His hope now lay in the American—the man who was so unpredictable, so strange. Only the American knew what had been discussed at that meeting in the hotel, when the microphones had been torn out. Only the American could provide a clue.
And he had indeed rushed to the consulate that evening. Perhaps, after all, he was an agent. Well, they would soon know. Liseau had two plans for this man—one of them was certain to work.
Chapter XIV
ROGER CARR AWOKE FEELING strange. He got out of bed, walked to the balcony, and walked back into the room, trying to understand. Something was bothering him, something not quite right.
Then it hit him: no hangover. None at all, not the slightest trace.
Well, he thought. What do you know? It wasn’t such a bad feeling after all.
He had dropped Anne off at a café in Cannes the night before, after twenty minutes of heavy necking in the car. Normally, he would have considered that a very poor conclusion to the evening, but somehow it seemed to him just wonderful.
He went into the bathroom and smiled at himself in the mirror. He looked disgracefully cheerful and awake.
“Thank God none of the boys in the office can see me now,” he said. And he winked at the reflected face.
After an enormous breakfast, he set out toward Graff’s office, but decided to stop for a cup of coffee first. It was a perfect day, and he was feeling lazy and relaxed. He turned toward the Avenue de la Victoire, one of the main streets of Nice—a broad avenue lined with a double row of plane trees which cast a speckled shadow over the street and sidewalk. It was a touch of rural France in the bustling city, a typically Provençal street which might have been anywhere—Avignon, Arles, Aix. He paused at a newsstand to buy an international edition of the Times, and walked along toward the nearest sidewalk café. As he crossed the Rue Biscarrat, it occurred to him that he should stop by and see an old friend of his, the proprietor of the restaurant L’Estragon. It was an unpretentious little place, where he had often gone on his first visit to the city—the food was superb, and the proprietor, a tall hawk-nosed man who looked rather like De Gaulle, had a very entertaining philosophy about women.
But it was too early, he decided. There would be time to renew old acquaintances later. He went on to the first café, which was crowded with a midmorning throng, and was able to find a small table toward the rear. He ordered a café noir. Two men squeezed into a table next to his, crowding him; he almost said something, but decided not to bother. He turned his attention to the people walking by, noting that le style Américain was the current fashion rage: the French teen-agers paraded past in sneakers, faded dungarees, and button-down madras shirts.
He opened the newspaper and read for several minutes. His coffee did not come, and he looked around for his waiter. The man was nowhere in sight. It was, he thought, the indolence bred from having the tip automatically added to the bill. Finally, Carr spotted him coming forward, with the coffee and a glass of water on a tray. One of the men at the next table hurriedly got up, nearly knocking Carr over; it was irritating, but before Carr could say anything, the man had pushed past and walked over to the waiter, talking to him. For a moment, Carr could not see the waiter—the other man blocked his view.
Carr felt a tap on the shoulder, and looked over to see the second of the two men at the table next to him. “Le service” said the man, “is very slow here. It is necessary to be patient.”
Carr nodded, thinking that this man showed a very un-French lack of reserve. He looked back at the waiter, now coming toward him with the coffee; the first man was gone—he had probably asked directions to the men’s room. The waiter served the coffee and turned his attention to the next table. Carr resumed reading his newspaper.
“Un café express,” he heard the man say. That was odd, Carr thought. Perhaps the first man had gone for good. He continued reading and sipped at the coffee, which was strong and good. The Parisians were having trouble with parking regulations again, and there was a mysterious flu epidemic in Bristol. He found an article on the latest Supreme Court ruling on reapportionment, and read with interest for about two minutes.
Then he began to feel strange.
He dropped his paper on the table, knocking over his drink. A wave of nausea hit him. His stomach churned, and he felt cold and very woozy. The man at the next table peered over; Carr scarcely saw him. His vision was getting blurry. Things swam in and out of focus.
“Are you all right, monsieur?” It was the man next to him.
“Yes, yes,” Carr said. He was looking at the street before him, at the crowd; things drifted into fuzziness, then back to clarity, then fuzzy once again. He could see the first man—the one who had talked to the waiter—standing at the curb, looking back at Carr.
“Pardon, my friend, but you do not look well. May I get you a doctor?” He felt a hand grip him firmly—tightly, excruciatingly—just above the elbow.
Sluggishly, as if in slow motion, he shook it off. He said nothing. He tried to stand, tripped, and fell back into his chair again.
There was no sound anywhere; the world around him was strangely, deathly silent. His head seemed to be rolling on his neck.
He saw the black Citroën pull up in front of the café, and the man at the curb open the door.
“Come, my friend.” It was a voice, very loud, from nowhere. Carr felt himself lifted up, floating away toward the street. He was very light; his body weighed nothing.
Then he passed out completely.
Silence, painful and hot. Someone was kicking his head, repeatedly, snapping it back and forth. He opened his eyes to bright, hot light, and shut them again. Silence. He was sweating, and his clothes stuck to him. He heard a ticking, smelled an awful smell.
“Coward,” a voice said. “Open your eyes. I can’t wait here all day.”
