Scratch One

by Michael Crichton

  There was a long silence. Perrani played with his empty brandy glass. Now was the time for the final maneuver.

  “On the other hand, I am authorized to pay immediately any sum up to four hundred thousand dollars. You could have the check now, to cash tomorrow morning when the banks open.”

  “You catch me at a difficult time, Mr. Carr.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Perrani continued to toy with his glass. Finally he said, “The villa is yours. I will call my lawyer and have the final papers here within the hour. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Perfectly.” Christ, he really did need the money.

  Perrani was glum. He did not offer to shake hands, but immediately excused himself, and left the room to call. Anne came in to tell him that Graff had left; he’d made a pass at her and she’d slapped him.

  When Perrani returned, he seemed in better spirits. “My lawyer will arrive shortly. Another brandy? I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to the young lady. And perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the villa. You will, I think, find it most charming.”

  The papers were signed by five, when Anne and Carr left the house. As they got into the car and drove down the shaded drive, she said, “I don’t like him.”

  “Graff?”

  “No, Perrani. I don’t trust men like that—all smiles and cultivated talk. He’s as cultivated as an eggplant.”

  “I thought he was nice enough,” Carr said, still feeling the warm glow of victory.

  “Just call it a woman’s intuition,” Anne said. “Where are you going now?”

  “That depends. What time do you have to be at the casino? I thought we might have dinner first.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anne said, “I can’t.”

  Carr must have shown his disappointment, because she said quickly. “You’re not the only man in the world, you know.”

  “I know.” Dammit, he thought, what’s the matter with me? A girl like this must have an army of begging escorts. But he noticed that she seemed pleased by his dejection, and it irritated him.

  “Why don’t you pick me up at the casino about twelve-thirty?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “You’re acting like a child, Roger.” She dug into her purse for cigarettes.

  “You’re right. I apologize.” She had used his first name, and it made him feel better.

  “Besides, you have things to do. You’ll want to wire your client, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “All right, then. Let me off at the Place Massena, and I’ll see you at twelve-thirty in front of the Palm Beach. Right?”

  “Right.”

  She squeezed his hand, smiled, and said, “And take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling back.

  He returned to the hotel, feeling lighthearted and faintly foolish. It was quite a girl, he thought, that could make you feel good when she turned you down. He stopped at the desk to write out a cable to the governor, who would be pleased that the villa had come in at four hundred thousand. Then he went to his room, sat down in one of the Louis XIV chairs, and lit a cigarette.

  He had finished what he had come to do. He could leave now and return home—or, as Vascard had suggested, he could stop off in Morocco or Madrid, taking the girl with him. It was a good idea; anything was better than playing a weird game which he didn’t understand, and didn’t particularly want to understand.

  Would she be insulted if he asked her to take a trip with him? He stopped himself; she could only say no. What difference did it make? He realized that he had been treating her with caution, with a care and delicacy that was not usual to him. Perhaps he was being too careful. Carr had learned the difficult lesson that, though every woman wishes to be put on a pedestal, sooner or later she wants to be hauled down. He probably could have made love to her after lunch, he reflected. Perhaps that was why she had taken him to such a secluded spot. Was she annoyed with him now, insulted? She didn’t act it, but he remembered what the French men always said of American men—too busy with business, too caught up with money, to have time for l’amour.

  He felt suddenly irritated with himself. This girl wasn’t a ticking bomb, about to explode at any moment. Either things would work out or they wouldn’t. He wasn’t about to worry.

  Brauer sat in the Citroën in the parking lot in front of the Nice Gare, off the Avenue Thiers. The 5:03 from Paris was just arriving. He watched the people get off. He was not particularly worried about missing his man—he had seen a consulate official drive up in a little gray Deux Cheveux, the most inconspicuous car in France, park, and walk away.

  Brauer marveled at the extent of Liseau’s network. Their contacts within the consulate knew that morning that a new man was coming from Paris, and they knew what train he was coming on. Such efficiency, Brauer thought. It made work a pleasure.

  A man with a small suitcase stepped off the platform and scanned the cars parked around the station. Brauer’s eyes narrowed. He was a tough-looking customer, all right, with dark, faintly cruel good looks, with a scar visible on his left cheek. He had a muscular build, deep blue eyes, and a short, firm mouth. His hair was jet black, and rather unruly; a hook curled down over his forehead. He was dressed in a blue suit and a black knit tie.

  The man saw the 2CV and went directly to it. He got in and looked around.

  He’s hunting the keys, Brauer thought. Now, where would they be? Under the seat? In the back seat?

  The man searched, then bent forward, his chest touching the steering wheel.

  Of course, Brauer thought. Under the dash.

  A moment later the 2CV started up and pulled out into traffic. Brauer followed closely in the Citroën.

  The car turned right on the Avenue de la Victoire, and went right to the Place Massena. The man behind the wheel drove purposefully, never hesitating at turns. He knew exactly where he was going.

  Left at the Place Massena, past the casino, around the fountain of Neptune, and up toward the Place Garibaldi. From here, following the river on the Rue de la République, and right on the Avenue des Diables Bleus.

