It was a sobered and worried Morgan O’Neill who made his way back to the Navy airport. It seemed unbelievable that a man like Jacques Stern could be an enemy agent. And yet Captain Trilling had seemed quite certain and it was obvious that Trilling had not told all he knew. It could of course be that Jacques’ associates were suspect and he himself completely innocent. Morgan, strangely, found himself hoping so. If Alice had given her heart away, Morgan wanted no share in breaking it.
Morgan found himself a seat in a big Navy transport plane bound for La Guardia Airport. The propellers thundered through a cloudless, aquamarine sky, and below automobiles on the road and farmers working in their fields were clear and distinct. Over Havre de Grace, as they neared Baltimore, Morgan saw some horses working out on the track.
The plane’s shadow fell across the land and by its movement Morgan could judge the plane’s speed. About two hundred miles per hour, he estimated. They would be in New York in no time.
He took a notebook from his breast pocket and started jotting down everything he had noticed or heard about Jacques. He would type the notes and mail them to Trilling as soon as he got home. It was surprising how little he knew. He’d played bridge with Jacques a few times at the Pantheon, but he’d forgotten now who the other players were. He’d have to spend a little more time at the Pantheon than had been his custom.
He remembered the afternoon he’d introduced Jacques to Alice. Jacques had rattled on about a bridge game, but that had been a blind. And, oh, yes, diamonds. Morgan had mentioned that to Trilling. Jacques had said he was buying a necklace for his sister and a jeweler’s card had dropped from his pocket. A plant? An accident?
Perhaps he was drumming up trade for a friend. Morgan even remembered the name: Jan Van der Meer, like the painter, Jacques had said. He had been at pains to impress it upon Morgan. Well, we’ll call on Mr. Van der Meer, Morgan thought.
The starboard wing suddenly dipped low and the plane circled for the approach. They were over La Guardia.
Morgan got home about four o’clock. His father was not yet back from work. He typed his notes and went out and mailed them to Trilling. About six o’clock his father came home. He made himself a bourbon and water, took the evening papers to his customary chair by the river windows, and lit his pipe.
There was a breath-taking sunset over New Jersey, wild splashes of magenta streaked by inky purple-black clouds. There were a few small craft on the river, nothing important.
“They may say this isn’t a fashionable part of town,” the old man said, “but where else in the city will you find a view like this? Look at that sky now!”
Two shafts of sunlight had broken through the low-lying clouds and made a brilliant yellow V against the sky. He became aware that his son had not spoken.
Morgan was staring at the telephone. “I’m sorry, Dad. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention. I have a call to make.”
He got Alice almost immediately and invited her and Jacques to dinner the following night, unless, by luck, they could make it tonight…he’d just got in from Washington…
“I can’t either night, Morgan dear, and neither can Jacques. He’s in San Francisco for a few days. But if you’d make it the day after tomorrow, I’d love it. Pretty forward that, isn’t it?”
“You’d never be forward, Alice, so it’s a date. Meet me as close to seven as you can, at the Pantheon. You’re sure Jacques won’t mind?”
“Don’t be silly, Morgan. You’re one of the dearest friends I have and Jacques would be delighted. I don’t want to lose track of you, you know.”
“Okay, it’s a date, dear,” he said, and hung up.
The old man was disapproving. “That’s a foolish thing you’re doing, son,” he said. “You ought to know better.”
“It’s not, Dad, I promise you.”
The old man, unconvinced, turned back to his view. The lights were beginning to come on across on the Jersey side and Palisade Amusement Park was already a blaze of rather shabby, if brilliant, enticement. As he looked, the avenue lights along Riverside Drive came on suddenly. He always enjoyed that moment—the lights springing into sparkling sight so suddenly that you felt you had heard them as well.
Morgan was all at once so fatigued that he nodded in his chair by the telephone. Thank heaven, he did not have to play host and spy—yes, spy—tonight. He waved good night to his father and went to bed, where he slept as if drugged.
