He stepped back. Antoine said, “What is the name of your law firm?”
“None of your goddamn business.” Carr expected to be struck, but he was not. The group watched him with steady, unwavering stares. Their faces showed nothing.
Antoine spoke slowly. “If you are a lawyer, Mr. Carr, then we must conclude that we have made a mistake. It will be an embarrassing mistake, but not serious—and you will live. If you are not a lawyer, then there has been no mistake. Please answer the question, and spare us your truculence.”
Carr hesitated, looking at the faces. They were waiting, judging him with deadly seriousness.
“Harrison, Bentley, and Reed.”
“Address?”
Carr gave it.
“Which floor?”
“Seventeenth.”
“How long have you been with this firm?”
“Twelve years.”
“That is a long time. What is your position?”
“Junior partner.”
“Your field?”
“Tax and corporate law, broadly speaking, but—”
“It sounds like an excellent job,” Antoine observed dryly. “Where did you receive your legal training?”
“Harvard.”
“The years?”
“1951 to 1953.”
“Did you enjoy Harvard?”
“Nobody enjoys the Harvard Law School.”
“Why is that? Tell us something about it.”
Carr paused. “Are you trying to establish that I was there?”
“You’re very astute.”
Carr shrugged, and felt the straps cut into his arms. “There isn’t a lot to tell. I spent less time with the books than I should have, and—”
“Which library did you use?”
“The Ames Library.”
“Where is that?”
“Just off Mass Ave, where it curves around—”
Antoine held up a hand. “Why are you in Nice, Mr. Carr?”
“I was sent to buy a villa.”
“That is what we have heard. It is a common thing, a lawyer sent to buy a villa. It could be an excuse for any kind of activity. Who is your client?”
“I can’t tell you. As a lawyer, you should know that.”
Antoine considered this for a moment, pacing back and forth across the room. He would occasionally stop to glance at Carr, and the glance seemed to show amusement—Carr couldn’t be sure.
“You know,” Antoine said, “you are either a flawless liar or the genuine article.”
“You’re very astute.”
“Tell me, is an airplane a motor vehicle?”
The question took him by complete surprise, and it was several moments before the shock set in. Oh, God, he thought, why didn’t I pay more attention in class? He hesitated, then said, “It might be. It would depend—you’d have to give me a particular circumstance before I could decide the legal principle involved.”
“You give me the circumstance.”
The group watched, their faces showing no emotion and almost no interest. Only their eyes were alive, watching his hands, his face, his lips. Carr said, “A pilot is forced to make an emergency landing, and he chooses a highway, or a public beach. In landing, he kills some people.”
“Would the airplane necessarily be considered a motor vehicle in this situation?” Antoine seemed to be probing now with a sort of professional interest, almost curiosity.
“No, of course not. A number of factors might or might not be significant: whether the airplane was military or government-owned, whether, if commercial, it was making an interstate flight; whether it landed in a state that had an ordinance that might apply.”
Without hesitation Antoine said, “Tell me about Baker versus Carr.”
“Read the newspapers,” Carr said. “Or shall we go on to Marbury versus Madison?”
“That won’t be necessary. Tell me, is that Carr any relation to you?”
“No.”
“What about the Henderson-Carr Transportation Bill?”
“My father.”
“Your father is a senator?”
“Yes.”
Carr saw it. The man in sunglasses twitched, quite visibly. So the mention of his father drew a reaction. That was interesting. But was it good?
“You say you have come to Nice to buy a villa. What steps have you taken toward that goal?”
“I’ve bought one.”
Now everybody in the room reacted. The faces all showed interest.
“You move quickly,” Antoine said. “You must have made the purchase this afternoon. Which villa?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It is part of my client’s business.” Carr was not about to implicate the governor in any of this.
“The situation calls for a stretching of ethics,” Antoine said. “We have no interest in your client, or his business—only in establishing the truth of your story.”
“The Villa Perrani, near Villefranche.”
It was absolutely silent in the room.
The faces of the men grew grim. Carr sensed that something was wrong, and that his situation had become instantly more dangerous.
“We can tell when you are lying, Mr. Carr.”
Keep calm, he told himself. Don’t shift in your chair, don’t play with your hands, keep your voice even. He said, “Ask the girl. She was with me.”
“The girl does not concern us now. Give us the truth.”
There was a soft knock at the door behind Carr. A man stepped into the room. Carr did not look around; he kept his gaze fixed on the other men.
“Welcome,” Sunglasses said, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “You are just in time to help us question Mr. Carr.”
Signor Perrani stepped into Carr’s field of vision. His face, like the others, was blank—no emotion, not the slightest flicker of recognition.
“Perrani!”
Sunglasses remained calm. He turned to Perrani and said, “This man claims to have bought your villa, signor.”
“I have never seen him before in my life,” Perrani said.
Chapter XVII
THERE WAS A LONG, expectant silence. Carr looked from Perrani to Sunglasses, and then to the other members of the group. He was trying, very quickly, to decide how to play this new game. Perrani was lying, but the Italian had a disturbing confidence, an unshakable calm that Carr couldn’t understand. Perrani was obviously a member of this group, but not an important one—they had started without him—and perhaps Carr could take advantage of the fact. He turned to Sunglasses and said, “He’s lying.”