  Going right to Menton, Brauer thought. He allowed a car to cut between himself and the 2CV, just to be safe.

  Just outside Menton, the little car made an abrupt left and went up into the hills. Brauer followed, a short distance behind. When the car parked about a mile past Liseau’s villa—on a curve overlooking the house—he continued past, for another mile or so, until he found a spot where he had a view down over the other car. Then he stopped and got out.

  It was a quiet stretch of road, with villas all around; no traffic, really. He took out his binoculars and observed the man.

  A handsome devil, he thought, if you liked them mean.

  He would be a great success with ladies who preferred their sex swift and brutal. And he dressed well, in a sort of English way.

  The man took out a cigarette from a black morocco case and lit it. He was watching Liseau’s villa through binoculars.

  Brauer sighed. Better get it over with. He went back to his car and got the .22. He loaded it with a handful of shells, all of which had a deep cross filed into the nose. These bullets would go in cleanly, but would come out leaving a hole big enough for a cat to walk through. Dumdum bullets were strictly against Geneva Conventions, of course, but then technicalities were waived in this business. There was only one way to fight, and that was dirty.

  He put the man’s back in the cross hairs of the telescopic sight. The man wasn’t moving; he was peering intently through his binoculars. It was the simplest shot in the world.

  He moved the sights down, and slightly to the left. Hit the heart squarely, that was the point. It wouldn’t really matter, but he might as well carry it off with finesse.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Through his sights, he saw the man shudder and collapse. He fell forward onto the road and did not move. The blood must be gushing from his chest, Brauer
thought. It was clearly visible, even from here.

  He got back into the Citroën and drove calmly off.

  She got into the car. “Been waiting long?”

  “No. About ten minutes.”

  “It’s a beautiful night.” She brushed her hair back from her face and looked up at the sky. “Where shall we go?”

  “Wherever you say.”

  “Let’s drive back to Nice, then, while we think of someplace special.”

  They started off, and she said, “You’re quiet tonight. Is anything wrong?”

  “No.”

  There was little traffic at this hour, and they made good time passing through Juan-les-Pins and Antibes. Soon they could see Nice lighted before them, and the white apartments curving around the four-mile stretch of beach.

  “Did you send your telegram?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you decided when you’re leaving?”

  “Not yet.”

  She bit her lip and watched the road intently.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, as if to lose a bad daydream. “Shall we go along the Grande Corniche? The view is superb at night.”

  “All right.”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. He had felt unaccountably depressed earlier in the evening, mostly because he had been reviewing his life, and found it dull, monotonous, and empty—all the things he had most emphatically believed it was not. But now, with her at his side, he was more cheerful.

  They drove for nearly an hour, feeling the cool night air against their faces. Carr followed the Basse Corniche through Nice and Villefranche, then cut up to link with the Grande Corniche.

  “Napoleon’s road,” he said as they pulled out.

  “That’s right,” Anne said. “How did you know?”

  “I read the guidebooks. Napoleon the First built it to replace the old Aurelian Way.” They gathered speed, and Anne slipped on her sweater against the chill of the wind. “How about a drink at Le Visiteur?”

  “Fine.”

  It was a favorite of Carr’s. The hotel and restaurant, new and modern, was almost one thousand feet up, with a view over Cap Mortola, Monte Carlo, and Monaco. They parked and went onto the terrace, feeling their skin tingle from the wind.

  The terrace was nearly deserted, with only a few couples sitting out on the neat white chairs. They ordered drinks and took them to the rail.

  “It’s almost like the Milky Way, all those lights,” Anne said.

  Carr looked from the Monte Carlo beach, directly below, across to the casino, then over to the Oceanographic Museum, standing gray and upright, and finally to the palace. Monaco, he thought—that was all there was to it. A little U-shaped piece of land, with the old town, Monaco, on one arm, the new town, Monte Carlo, on the other, and the port in between.

  Brightly lighted, it looked much larger than it really was. Carr had trouble believing that the little country was actually half the size of Central Park, one-eighty-sixth the size of London. It was rather like a fairy kingdom, fabulously rich, bypassed by the rest of the world.

  Anne shivered at his side.

  “Cold?”

  “No. I want to go home.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded and gulped down the rest of her drink. Then she ran from the terrace to the parking lot. Carr watched her go, too astonished to protest. Then he put his drink down, left a few francs with the check, and hurried after her.

  She was standing beside the car, looking out at the road, smoking. Her cigarette flared in the dark as she drew on it. For a long moment he watched her, saying nothing, not knowing what to say. Then finally he asked, “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Mechanically, she got into the car.

  “Where to?” He tried to keep his voice light, but did not succeed.

  “Menton. I’ll direct you.” Her voice was flat, expressionless, and she did not look once at him as they went down into the city itself, then up into the hills, following a steep path through a fashionable residential area. It was dark, and he wondered absently if he would be able to find his way back.

  “Stop here.”

  He halted in front of a high wrought-iron fence. Through open gates, a long drive led inside to a villa he could not see.

  “You can leave me here.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Carr thought once again of her expensive clothes. He felt sad and helpless. Anne started to get out.

