The Venetian Affair

by Helen Macinnes

  “He likes Venice, I guess,” Fenner said. “And who is Neill Carlson?”

  “He’s some kind of pro tem press attaché at the Embassy in Paris. You never met him?”

  Fenner looked puzzled. He searched his memory obligingly. Claire said, slipping in quickly to the rescue, “Oh, I remember. I met him at one of your parties, Mike. So Neill Carlson is in Venice?” Her voice was even.

  Ballard shook his head, his eyes watching them. “He was killed last night. Fell from a train.” So there, Ballard thought, is the answer to that third blasted bloody question. He felt a great relief; they knew nothing about Carlson’s movements. And with the relief came a hot flush of embarrassment, a touch of shame as their quiet faces looked at him. He had a compulsion to talk, to explain, to make amends. “A lousy deal,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. But if it was murder, we’ll get the son of a bitch who did it. That’s one story I’m going to spread all over the headlines.”

  “Murder?” Claire asked faintly. That was what she would be expected to ask. But this attack of cold nausea and hot anger was real. Blindly, she stared at Ballard’s smooth, well-shaven face and wanted to scream.

  Fenner said quickly, “Perhaps you are on to something, Mike, after all.”

  “You bet I am.” It was pleasant to be accepted again. Fenner was no longer disbelieving. “Lenoir himself gave me the first steer. Telephoned me this morning. I caught the next plane to Venice.” Fenner looked impressed. “You don’t know Lenoir, but he is a man with plenty of contacts. When he passes on a tip, it’s worth considering.”

  “Did you go over and talk with him before you left Paris? Or could he give you enough information over the ’phone?”

  “He isn’t in Paris. He’s here. I’ll see him tonight and get more details. This isn’t the kind of stuff you can talk about on a telephone. Of course,” Ballard added quickly, “I’ll have to do the work on this story.”

  “Of course.”

  “And there will be plenty.”

  “Want any help?”

  Ballard retreated in alarm. “It’s my story, Bill.”

  “Sure. But you can’t expect to keep it all to yourself.”

  Ballard grinned. This was the kind of fencing he understood. “You just stick to your neutralists, and write some of that immortal prose of yours.”

  “By the way, who was that character who was talking to you before we arrived?”

  Ballard’s amusement sloughed off. “Just some two-bit journalist.”

  “Did Lenoir tip him off, too?”

  “No connection. He has nothing to do with Lenoir.” And Ballard believed that, quite obviously. “Never saw him in my life—until he sat down at my table.”

  Fenner said nothing. The pattern around Mike Ballard was emerging. And there was nothing Fenner could tell him that wouldn’t break security, endanger everyone. Someone else would have to find out why Ballard came in such a rush to Venice: the story Lenoir had promised him wasn’t supposed to break for at least four or five days. Yes, thought Fenner, someone else will have to talk with Ballard. And soon. He looked casually around the other tables—neither Rosie nor Chris was there. Out on the Piazza, there was still a dense crowd of people. He saw Pietro and his friend, walking with two smiling Italian girls. He thought he saw Chris Holland, too, feeding some pigeons. And then, strolling slowly back toward the half-emptied tables at Florian’s, he saw Jan Aarvan, completely nonchalant, just drifting along on a fine Sunday evening. Aarvan was confident. Aarvan felt secure. He’s had too many triumphs recently, Fenner thought: he is swollen with success. But unexpectedly, Aarvan disappeared into a crowd of tourists. Aarvan might be confident but he was still watchful, a clever and cagey operator. “Time to go,” Fenner said, rising definitely, glancing over at the big clock across the Piazza. “Quadri’s won’t keep that window table much past eight o’clock.” He pulled back Claire’s chair for her.

  Ballard looked up at them. “What about dinner tomorrow night, before I leave? And I can tell you about that story— I’ll have it filed by then.” He studied Claire’s face. She hadn’t spoken for a long time. “Don’t be mad at me, sweetie. I said I was sorry, didn’t I? And I still think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen in Venice.”

  He watched them walk away. He thought of ordering a drink. He needed one. High on the clock tower, the big Moors were raising their bronze arms to strike. Tourist stuff, Ballard thought, and eyed the waiting crowds gloomily.