“Try again, Mr. Carr,” Sunglasses said. His voice sounded bored, slightly disappointed.
“I can prove he’s lying. I can describe the Villa Perrani in detail: I was there this afternoon. I can tell you about the library, the butler, the upstairs bedrooms—”
“We have always been impressed with the depth of your cover. We have no doubt you can describe the villa with absolute accuracy.”
“What about Graff, the agent? I was with him, he can tell you. Why don’t you ask him?”
Sunglasses was unmoved. “We might ask the consulate as well. They would probably give an even more convincing corroboration.”
“And the girl? Why not talk with her—she was with me, the whole time.”
“The girl,” said Sunglasses patiently, “is hopelessly in love with you. We do not need to bring her in to discover that.”
Perrani smiled faintly and shook his head pityingly at Carr.
“Look, I paid for that villa. A check for four hundred thousand dollars, made out to Enzio Perrani, payable at the Société Général, Nice. I gave it to him. You can check at the bank in the morning.”
“And if there has been no check deposited?” Sunglasses shrugged. “We will have wasted still more time, time which we cannot afford to waste.”
Carr felt a cold chill. They were right, of course—if the pressure was on, Perrani would not dare cash the chec
k. But he said, “What Perrani does with his money is none of my business. He originally wanted me to deposit the sum in a numbered Geneva account, but I refused. I prefer more straightforward dealings.”
Sunglasses sighed. “Such an honest man.” He looked around the group, apparently reading the faces where Carr had failed.
“Have we heard enough?”
The men nodded, and Perrani allowed himself a slight smirk.
Sunglasses said, “Mr. Carr, it seems you remain troublesome to us. We must now decide how most simply to be rid of you. Ernst, take care of him.”
From behind, the blond German stepped forward. A long knife was in his hand.
“Wait a minute,” Carr said. “You’re making a big mistake. I think you ought to—”
What happened next came so swiftly Carr could scarcely believe it. The German leaped across the room and gripped Perrani’s arms, holding them behind his back. The knife was at the Italian’s throat.
“Stop!” Sunglasses ordered.
The German stopped. The blade had just nicked the throat, leaving a thin red line.
Perrani’s eyes were wide.
There was dead silence in the room. Sunglasses walked forward and pulled a pistol out of Perrani’s belt. He sighed. “Enzio, you poor fool. Did you really think you could succeed?” He smiled. “And did you think I would let your death be so painless as a quick stroke of the knife?” Sunglasses laughed bitterly. “It will take you hours to die, I promise you.”
He went to a corner for his black bag and brought it back to the center of the room. “Observe, gentlemen, a traitor’s fate. Roll up his sleeve.”
Perrani’s jacket was stripped off, and his sleeve roughly torn. Sunglasses filled a hypodermic. “Ether, my friend. Injected intravenously, it is quite amusing.”
Perrani was sweating. His lips worked soundlessly. The German straightened the Italian’s arm, and Sunglasses delicately inserted the needle into the hollow of the elbow. He squeezed out the contents.
The response was immediate.
Perrani collapsed on the ground and went into the most violent spasms Carr had ever seen. He rolled, twitched, and jerked, his body frantically in motion. He said nothing, but emitted quick wheezing noises, as if perpetually about to sneeze. Every limb shook violently, uncontrollably; his head hammered against the floor like a pneumatic drill. His face was a bright blue.
“Take him outside,” Sunglasses said. “Let him roll on the grass and die.”
It took three men to carry the quivering, shuddering body out of the room.
When he was gone, Sunglasses turned calmly to Carr. “We are most grateful to you, Mr. Carr. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Georges Liseau.” He did not shake hands or offer to introduce the other men. “You have prevented a possible misfortune to our organization by telling us about Signor Perrani, and we would like to repay you in whatever way we can.”
Carr looked at Liseau as if he were insane. He was completely confused. “How about a drink and a ride back to my hotel?”
Liseau nodded amiably as he untied Carr’s bonds. “As a doctor, I would suggest vodka. It produces the least hangover, and has the fewest impurities. Will that be all right? Good. On the rocks?” He moved to a silver ice bucket and filled a tall glass with cubes, then began pouring vodka. “Say when.”
Carr waited until the glass was one third full. “When.”
“As for your hotel,” Liseau said, handing him the glass, “allow us to show our gratitude more fully. As the distinguished son of an American senator, we would be pleased if you would remain here, as our guest, for a few days.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“We will send a car to collect your clothes from the Negresco. I think you will find your stay here pleasant, and we will certainly do our best to make it enjoyable. Besides, you will need time to recover from your injured nose. It’s broken, you know.” He seemed to reflect a moment. “I think, in fact, that I had better attend to it right now. Bring your drink, and if you will follow me, I will show you to your room.”
Once in the room, which was modern, with white walls and a glass wall looking out over the sea, Carr was told to lie on the bed. Liseau stripped off his jacket and examined the nose in the light of the bed lamp. Carr, remembering Perrani, shuddered at the touch.
