He suddenly realised that he was striding down the avenue looking like a man with a fixed destination ahead of him. Not good, that, he warned himself with mock seriousness. He eased off his pace, stopped now and again at the shop windows, some smart, some cheap, glanced casually at the more interesting faces that passed him, as if he were enjoying a normal walk through Paris. The streets became more crowded as he reached the Louvre. He thought of dropping in—he had the theory that the only way to see a museum was in brief visits, no longer than an hour each, when you could choose what you felt like seeing and spare your mind wild indigestion: whoever ate his way through a menu from top to bottom, missing no dish? But he recalled Carlson’s hint, much in line with the shenanigans in all the espionage movies he had attended: museums were excellent meeting places for agents. So—with another touch of levity—he kept himself clear of suspicion (if he were being followed) by skirting the old palace and sauntering across the Seine. He could imagine Carlson’s shake of the head, telling him he was doing the right thing but with the wrong attitude. Fenner’s jocularity turned into quick and complete depression.
He was not too far from the Ile Saint-Louis, but there were almost two hours to kill before he met Mrs. James Langley. Had that voice on the telephone really been hers? Perhaps that was why he felt so damn depressed. With that voice at his elbow, even Venice would be ruined. If he had to share Venice with a woman, he’d like her soft-spoken, laughing, interested; and, at very least, agreeable to look at. I’ve become too much of the successful bachelor, he thought, wanting everything just my way. Master of my fate, captain of my soul? Like hell I am!
He stopped at a couple of the bookstalls on the quay to find out if he was being followed. (See, Carlson, I’m learning.) He reasoned that he could expect that from now on: his movements would be checked just to make sure that they’d tally with the story that had been built up around him. But after fifteen minutes of looking at battered books, old prints, and bargain seekers, he felt sure that no one was interested in him at all. He walked farther into the Left Bank area, still more convinced that he wasn’t being followed, beginning to wonder if Carlson’s caution had not been excessive, a sort of occupational disease. He came to the Boulevard Saint-Germain. There was no breach in security in walking along it, in the direction of the Boul’ Miche, where he could have a beer and relax before he headed for the Ile Saint-Louis. There was no breach of security, either, in glancing down the street where the Café Racine retired so modestly from the busy traffic of Saint-Germain. Today it was a crowded corner, jammed. And quiet. Fenner halted abruptly, became one of a group pressed together, staring across at the Café Racine.
The restaurant’s front had a jagged gape. There had been a fire, too. Blackened stone, dark water deep in the gutter, smashed glass on the sidewalk, the acrid smell of disaster still hanging over the quietened little street. Policemen were on duty; some firemen were walking in and out of the ruined restaurant. All action was over.
“Terrible, terrible,” the woman beside Fenner kept repeating. “The filthy pigs. Assassins! Two children dead. They lived on the floor upstairs.” She saw she had caught a listener. She was normally a fat, jolly woman, but anger and excitement had turned her into a hoarse phonograph. She had seen it all. Been walking along this street. Poor little innocents. Their mother had just left them to buy some olive oil at the shop around the corner. Some women didn’t even know how to keep house, nowadays, running out of olive oil—
“What happened?” Fenner asked abruptly.
“A fire. And the two little—”
“How did it start?”
“A bomb. Then the fire. Spreading. I saw it as I walked along the street. I could have been struck by flying glass. It was terrible. They lived on the floor upstairs—”
Fenner turned away quickly from the grim evidence of smoke-stained walls, of smashed and blackened windows, leaving the woman in search of a new listener. The bewildered face of an old man caught his attention. It was the waiter who had served him yesterday in the Café Racine. “Auguste?” Fenner asked, catching the thin, frail arm.
Auguste looked slowly around, with no recognition. “Terrible,” he said, “terrible...”
“What happened?”
The old man shook his head slowly, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Both dead,” he said at last. His white hair was soot-streaked; his threadbare alpaca jacket was smeared and stained. One sleeve was charred.
“I know,” Fenner said. Did terrorists never think of two children when they packed their ideals into a bomb? All and everything for the cause, including two children. “Did anyone get hurt in the restaurant?”