  Fenner said quietly as they walked across the Piazza toward the brightly lit arcades on its other side, “How do we get a message to Chris?”

  “By way of Pietro, I’d think. It’s a risk, Bill.”

  “Got to be taken.” Fenner calculated their course to pass as near Pietro as possible. He and his friend seemed only intent on an animated conversation with their girls.

  “I’m dropping a glove,” Claire said. “Don’t notice.”

  Indeed he hadn’t. It was a most natural accident. “Signorina!” they heard behind them, and stopped. Pietro was brushing off the dust, presenting the glove with a bow. Claire was appropriately startled by her carelessness, thanked him for his kindness. But it was Fenner’s quick sentence that Pietro listened to. “He is seeing Lenoir this evening. Deadline tomorrow night.”

  They walked on, at the same leisurely pace. And paused, like everyone else, to look up at the clock tower when the two Moors bludgeoned the hours. A sea of sound washed over the darkening Piazza into the lighted arcades, drowning the voices and the café music, breaking high into the cool night sky above. A silver cloud of pigeons swirled and settled. “Eight o’clock and all’s well,” Fenner said wryly. People were moving once more; thinking of dinner, too. Among them were Pietro and his friends, as merry as a Christmas card. What if he doesn’t understand English? Fenner thought, and began to worry again. “I think I botched it,” he told Claire.

  Ballard watched the swirl of pigeons, the people beginning once more to move around. Across the Piazza, he saw Claire’s blonde head gleam under an arcade’s high lamp, as Fenner led her through the curved arch into Quadri’s. But the crowds closed again, and they were hidden from view. The restaurant’s second-floor windows were wide open and softly pink, each table glowing warmly with its small shaded lamp. Fenner had all the luck, Ballard thought, staring at the pink lights, and he felt a hideous sense of loneliness. And then, from a group of people strolling past in the darkness, the inquisitor came forward and sat down beside him.

  “Well?” the man asked.

  “You’re damned impatient. What’s all the hurry?” He glanced nervously across at Quadri’s windows. Could he be seen from up there?

  “What did you learn?”

  “Nothing.” And thank God for that, Ballard thought. His sense of shame lessened: in a way he had helped clear Fenner of any suspicion. Certainly no harm was done.

  “Nothing?” The stranger’s cold blue eyes were fixed on Ballard’s face as if they could bore their way into the truth.

  “Nothing.” Ballard’s confidence was returning. “Now beat it. You leave me alone.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You talked a lot. Three small questions did not take so much time.” His voice was harsh, sceptical. His words held a new threat.

  Ballard’s confidence ebbed. There would always be a new threat: no release, no end to the demands. “Damn you to hell, will you leave me alone?”

  The man smiled contemptuously and rose. He turned and made one step away. No more. Two quiet men in dark suits blocked his path, and signalled. The policemen closed in from either side, took a business-like grip on his arms. There was a spasm of struggle, a brief scuffle, and then the small tight group moved away. Two men exchanging a quick French phrase rose from a table and brought up the rear of the solid little phalanx. The arrest, like the surprise, was complete.

  It was so quickly, quietly, expertly done that Ballard wondered if he had dreamed it all. Onl
y a nearby waiter had noticed, only a few people passing closely. There were some shrugs, some remarks about pickpockets, and the incident was over. Except for Ballard. Four men were standing at his table. He stopped staring after the man who had been arrested, looked stupidly up at them. Two policemen in dark-green khaki; a young man, also Italian, judging from his suit, and a man in conservative grey flannels, speaking in an English voice. “You are Ballard of the New York Chronicle’s Paris Bureau?”

  My God, thought Ballard, am I being arrested, too?

  21

  Yes, decided Christopher Holland as he saw the complete consternation on Ballard’s face, this was the right moment. He nodded to the two policemen, who saluted and strolled on. “Lieutenant Rusconi,” he said to the man who accompanied him, as he sat down opposite Ballard, “do you mind?”

  “Niente.” Lieutenant Rusconi took a chair at the next table, and adopted a severe and thoughtful expression.

