired the mirror for sound—used its frame.”
Very funny, very funny, thought Rosie, but where does this lead us?
“And it worked!” Partridge said, recovering himself. “At two A.M. on Saturday morning, there was a brief conversation between a Russian and a man who was to use the name of Jordan. Instructions were given to Jordan about meeting Craig that afternoon or evening in the Saint-Honoré lobby. Also, he learned certain information about Craig based on a telephoned report from New York about a Columbia College year-book. Also a photograph taken of Craig at the Eiffel Tower was examined and discussed.”
Rosie relaxed. “We’re in business,” he said very softly. He studied the arm of his chair. It was a violent purplish red, a cheap imitation velvet worn in mauve patches. He picked at a loose thread. “You’ll call me as soon as Duclos passes on any more news?” It was Rosie’s way of giving an order. He rose from the abominable chair, caught sight of the giant yellow roses on the blue wallpaper, and groaned. “I hope you don’t ever have to sleep here.”
Partridge was picking up the soiled raincoat which had lain near him on the bed. He pulled it on, and it transformed his grey flannel suit into something less affluent and more suitable for his departure through the neglected lobby downstairs. “I’ll follow you out—I want to get back to the Saint-Honoré tonight.”
So Jim Partridge was worried about Craig, too. And with every reason. Rosie said regretfully, “It would be easier on him if we could explain things more.”
“You’d trust him as far as that?”
“If we were forced to, I’d trust him. But let’s hope it never comes to that.”
“Amateurs worry me. They’re too big a responsibility.” Rosie inclined his head in half-agreement. Sometimes, though, they produced the most astounding results. He thought of Venice, almost three years ago. “Bless their little hearts,” he said.
“Of course, Craig seems to have the right impulses. I mean, if you trusted him with the truth, he’d probably accept it. He wouldn’t start trying to prove you’re an idiot or a liar just so he could dodge the real issue and still keep his conscience happy.”
“You seem to know him well,” Rosie murmured.
“I’ve been listening to you. I think you like the guy. By the way, what happened to the man who took Craig to the café?”
“Photographed and followed. He may lead us to interesting people.”
“And Jordan? The same treatment?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s progress of sorts. You know, I think Berg must be staying some place very close to that café. How else could he have appeared so quickly once his man had delivered Craig to the right table? And there’s the problem, too, of how that man knew that Craig was going to be wandering through bookshops.”
“My guess is that he didn’t know, that he was told to go to work on Craig whenever Craig was visiting the Left Bank. And that has been quite often. He seemingly likes the place.”
“The curious thing,” Partridge said thoughtfully, “is the difference between the two sets of instructions. Those given Jordan were precise. Those given the second man, if you are right, were much more—imaginative. What’s your hunch, Rosie? That there are two different bosses giving their own type of instructions? Or is there a split in command?”
“Jim, you know I’m always battling against hunches. They seem so damned idiotic when they don’t pay off.” Rosie’s amused eyes studied the younger man’s face. He relented. “But I wouldn’t discard that guess of yours. Every small idea counts in this game. And that was a good one.” Rosie paused at the door. “When you call me, add ninety minutes to the time you fix for the meeting. Where shall it be?”
“Duclos suggested Mimi’s shop. Rue La Fay—”
“I’ve heard of it. Hand-blocked linens and upholstery satin, all for the Cadillac trade. You’d never believe it, but the last time I saw Mimi she had the Lido all tied up with her bikini.” Rosie was still grinning broadly as he left. For such a solidly constructed man, his movements were surprisingly light. Partridge, standing at the door, couldn’t even hear the usual creak of the faulty floor boards.
He gave Rosie six minutes before he buckled the belt of his coat, turned up its collar to hide his clean shirt, pulled on a battered hat with a dipping brim, slipped off his glasses and put them into his pocket. He only needed them for reading, but they had become a habit; made him look more responsible, he had thought, a little more serious, older, more eligible for promotion. A bad habit, he decided, breeding the type of mind that was afraid of hunches. For he was still puzzling out Insarov, the man with the imaginative instructions, the man who played it by ear as well as relying on a machine-like mind. Insarov’s speciality was psychological warfar
e, wasn’t it? So that’s how Rosie guessed he would stage a confrontation scene. Damn it all, he said to himself, I made out all those reports; Rosie only read them. So why couldn’t I have risked a guess at Insarov’s behaviour patterns? Re-enactment, disclosure through shock? Yes, it was easy to see it all now, once it had happened. A nice case of hindsight. Not good enough; not good enough, when you dealt with a man like Insarov.