“Both dead,” Auguste repeated dully. “Monsieur Henri. Madame Angélique. Both. They were at his table. The bomb was there. I had just left.” The red-rimmed, watering eyes looked at Fenner. They still could not understand his escape. The others were dead; he was alive.
“Was there no one else at the table?” Fenner asked quickly.
“The professor had left, too. To talk on the telephone. He was at the desk. Madame Angélique’s desk. And she was at the table. Monsieur Henri was talking to her.” Auguste sighed. “And so they are both dead.”
“Was the professor hurt?”
“An arm broken. A little burned. He tried to reach Monsieur Henri. They took him to the hospital. Three waiters, too. No guests were there. It was early, you see. Twelve o’clock. I had just left to fetch a bottle of wine—” Again the white head was shaking, slowly, wonderingly.
“No good standing here,” Fenner said. “Come away. Where do you live?” I’ll get Auguste into a taxi, he thought, and deliver him home: he has lost the will to move.
But Auguste would have none of it. He drew his thin shoulders, almost angrily, back from Fenner and resumed his staring at the Café Racine, his eyes dull again, not seeing, only remembering that he, counting the months to his own death, had stayed alive today. All right, Fenner thought, I shan’t cheat you of your miracle. He left the old man, then.
So Wahl and Lenoir had silenced Henri Roussin. And if Rosie hadn’t telephoned, they would have silenced Vaugiroud, too. And Angélique—she had been expendable. So were the two children who had nothing to do with anything... Fenner’s shock gave way to anger. It deepened with his sense of personal failure. Somehow, he ought to have warned Roussin in time. Even Rosie came in for a touch of blame: why hadn’t he got hold of Vaugiroud before he had left his apartment? But Fenner’s recrimination collapsed: it certainly wasn’t Rosie’s fault; he hadn’t known Vaugiroud’s daily routine; he hadn’t known about any bomb. He had only followed an instinct, a suspicion, when he had telephoned Vaugiroud. “It’s a fixed date?” Rosie had asked unexpectedly. Now, Fenner knew just how worried he must have been. And there I was, Fenner thought bitterly, not realising what danger could really mean, just thinking of it as a big vague threat, even making light reference to Roussin’s invitation to lunch—Good God, I could have been there when the bomb went off!
He reached the Ile Saint-Louis almost twenty minutes early. He hadn’t stopped for any beer—he had forgotten about it, in fact. He unlocked the door, and stepped into the small recess that formed the entrance hall. The white-and-green living-room was softly bright in the afternoon’s sunshine. There was a grouping of suitcase, overnight case, red handbag, near an armchair where a dark-blue cashmere coat had been thrown along with a pair of white gloves. So Mrs. Langley was already here, and ready to go. She was in the bedroom, for he heard a door close sharply, and then, “Who’s that?”
“Bill Fenner,” he called back. “Sorry if I frightened you.” Stupid oaf, he thought, I ought to have rung the bell.
“That’s all right,” she said, coming into the room, high heels tapping lightly. He knew the voice, even knew the footsteps, before he saw the hair falling over her brow and the large grey eyes looking at him hesitantly from under long black lashes. The smile on the rose-pink lips was uncertain. “My name really is Claire Connor Lang
ley. I hope that answers your question.”
He recovered himself. “One of them.” He tried to smile. “When are you which?” She was wearing a light-grey suit with one of those stand-away necklines that emphasised a slender neck.
“Professionally, I use Claire Connor.” She noticed the slight lift of his eyebrow. “By profession, I mean an illustrator and designer,” she added severely.
He looked at the small automatic she had carried into the room. “A new type of pencil? Splatter effect, perhaps, in the Pollock manner.”
“Oh, this?” She laughed, embarrassed. “I was just getting it out of a closet. I keep it in a hatbox.” She crossed over to the armchair and picked up her large red handbag and slipped the automatic inside. “You think it’s pretty silly, don’t you? Perhaps it is. But it’s a comfort, too. Especially when a door was unlocked twenty minutes before I expected anyone—no voice, just a man’s footsteps.”