  Ballard came out of shock. “What happened?” He gestured toward the tight group of men already vanishing into the dark shadows around the base of the Campanile, the bell tower that rose abruptly from the Piazza, well separated from the cathedral. He watched the group disappear around its corner. “Where—where are they taking him?”

  “To a motor launch, which in turn will take him to the Prefecture. Your friend has just been arrested—for extradition to France.” Holland’s voice was business-like, but not unfriendly. “Why did he come over to your table?”

  “He’s no friend of mine—never saw him before—” Ballard was starting to rise. “And what business is it of yours?”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Ballard. Or else Lieutenant Rusconi, who is now waiting most patiently, will make it his business to accompany you to the police station. Perhaps you would rather answer our questions there?”

  Ballard glanced at the detective, one of those young eager beavers with a quick eye for promotion, who was watching him with a disapproving frown, and sat back in his chair. Also, the two policemen were still patrolling this side of the Piazza.

  “I thought,” Holland said, “that you’d find it simpler to talk here. Less formal. And much quicker.”

  “Why pull me into all this?” Ballard asked angrily. “That man who was arrested—I don’t even know his name.”

  “Who sent him?”

  “I don’t know. He just stopped to talk to me.”

  “Twice. He talked to you twice.”

  “So what?”

  “So there is some explanation needed. Especially since the man is being extradited for murder.”

  “What?” Ballard’s aggressiveness vanished.

  “His name is Jan Aarvan. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Never.” Ballard was worried enough to be honest.

  “What did he want?”

  Ballard hesitated. He was conscious of the Italian detective’s cold watchfulness, of that possible visit to the police station, which would only waste his time, keep him late for his appointment with Lenoir. “He was trying to blackmail me.” Ballard noticed that the quiet Englishman wasn’t amazed. He had an uncomfortable feeling that more was known about him than just his name.

  “I’m glad that you told the truth, Mr. Ballard. It saves so much time all around, doesn’t it? Did he ask for money?”

  “No.”

  “A favour?”

  “That’s about it,” Ballard said awkwardly.

  “You refused him, of course?”

  “I told him to clear out.”

  “Most courageous of you.”

  Ballard looked uncomfortable. He glanced sharply at the pleasant face watching him so quietly. Ironical? No, the Englishman was being encouraging, sympathetic. Any minute, he’ll offer me a cigarette and establish complete confidence, and have me babbling out my life story, Ballard thought: I know this type. Well, I’ll find out more from him than he’ll find out from me. That’s for sure. He’d make a good story himself, this guy.

  “Are you on holiday, Mr. Ballard?”

  “No. Just got here. I’m checking up on a story.”

  “And you came all the way from Paris? How long will you be in Venice?”

  “Until tomorrow night.”

  So Fenner hadn’t made any mistake about that. Tomorrow night. Chris Holland smiled gently and said, “It must be a very short story for such a short stay.”

  “Interested in it?” Ballard was amused. “You know, you begin to sound like a newspaperman.”

  “Haven’t the brains.”

  “What are you, anyway? Intelligence?”

  “Haven’t the stamina.”

  Ballard’s grin broadened. “What’s your angle? You aren’t French, or Italian. So what’s your interest in this fellow Aarvan?”

  “He is wanted by the British too, you know,” Holland said smoothly. By this one Briton, certainly.

  “Quite an international character?”

  “A political criminal. He is employed by Communists. Did you know that?”

  Ballard only stared.

  “Just what kind of favour did he want from you?”

  “Does that matter now?” Aarvan’s off my back, Ballard thought. And who sent him, I wonder. Spitzer?

  “Mr. Ballard,” Holland said very quietly, “I shall ask the questions, and you will give the answers.” He paused, and added, “Or else this little interview can drag on for hours. I have no objection. But you?”

  “I—I haven’t much time to spare. I’ve an appointment.”

  So Fenner’s message about this evening could have been right. “Well, in that case—the quicker, the sooner. Why are you in Venice?”

  “I’ve just told you.”

  Holland shook his head sadly. “You disappoint me, Mr. Ballard. You really can’t expect us to believe that you yourself would come here for some story or other when you could have sent one of your staff.”