He turned toward the voice, shaded his eyes, and tried again. For a moment he couldn’t see anything except a bright blur, and then he began to make things out. Gray things, black things, a white face.
“You are a stubborn man, Mr. Carr. Don’t you know when you are well off?”
“Hello, Vascard,” Carr said. “What are you doing here?” He winced at the sudden pain that streaked across his forehead. “Where is here?”
“The police station. You are on a cot in a room we occasionally use for interrogation of suspects.”
Carr groaned. “What kind of suspects? Cripples?”
Vascard sighed and blew a stream of cigarette smoke toward Carr. “Interrogation,” he said, “is sometimes strenuous.”
“What’s that horrible smell?”
“You were sick.”
“Oh.”
“You no doubt want to know how you got here. It was purest luck, I can tell you. Some of your friends were in the process of hustling you into a black Citroën when a young sergeant stopped them. You were apparently drunk, and this sergeant, who is new to the job and eager to assert himself, had you arrested for disorderly conduct. It was, after all, shameful to be drunk at ten in the morning. Your friends protested, but to no avail. A police car brought you here, and you were recognized by somebody at the desk. You’ve been here ever since.”
“How long is that?”
“About an hour. We had a doctor in to look at you, and he said it was scopolamine. How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
Vascard smiled bleakly. “I worry about you, my friend. Why don’t you take a little vacation?”
“I am taking a little vacation.”
“I know. But the Riviera does not seem to agree with you.”
“Funny you should mention that.”
“Surely your business is not so pressing that you must stay here?”
“Why are you suddenly so solicitous?” Carr asked, frowning.
“Let’s say I have changed my mind about you.” He looked down at Carr’s face, pale and tired. Nobody is that good an actor, he thought. I should have known from the first. The consulate must be fiendish to a
llow him to stay in France. “I really think a little trip is the best thing. Seriously, what keeps you here?”
“A girl.”
“Ah.” His eyes lit up. “That is a reason any Frenchman understands, though I confess I would not have expected it from you. The world is full of girls.”
“I like this one.”
Vascard shrugged. “It could happen to anyone.” He paused. “You received a telegram yesterday. What was in it?”
“You get around, Vascard.”
“You are discussing my business, and if you are surprised I do it well, I am insulted.”
“It was from my client, advising me to buy a particular villa.”
“Ah. And you are making the arrangements?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You should be able to finish in a day or so, I think. Then, you ought to do yourself a favor and leave Nice. As for the girl, take her with you somewhere—Morocco, perhaps, or Madrid. I don’t care. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes,” Carr said, and groaned again.
“Stay here as long as you like. I will have them send coffee to you in a few minutes.” He laughed. “It is a spécialité de la maison. And after, you can take a cab back to the hotel. Just be careful”—he poked his cigarette at Carr—“and remember that a man should not expect to be lucky more than twice.”
The door shut, and Carr was alone.
“Don’t worry about it,” Liseau said easily.
Brauer looked doubtful.
“I have a second solution. It cannot possibly fail,” Liseau said.
If he had felt any better, Roger Carr would have been acutely embarrassed as he walked into the Negresco. His hair was matted, and his suit looked like a crumpled paper bag; his shirt had somehow been torn, and there was a dark stain on his trouser leg. He smelled quite distinctly of dried coffee grounds.
But Carr just didn’t care. His meager reserves of energy and concentration were focused on the problem of getting from the cab all the way across the lobby, and over to the elevator. When he finally stumbled into his room, he leaned against the door to shut it. He felt terribly weak.
He went into the bathroom, turned on the water, and began slapping it against his face. The water was icy cold, and it helped clear his head a little.
“Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
Anne was standing in the bathroom doorway. She wore a yellow cotton dress, very simple, and she looked wonderful.
“I don’t feel so good.”
She glanced down at his rumpled clothes, then back up to his bloodshot eyes and pale face. “You don’t look so good.”
Carr nodded sluggishly. Water dripped off his chin into the sink. “How did you get up here?”
“Well, I waited for you in the lobby, and then decided you’d overslept. We were supposed to meet at noon, remember? So I went to the desk—”
“I’ve got to have a shower,” Carr said, rubbing his head. “Take my clothes, will you? Keep talking, I’m listening.”
“The man at the desk said you’d gone out at ten.” She helped him out of his suit jacket. “So I decided to wait for you here.”
“How does that work?” Carr asked, peeling off his shirt.
“No problem. They’re very nice about it—it’s a discreet hotel, you know. Do you want your suit cleaned?”
“Thanks. They’ll pick it up if you call down.” He turned on the shower. “Oh, and have them send up some drinks. Whatever you want, and a large orange juice for me. I won’t be long.”
The stinging spray was a blessing. He could feel much of his weariness washing away with the dried and salty sweat; when he came out, he decided he was as close to human as he could hope to be for the rest of the day. Anne was at the balcony, gazing out at the sea. “I’ve laid some clothes out for you,” she said. “On the chair.”
Carr dressed quickly. That girl has taste, he thought, as he put on gray worsted slacks, a white oxford shirt, a wine-red ascot and a navy blazer. She came back as he was slipping on his shoes.