Then, as he left the room, he knew one of the answers to the puzzle. He had kept thinking of Insarov as some fantastic brain, some inexorable planner, a powerful force gathering strength to destroy his enemy. But Rosie had met that type before; Rosie knew he was human. And one thing all human beings shared in common, apart from the need to eat and drink and sleep and function as a body: each had his Achilles’ heel. What was Insarov’s? And what’s yours, Jim? He reached the desolate lobby, pushed open the finger-smeared door, and stepped into the dark street.
* * *
Partridge’s call came sooner than expected. It caught Rosie in his office, just before noon on Tuesday, the very next day. “Ici Basdevant,” began Partridge crisply, and then continued in heavy accented English. “About the question of the new refrigeration unit for the Caen Sausage and Tripe Distributors’ processing plant—when can you have it installed?”
“Any time. Just sign the order and we can start work on it at once.”
“Good. Then I shall sign the contract at four o’clock this afternoon, if that is suitable for you.”
“Most suitable,” said Rosie. “We shall have everything drawn up and ready. At your convenience, Monsieur Basdevant.” He could not resist adding, “The first name is Alphonse, is it not?”
“Correct. There will be no delay in installation?”
“I assure you, we have the unit available. I realise the urgency of your problem.”
“With the approach of a warm spring,” the Sausage and Tripe distributor said, “we must insist—”
“Have no fear, monsieur, your products will be safe with us.”
Monsieur Alphonse Basdevant bade a pleasant good day. So, Rosie thought, we meet at half-past two, and don’t be late. Something has developed, has it? Something big? In addition to that encouraging piece of news, he was beginning to have high hopes for Partridge. The over-serious calculating machine was showing a touch of humour. Or perhaps he had had it all along, and Rosie had smothered it. Some light relief was welcome, anyway; there was no better safety valve. It counteracted Rosie’s depressing discovery of that morning. His telephone had been tapped.
He became business-like, instructed his secretary to fill out a standard contract for a refrigeration unit, to be signed this afternoon on behalf of Caen Sausage and Tripe Distributors by their agent Alphonse Basdevant. Time and place of delivery to be added on Basdevant’s instructions. She could leave it on his desk. He was now going to lunch and then to a fitting at his tailor’s. About time, too, didn’t she think?
8
Rosie approved of Mimi’s shop. It was close to a Métro, a bus stop, and a taxi rank. It lay on a busy street. And it shared the same entrance with five other specialised places—a little dressmaker, a little hat designer, a little travel agency, a little boutique for Florentine handbags and Perugian sweaters, and a little man for big parties. (The adjective “little” showed how talented and expensive they all were.) There were constant comings and goings, a perpetual drift of people so intent on their highly important business that the more ordinary mortals such as Rosie were not even worth one glance.
Mimi, in person, was far from little. She was the only girl that Rosie could remember who had made a bikini look as if it had been designed for a Caryatid solemnly gazing over the Acropolis, one thigh forward ready to march in sacred procession to Athena’s high altar. Her hair was now a rich ripe auburn, piled loosely over a white face and dark eyebrows. But the smoke-grey eyes still had the pure intent gaze of the Caryatid, seemingly blank, aware of everything. She opened the door, with its CLOSED ON TUESDAY sign already displayed, and locked it securely behind him. “Cher Rosee!” she said, giving him a soft cheek to kiss and an enveloping hug from her beautiful strong arms. Then she retired with her long slow stride to her own corner, settled before her drawing board, continued her work on a current design, and left the three men to themselves.