  “It would have been no use sending any reporter. This story is to be delivered only to me.”

  “That’s the deal, is it?”

  Ballard was amused in spite of himself. The Americanism in an English accent was comic. But friendly. He relaxed a little. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. Also, the story is big. The biggest of the year—that’s the tip I got. So I came.”

  “And you expect to find some scandal in Venice? Dope smuggling among the tourists, adultery by the Adriatic?”

  “Nothing like that.” Ballard’s smile was broadening. “My source of information happens to be in Venice. That’s all.”

  “You must trust him a great deal,” Holland murmured. He lit a cigarette, carefully. And how can I warn him about Lenoir? he was thinking. Later. First things first.

  “I do.” And you aren’t going to pry his name and address out of me, either, Ballard thought. That’s none of your business, bud. Do you think I want a lot of Italian reporters pestering Lenoir? What story would I get then? Or ever get in the future? Ballard glanced at his watch. There was just time for a quick dinner before he kept his appointment at half-past nine. Lenoir’s directions to this Ca’ Grande had been simple enough: it shouldn’t be too hard to find. The story must be really big or Lenoir wouldn’t have been so cagey in the way he gave his address: the house name and street number when he telephoned Paris; the route itself, but no Ca’ Grande mentioned, in his call to the Danieli. Yes, this story must be really big, all right. Ballard looked at the Englishman’s cigarette, lit one of his own. “Well,” he said, “if the Lieutenant has no objections?”

  He pocketed his cigarette case and lighter, preparing to leave.

  “I’m afraid he may have,” Holland said very gently. “You haven’t been quite frank with us, have you?”

  “Look—” began Ballard angrily.

  “We are worried about your safety. Can’t you understand that? So please be patient. We still have a few necessary questions to ask. Just what is this remarkable story?”

  “Safety?” Ballard’s anger subsided into worry. “I don’t know yet.”


  “You don’t know what it is? Good heavens, man, how can you put together an important story like this in one day?”

  “I’ll have to,” admitted Ballard. “Or else the headlines I never wrote will be screaming at me by tomorrow night. In this game, you get in ahead of the others, even only by a couple of hours.” He noticed the Englishman was looking at him, incredulous. “Oh, it’s not so difficult—some concentrated work, a little know-how, and the right contacts.”

  Screaming headlines... Holland studied his cigarette. “So you must expect to get all the details very easily, all nicely packaged and wrapped up for you? How very pleasant.”

  “I have to write the story,” Ballard reminded him sharply.

  “And have it ready when the news breaks? But how can your informant predict some event—?”

  “Who is talking about any event? He has collected information—international implications—big stuff. Too big for him to keep. He’s releasing it to the press tomorrow evening. The Paris papers will have the flash reports, but I’ll have the full detail. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You have it made.” Holland’s smile was gentle. “But why should this informant give you such an advantage—such a break?”

  “He happens to be an old friend. That’s all.”

  “And he expects nothing in return? He has no axe to grind?”

  Ballard shook his head. He was amused. “And don’t ask me his name,” he said. “I never give away my sources.”

  “I didn’t ask his name, did I? I just wondered about his politics. Aarvan, after all, must have been told that you had arrived in Venice. Who could have told him?”

  Spitzer, thought Ballard. André Spitzer did that. “I think I know,” he said grimly. And caught his breath. Spitzer? I didn’t tell Spitzer anything about this trip. He might have found out, though. Must have found out. Who else could tip off Aarvan?

  “For your safety,” Holland was saying, very mildly, “I hope you do. You see, Aarvan’s attempt at blackmail—” He paused. “Does this interest you?” He didn’t have to wait for a reply. Ballard, who was a restless type—his hands had played with cigarette case and lighter, his legs had been crossed and dandled and uncrossed, all through this meeting—was absolutely still. “Aarvan’s purpose was to find out if you could be pressured into doing something repugnant to you. That was more important than any information you could have given them. Because his friends would learn, from your reactions, how to manipulate you in future. And you may be sure they are going to apply more pressure. You won’t, of course, listen to them. Will you?”