  “It’s all right,” he said, “I’ll drive you in.”

  “No!” But he was already turning in the drive.

  “For a no-nonsense girl,” he said, “you certainly pull some funny maneuvers. What does this act mean? Listen, I don’t care if somebody is keeping—”

  “Please stop,” she pleaded. “Please turn around.”

  “When will I see you again?” The drive ended in a stone wall, perhaps six feet high. A door opened through it. It was a modern stone wall, and he wondered if the villa might be modern as well. Four cars were parked in front of the wall—two Citroëns, a Renault Dauphine, and a sleek silver Ferrari.

  Anne said nothing.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Oh, you’re a fool,” she cried, and tears began to slip down her cheeks. She jumped out of the car and disappeared through the door in the wall. Carr was left alone in the night, hearing his motor tick over, staring into the patch illuminated by his headlights.

  He did not know what to think. Slowly, as if in a trance, he backed the car around and drove down the path back to the road. The evening had been strange from the start, he thought. Something was bothering her—yet she had been all right at lunch.

  His attention was caught by the road ahead. He slowed the car. For a moment, he couldn’t believe it, and then he braked to a stop. The gates were shut.

  Perhaps the wind, Carr thought. Leaving the motor on, he got out to open them again. But long before he reached the iron bars, he could see the heavy padlock, bright in the light of his headlamps. The bars cast long shadows on the road outside. Carr bent to examine the lock.

  Two men grabbed him, one from each side. He struggled free of the first, and gave the second a hard kick in the groin. The man moaned and rolled over onto his back, knees pulled up to his chest. Carr turned to face the other man, and took a heavy blow to the stomach, and then felt a sharp pain between his eyes, and heard bone break. He began to fall, slowly, sickeningly, and he kept falling for a very long time.

  Chapter XVI

  LIGHTS WENT ON.

  Carr opened his eyes to find himself slumped in a chair, with blood all over his jacket and shirt. Something white and fuzzy was stuck in his nose, which was numb. He looked up.

  The gently floating fragments of a red and green mobile bounced before his eyes. He watched, fascinated, as the colored pieces drifted and caught the light. Slowly he looked around the rest of the room, which was spacious. The decor was modern, and all the walls were glass.

  “Curtains,” a voice said. Someone pressed a button, and gold drapes began to move around the walls until the entire room was enclosed. It was very quiet in the room, which was furnished in the most simple and expensive taste—Barcelona chairs, Picasso ceramics, Italian lighting fixtures, and Danish furniture. The floor was slate, giving contrasting texture to the harsh smooth lines of the sofas and chairs.

  “Mr. Carr.”

  A face moved before him. It was a neat, cleanly elegant face, with a fine, thin mouth, high cheekbones, and short dark hair. Carr could not see the eyes; they were hidden behind dark sunglasses. The lips were turned up in a smile, showing very white teeth.

  “We are sorry about your misfortune, but the guards had orders not to fail. You are acquiring a reputation as a difficult man to detain.”

  The face moved back, and Carr could see the whole man clearly. He wore a black suit with a dark tie, and stood slim and perfectly straight, hands at his sides. He gave the impression of being tall,
over six feet.

  “You will be pleased to know it is not serious,” the man said, nodding toward the blood on Carr’s shirt. “One’s nose has many fine capillaries, and you have ruptured a few, that is all. A simple nosebleed. We have seen that you received an injection of benzedrine and dextrose. Shortly you will be given a sedative—of some sort.”

  “I want to see a doctor,” Carr said. He reached up to touch his nose, and discovered that his elbows were bound to the arms of the chair.

  “Then your wish is fulfilled. You are looking at one.” The man watched Carr intently for a moment, then pressed an intercom button on a small console set next to the fireplace in the center of the room. “Call the meeting.” He turned to Carr. “I am sorry about your arms; I know it must be an inconvenience. Let us hope that you can answer our few questions briefly, since we are extremely busy men, and you are undoubtedly tired.”

  That bitch, Carr thought, in a burst of hot anger. She knew from the start, she led me along every step of the way. He had been a fool—he should have known, should have suspected.

  Four men came into the room and stood next to the man in sunglasses. Carr looked at each man in turn. They were unremarkable, all neatly dressed and blank-faced. One had a beard. No one smoked, and no one spoke, yet there was no tension in the room. They all seemed perfectly relaxed.

  Sunglasses, who seemed to be the leader, turned to the other men. “We are missing someone, as usual,” he said. “Always late, but no matter. We shall proceed without him. Are we ready?”

  No one replied. The silence in the room was complete.

  “Very well. Mr. Carr, let us get down to business. You have caused us a good deal of trouble in the past few days. We dislike trouble.”

  “You’ve been pretty annoying yourselves,” Carr said. His voice sounded strange to him, and he realized it was because his nose was blocked with cotton.

  “We would like to know something about you. That is why you are here. Antoine, will you begin?” One of the men, younger-looking than the rest, stepped forward. “Mr. Carr, we understand you are a lawyer. You should know that Antoine is also a lawyer, with considerable experience in American legal procedure. Reply with care.”