Duclos’ eyes were a bright blue today, a sign that excitement was running through his veins. Partridge had been anxious, even tense, but with Rosie’s safe arrival he relaxed. Now he was watching Duclos, impatient and curious. Rosie looked at them both, pushed aside a bolt of antique satin from the one comfortable chair over which it had been draped to entice a customer, and sat down. My news will keep, he thought, looking at the expectant faces. He put aside the memory of a hurried and horrible lunch, of the long, long journey to cover the equivalent of ten blocks between the restaurant and Mimi’s. “Sorry I’m late. I’m ready, Yves. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Jim told you about Le Happening and the mirror we wired for sound?” Duclos began. “It works. There was a long session in the unused dressing-rooms last night. We picked it up, all of it. And taped it. You can hear it in detail when you visit Bernard. Part of it is in Russian, of course. We’ve had that translated. Part of it is in French, when a woman was getting her instructions from someone who gave his code name as Peter. Her name is Erica. She’s the same woman, the cloakroom attendant assures us, who met the American in the lobby last week. His name came into Erica’s conversation with Peter. It is Alex. Her instructions were to travel to Greece and take up residence on the island of Mykonos. Alex would visit her there, briefly, on his way back to Paris. He would pass her some information of the highest importance. She would deliver it within a few hours to someone on the island. She would receive further instructions about that later. In the meantime, she is to concentrate on making her journey to Mykonos seem plausible. She is borrowing a house, rented by her uncle, so that she can enjoy a summer of painting. She will invite another girl to accompany her, someone who also is an artist. Then the two of them can have many parties, meet many people. In this way, the couriers or agents who make contact with her during the summer will seem to be a natural part of the general picture. Alex will be her first visitor. She is to expect him in the early part of May.”
Duclos paused to take a map out of his pocket, unfold it, stretch it flat on a small table.
“Mykonos.” Rosie glanced over at Partridge, who only smiled quietly. Mykonos had appeared in Partridge’s report on Heinrich Berg, a small item dealing with Berg’s closest friends in Nazi Germany who were still known to be alive and free. There were only two of them left in that category: one was a woman, Berg’s mistress, who had shared his politics as well as his bed, and was now rumoured to be in Milan: the other was Gerhard Ludwig, who had never been a member of the Nazi party but had left Germany in 1950. It was known that he had been living in Greece and writing travel books. Three years ago, he had left Athens for the Greek Islands. He was reported living in Mykonos.
“Yes, Mykonos!” Duclos answered. “It’s the most perfect place for their purpose. It has a constant stream of visitors—writers, painters, scholars, ordinary tourists who are cruising through the Aegean. It has an art colony—quite a number of French intellectuals have rented houses. There is a harbour for small yachts, sailing boats, fishing boats. The cruise ships call there; and so do the inter-island mail boats. And then Delos—”
“Yes, it’s perfect,” agreed Rosie. Unlikely in its innocence; and therefore all the more perfect. He rose and went over to look at the map. Mykonos had a central position among the scattered groups of islands in the Aegean.
“But where,” asked Partridge, “is Alex arriving from? Mykonos gives us no indication where he had been gathering information: it’s just about half-way between Greece and Turkey.” He came over to join the others at the map. “It was a simpler problem for us two years ago, when we had some worry about the islands of Lesbos and Chios which lie very close to Turkey—Chios is
only a few miles, practically swimming distance, from the Turkish coast, and the quickest way to get from Greece to Smyrna.”
Duclos was startled. “Just one second!” he said sharply. He looked annoyed, almost deflated. “Will you please wait until we finish with questions about Mykonos before you start talking of Smyrna, or Izmir, as the Turks call it?” Having established control, he added with a friendly smile, “You Americans—you are always blasting off in every direction.”
“Okay,” said Partridge with a grin. “I was heading right back to Mykonos anyway, because what worried us in Lesbos particularly was an attempt to form a base of Communist espionage operations which would gather information about the Turkish coast all the way south from Canakkale on the Dardanelles to the American base near Smyrna using Chios as either a cut-out or a handy transit station but if you look at these islands’ position on the map you’ll agree the project was a bit too obvious, even if daring, and so it failed and I’m only blasting off because Rosie says they always keep trying, bless the clever little rascals, and that lands me right smack on Mykonos.” He paused for breath, his grin broadening. If you talked fast enough, you could still make your point at the right and proper time. “All right; over to you, Yves. Questions about Mykonos.”
“I have a couple,” Rosie said, repressing his own smile. “But let me ask them sitting down. I had a lot of exercise today.” He led the return to their chairs, settled himself once more, avoided Partridge’s quick, enquiring eyes. “First, who is the girl that Erica will invite to Mykonos? Any indications?” She could be another member of Erica’s Communist group; or a sympathiser, eager to help and obey; or some innocent who hadn’t the faintest idea for what purpose she was being used.
“There were two definite specifications,” Duclos said. The girl must be politically immature and emotionally unattached. There were also suggestions that she must be charming enough to attract friends on Mykonos, trusting enough so that she would not be suspicious. Perfect cover for Erica, isn’t it?”
The Double Image Page 11