Liseau sat back and said, “I think you will be happier if I work while you are sleeping. Please roll up your sleeve.” Carr hesitated, and Liseau laughed. “There is nothing to be afraid of, I assure you.”
Carr finally decided he just didn’t care, he was so damned tired. He lay back, felt the cotton rubbing his arm, the cool sensation of the alcohol, and then a sharp prick. “Shut your eyes, Mr. Carr.” The voice was confident and soothing. “Relax. Breathe deeply.”
He looked at Liseau, who seemed to be drifting back, farther and farther away.
“Relax. There is nothing to fear.”
Carr shut his eyes. He was asleep.
He awoke to the sound of birds chittering outside his window. Sunlight, clear and bright, streamed into the room, nearly blinding him as he groped for his watch. It was nine. He got up and walked to the mirror to examine his face. The eyes were a little bloodshot, and there was a cut on his chin that would make shaving unpleasant, but otherwise he seemed fine. A white triangle of cardboard was taped across the bridge of his nose, which did not hurt as much as he had expected. On the dresser beneath the mirror was a small box of yellow pills, resting on top of a slip of paper which said, “One every four hours as needed for pain.”
He looked around the room and saw his suitcase standing in one corner. It must have been brought in during the night. He went over and opened it, and was momentarily confused to find it empty. Then he checked the closet and found his clothes neatly hung out.
There were two other doors in the room. He tried one, and discovered that it opened onto the corridor. So he wasn’t locked in—that was a surprise. The other door led into a spanking white tiled bathroom. His shaving kit had been placed on a shelf above the sink, along with his toothbrush and a new tube of toothpaste. He remembered he had run out of toothpaste, and had forgotten to buy some in Nice the day before.
Someone was knocking on the door.
It was a maid, a very pretty one, who managed to look both apologetic and interested when she saw Carr in his pajamas. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she said.
“No, no,” Carr said, running his eyes over the girl. Very pretty indeed, he thought. Her uniform was not starched, but softly hugged the curves of her body.
“Dr. Liseau would like you to join him for breakfast, on the terrace, if that is convenient.”
“Fine. Fifteen minutes?”
“I will tell the doctor.”
He showered and shaved, then followed the corridor to a staircase, went down and out through what seemed to be the living room—the room he had been questioned in the night before—and onto the terrace. Liseau was there, hidden behind an opened copy of Le Monde. There was a copy of the Times International neatly folded alongside Carr’s plate. He sat down.
“Good morning.”
Liseau put his paper aside. “Good morning, Mr. Carr. I trust you slept well?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I have ordered fried eggs, ham, and orange juice; I thought you might be hungry. Does it suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Bon.” Without looking back, Liseau motioned to the maid, who immediately brought Carr his breakfast. It was hot and good, and he ate with relish in spite of himself. Liseau continued reading for several minutes, then said, “Your nose presented no problem. It was a clean break along the fronto-nasal suture, which should heal quickly. You found the codeine pills?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Liseau paused. “I must leave you soon,” he said, checking his watch. “I have appointments in Nice. But before I go, I want to clarify your position here. You are my guest. You are welcome to use the house or the grounds in whatever
way amuses you, and it is my wish that you should do so. It is also my wish that you forget last night; it was an unfortunate business from beginning to end, and need not concern us further. I can assure you that you are in no danger here. But,” he said, standing, “at the same time, it would be unwise to leave. The fence around the property, you will find, can be climbed with determination. That is why it is electrified. There are also guards, who have orders not to bother you unless you try to leave. Do we understand each other?”
“How long will I be kept here?”
“You had best let me decide that,” Liseau said, “as your doctor. I have only your best interests at heart. And now, if you will excuse me, I must meet my appointments.” He nodded politely and left.
The maid came up and said, “Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee.”
She gave him a wicked, slow smile. “I hope you will enjoy your stay at Le Scalpel.”
“What?”
“Le Scalpel. It is the name of the villa. Dr. Liseau has a strange sense of humor.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“The guests usually call it L’estomac, because the cuisine is so good. Dr. Liseau has hired a chef from Le Baumainère to cook for him in the evenings. Oh, he pays him a fortune, I can tell you.”
She brought him his coffee.
“Does Dr. Liseau have many guests?”
“You mean staying here? No, not now. A month ago, we had many—and six months ago, the same. But not now. Only you and Miss Crittenden.”
So the others don’t live here, Carr thought. They probably had villas of their own, like Perrani. He said. “Where is Miss Crittenden now?”
The maid seemed piqued by his question. “Out there,” she said, pointing off across the landscaped lawns. “You know Miss Crittenden?”
Carr was about to answer when they heard the deep roar of an automobile starting up. “Dr. Liseau’s Ferrari,” the maid said.
“The silver one? That’s his?”
“Yes. C’est jolie, hein?”
Carr nodded, remembering Cannes. He got up and set off across the lawn. He wanted first to walk around the house, to get some idea of how it was laid out. He stepped back to get a better view of Le Scalpel.
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