“I don’t think it is silly at all.” And he meant that.
She shook her head in mock wonder. “Neill Carlson will never believe it.” She noticed his face more closely. “Is something wrong? Did anything happen to you?”
“Just an initiation. My first terrorist bomb.”
“Near you?”
“No, no. I only saw the results. But I could have been there. If Carlson and Rosie hadn’t told me to keep clear of the place, I—” He paused. “It was the Café Racine. Roussin and his sister-in-law—”
“I heard about that on the radio. An OAS bomb, wasn’t it?”
“Not OAS this time. At least, I think not.”
“They’ll get the blame, anyhow.”
“Four dead—two of them just kids, burned alive—”
“Don’t,” she said, “don’t keep thinking about it.” The grey eyes seemed to have darkened. Then she brushed aside the invasion of grim memories. “You look like a man who needs a quick shower and a long drink.” She glanced at her small wrist watch, compared it with the clock on the desk. “We have plenty of time.” She adjusted her watch and wound it. “Did you collect the tickets?”
“No.” And blast me, he thought, for not remembering. “We’ll pick them up at the station.”
“That will cut down our time. I think we better take only twenty minutes here. Can you manage?”
“If you fix me that drink.” The Gare de Lyon wasn’t far from here. “Aren’t we going to be a trifle early?”
“It’s nice to look around and see who is travelling with us,” she said. She was already in the pantry, pulling out an ice tray. “I really am sorry for last night. Truly. You see—”
“Forget it,” he said, and headed for the shower. Last night... This wasn’t the same girl at all. This wasn’t the helpless little blonde that had been blown into the restaurant. This was someone who needed no help, capable and cool. This one would check her watch, see that they got to the station on time; the other one invented fanciful and funny stories. Which was the real girl, he wondered, or were they two sides of the same girl? Whatever she was, she had made sure of one thing: the fireproof asbestos curtain had been definitely lowered between them.
“Hell!” he said, as the cold water turned to scalding.
“All right?” she called through. “Cold runs hot and hot runs cold. Faucets are marked wrong. Sorry! And it wasn’t a lie, last night—about going to Venice this morning. I really was. But the plans were changed, and I—” She gave up. The hiss of water blotted out her voice. She went back to pouring the Scotch, making it a good stiff drink. He needed it, on every count.
She placed the glass on the bureau outside the bathroom door, selected a fresh shirt and socks from his suitcase, folded up his pyjamas and last night’s tie, and packed them away neatly along with his other clothes. The water had stopped hissing. “All clear,” she called, and went back into the living-room. She was waiting at the telephone when he came to join her. She picked up the receiver. “I’ll just let our taxi know that we are ready to leave,” she told him. She was still keeping her role of capable secretary. But, he noted, she had added a pair of pearl earrings, and a gold pin to her jacket.
“Our taxi? This is service.”
“Shall I say we’ll be downstairs in five minutes?”
“Fine.” He carried his luggage into the room as she telephoned. He was still thinking about the carefully arranged taxi. He remembered the pistol, too, so innocently hidden inside her handbag. “Are you expecting trouble to begin so soon?”
“You never can tell.” She looked around the room, checked windows, drew the curtains. She propped a note she had written for the concierge against the clock.
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t follow me,” he remarked, picking up her coat and handing her the gloves. “Can you take your overnight case? I’ll manage the rest. Ready?” I can be casually business-like, too, he thought.
“They didn’t need to follow you. They knew you were collecting me here. Spitzer would tell them.”
“And from here on we can expect to be followed?”
“Or to have a check made on our story. They have to know whether this trip is what we say it is.” She hesitated, but added nothing more. There was the faint pink of embarrassment on her cheeks. She avoided his eyes.
“We’ll make a good pretence. It won’t be hard—not for me.”
She looked at him. There was the beginning of a soft smile on her lips. “You have forgiven me for last night?”
It really worried her, he thought, and was somehow pleased by that. “We start afresh,” he told her. “In future, we tell each other the truth. Right?”
“Yes.” She suddenly relaxed. Even her voice changed from polite worry to warmth, hinting at laughter. “That will be a pleasant change—to have someone who can tell me all the truth, quite frankly.”