“Better?”
“Much. Where’s my orange juice?”
“In the corner.”
He went over, sat down, and took a slow, cool drink. Anne gave him a lighted cigarette and a soft kiss on the cheek. She sat down on the bed opposite him, holding her drink in her lap, waiting patiently.
“I suppose,” Carr said, “I should explain.”
“My father taught me never to pry,” Anne said, “but you did look pretty funny when you walked in. Were you in a fight?”
“Not exactly,” Carr said, and before he knew it he found himself telling the whole story to her, beginning with the first day—the plane, the phone calls, the girl with the gun, the shooting at the flower market. He finished with the finger, and what had happened to him that morning. It felt good to talk, to tell it all to another person.
No, he thought. It felt good to tell it to her.
She listened in silence, looking down at her drink, twisting the glass in her hands. She was about to speak when the telephone rang. It was Graff.
“I have talked with Signor Perrani. He is most anxious to meet you. Could we say this afternoon, at three?”
“Fine.”
“Excellent. If you will meet me first at my office, I will drive you—”
“I’d rather meet you at the villa,” Carr said, looking at Anne. “At three. Is that all right?”
“Perfectly all right,” Graff said, but he sounded displeased.
Carr rang off and turned back to Anne. “You look very nice,” he said, “there on the bed.”
“You really must be feeling better.”
“Not that much better,” he admitted, as a sudden throbbing pain pounded his head. “I think I need lunch. Shall we send some up?”
“Well,” Anne said, looking suddenly shy, “I was hoping … I have food for a picnic. Very simple. Do you feel up to it?”
It sounded wonderful to him, and he said so. “Where shall we go?”
“I know just the place,” Anne said.
When they got to the car, Carr suggested she drive. His head still ached without warning, and he had found even the short walk from the hotel exhausting. Anne drove smoothly, sitting very straight in the bucket seat and letting her hair blow in the wind. Watching her, Carr realized he was happy.
“Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
They drove north out of Nice, up the Rue de la République, and he thought she must be heading for the Moyenne Corniche. But she passed the turnoff, continuing straight north through the industrial region of La Trinitie. This was a poor area; the land was arid and barren, and the little farmhouses were no better than shacks. They passed sand and gravel pits, the cement and gas works in the region of Drap, and then began to climb into the hills to the east. The Alfa went into a series of true hairpin turns, cutting back and forth up the rock face of a broad valley. Anne handled the car deftly; she seemed to know the road well. But Carr couldn’t help feeling twinges of concern as the rock wall loomed up, slid by, then loomed up again. The tires squealed. She was driving very fast.
“Look right,” she said. “There’s a beautiful perched village called Peillon coming up.” Carr saw it, stuck high on a rock crag.
“You seem to have a thing about peaks,” he said.
“Wait till you see where we’re going.”
They continued north, Carr watching the signs curiously as they flashed by.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here before,” he said.
“Most people haven’t. That’s why I like it. Only a few German tourists, intent on seeing everything, bother with Peillon, and even they don’t go farther.”
“Are we getting near?”
“Soon.”
They shot over a rise, and down into a town called Peille. Carr had never heard of it. It was a peaceful little village, with a large shaded square.
“Looks nice,” Carr said.
“Dull.�
�� She sped through the center of town, ignoring a startled policeman who blew his whistle at them as they went by. “It won’t be long now.”
The road began to descend, and the signs of industry—the trucks, the dust, the markers reading “Sortie de Camions”—disappeared. They came around the side of a broad hill, and suddenly they were plunged deep in a narrow green gorge.
Carr sucked in his breath, and Anne seemed pleased by his reaction. “It’s unexpected, isn’t it? It’s not very deep—only about five hundred feet or so—but I like it. It’s so green and restful. This is the gorge of the Peillon River, actually. There are several better ones around, like Verdon and Cians, but I’ve always preferred this.”
“You come here often?”
Anne didn’t answer. She had slowed the car and was looking intently at the side of the road. The road was cut into the rock wall, partway up the canyon; the drop over the pavement was so sheer, Carr could not tell how far below the water was, though he could hear it rushing and boiling.
“There’s one particular place,” Anne said, still watching the side of the road. She pulled over. “Here. Come on.”
They got out, and Carr walked to the low stone wall lining the lip of the road. The water was at least forty feet below them, a narrow fast stream barely a yard wide. It continued to cut an ever-narrowing slit into the stone; the lowest section of the gorge was so narrow it didn’t seem a man could get through if he waded down the stream.
“Come on,” Anne said. “Grab the lunch basket and let’s go.” She was smiling, impatient. She held out her hand.
“You’re going down there?” Carr looked at the drop—it was not sheer, but it was very steep, and the rocks were worn smooth as a woman’s backside, and covered with fine sand. It was insane, he thought.
“Follow me,” she said. They walked a few yards down the road. “Now,” Anne said, “just watch me, and do exactly as I do. Put your hands and feet where I do, and hold onto the bushes the way I do. It’s very simple if you go slowly.” She slipped off her sling-back high heels. “And take off your shoes—it’s easier that way.”
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