“Doesn’t Neill Carlson?”
Her large eyes widened, guessing and a little amused. “Now, Bill,” she said gently, “how can he?” Her eyes became thoughtful; she half-sighed. It might have been for Neill Carlson.
He opened the door. “Well, here we go. Good luck to us.”
We’ll need it, she thought. But she smiled and said, “We’ll manage.”
14
At the Gare de Lyon, in spite of the usual hustle and bustle and small delays, they had almost half an hour to spare. Tactfully, Fenner said nothing. Their luggage had been hauled through the windows of their adjoining compartments and stowed as far out of reach as possible; the blue-smocked porter, inclining an eyelid as a thank-you for a generous tip, had huffed away to pastures new and other sheep for the shearing; the wagon-lit attendant, either a Frenchman who spoke brilliant Italian or an Italian who spoke impeccable French, had shown them how the lights went on and all the mysteries of the concealed cabinets. He also had presented them with several forms to fill in detail for the two invasions—one just after midnight, when the Swiss passport control would board the train, the other for Italian Customs officers at three-fifteen in the morning.
“Shall we write these up while the train is stationary?” Fenner asked. “Or do you want a stroll?”
She wanted that stroll of inspection. So they walked back down the long platform, slowly, arm in arm. “Sorry about my train fever,” she said, “but this is pleasant, isn’t it?”
“Comforting, too?” he teased her, looking at the large red handbag slung over her arm.
She nodded, pretending to study the length of the train with admiration. “I always like to know the worst.”
“That saves you from nasty surprises?”
She smiled. “Sometimes.” She gestured to the train. “Look at our tame monster, getting up strength to pull us over the fields and forests of France, push us through the mountains of Switzerland and spill us out on the plains of Lombardy.” She seemed only to be talking for him, an astonishingly pretty creature whose complexion attracted other women’s eyes like a magnet, while their men, after an appreciative stare, would turn their speculation on Fenner. Listening to Claire, h
e was thinking that this would not be exactly an unnoticed journey. Perhaps that was the idea, perhaps that gave them a small margin of safety: who could imagine that any man travelling with this girl had anything on his mind except her?
“Help me talk, Bill,” she said pleadingly.
“But I like listening to you.”
“Don’t make me more nervous than I am!”
“You, nervous?”
“Tell me the worst play you saw last season. And why.”
“That would take exactly thirty seconds. What about turning back? We’re pretty far from our base.” Talk about the theatre when he himself was so damned nervous by this open-view walk? It was all he could do to keep his mind on the crowded platform. Left to himself, he’d have been skulking in his own compartment, reading, with the door firmly closed. Which possibly would have been the wrong thing to do. Their role was complete unawareness, wasn’t it? The happy travellers... Like the hundreds around them, installed in their places, standing at their windows to enjoy the rush of those who still struggled with suitcases and porters on the platform, or to call to the rolling food trolleys for sandwiches and drinks, stretching out their arms, snapping their fingers. Babel of tongues, of wheels, of excited talk, of darting movement.
And at that instant he saw Jan Aarvan. The man was standing at a crowded window, laying in a supply of ham rolls and red wine from a trolley below him. He was reaching down, too engrossed in being served before his neighbour to notice Fenner’s recognition. When he looked up, the food in his hands, Fenner was walking on at the same strolling pace, talking, smiling down at the girl beside him.
“We could turn back,” she was saying.
“Walk on,” he said quickly. “Just another carriage or two.”
“You saw someone?”
“I think so. Wahl’s chauffeur. He doesn’t look quite the same. His hair is darker, cut shorter.” But that intent face, caught off guard, had been the same one Fenner had seen glancing up at Vaugiroud’s house yesterday. There was the same bone structure, the same powerful shoulders, the same heavy neck. Now he was dressed in a mid-blue suit, neat white collar, neat tie, to make him look like a petit fonctionnaire travelling to visit his family back in the Jura, or a country lawyer from Provence who had been on a business trip to Paris. There were a hundred like that on this train.
The Venetian Affair Page 18