* * * *
The FBI had long had a suspicion of Jacques, as had ONI. But the two agencies had been working independently. Now they decided to join forces. Both were of the opinion that Jacques was an insignificant member of an illegal group. What they were after was his boss. But now they had to move, because the Navy had to give an answer to Alice.
It was decided to look at the books of the Stern company in France, and French officialdom readily gave permission. René, of whose fealty to democratic ideologies as opposed to communistic there could be no doubt, was most helpful. He hated his cousin anyhow and saw no way that he himself might not prosper if the elegant Jacques got into trouble, though he was not, of course, sure what he had done.
The company had offices in Paris, Lyons, and Marseilles. The records were meticulously scrambled, for Jacques’ father did not believe in income taxes. But with the help of René—who, once the opportunity came to him, proved sharper at business than anyone had supposed—the investigation was made fairly easy.
After poring over dozens of ledgers, most of them handwritten by the old man himself with a scratchy pen and purple ink, a few salient facts appeared.
On at least three occasions the company had been awarded contracts in a closed-bid competition without any evidence that they had ever actually bid. Moreover, on two occasions the Stern contract had been for more money than the published bids of rival concerns. All the contracts were with companies openly doing business with the Soviet Union.
And Jacques’ salary of $200 a week in American dollars was by no means enough to support his manner of living in New York. The only other item was a check to Jacques for $2,500, which the old man had sent just before his death.
“I know about that,” René said. “It was in the nature of a bribe. My uncle wanted Jacques to marry a girl here whose father is in banking. He was going to disinherit Jacques if he disobeyed. He told me about that. He was something of a sadist.”
“Didn’t the old man think it strange that he should be given a contract on which he had not even bid?” René was asked.
“He was colossally conceited,” was the answer. “He simply thought he could do the job better and it was only natural that people should come to him. He hated bidding, open or sealed. He spent three sleepless nights once when a competitor underbid him at a figure on which he himself could not have made a profit. He never bid after that.”
And so the little purple figures, with their crossed sevens and their guileful misdirections, began to tell a curious story.
* * * *
Morgan had his dinner with Alice. He met her at the Pantheon, but quickly whisked her away to a famous French restaurant in the East Fifties.
He had ordered beforehand: white asparagus to begin with, English sole, French lamb chops with soufflé potatoes and a string-bean salad. For wine he had ordered a Pouilly fuissé. Dessert was to be determined later. It was not a fancy dinner, but it was a good one and he knew the chef would do it justice. In spite of what lay behind this meeting with Alice, Morgan had been looking forward to it. It was a simple reaction: he was going to have dinner with Alice.
Alice was not in uniform.
Alice was definitely not in uniform.
She wore a tight black short-sleeved dress and her hair was sleekly swept back from her forehead falling into a ponytail secured by a black velvet ribbon. This was the hair that she braided meticulously each morning so that it would fit under her nurse’s cap. She felt giddy
when she dressed this way, but so often was she clad in the uniform rigor of a nurse’s clothes that she splurged when she went out in civilian clothes. And about her ivory-tawny throat was the circlet of diamonds.
It was at once a declaration and a defiance. And a protection. For although she was enamored of Jacques and betrothed to him, she was inescapably beloving of Morgan O’Neill. Had she lived in a society which approved of polyandry she might have been completely happy.
The dinner was pleasant, the food delicious. The information garnered about Jacques was virtually nil. Alice knew remarkably little about Jacques’ business. His father had started out in copper and then had branched out into various kinds of manufacturing, heavy mostly, and she had heard him mention industrial diamonds.
“He seems to have a thing about diamonds,” Morgan, who had previously admired the necklace, said.
“To the point of carelessness,” she said. “Why, do you know he almost forgot he had given another necklace to his sister? I hope hers isn’t as good looking as mine.”
“Boy, that is something. Those things cost money. But however did you find out he’d forgotten?”
“We took one of those boat tours around the island and when we were passing under the George Washington Bridge the guide gave us the old song about its looking like a diamond necklace at night and that reminded me of his sister. So I asked him.”
“And he’d forgotten?”
“Only for a moment. He is vague and forgetful at times. I think it’s one of his charms. And at other times he’s precise as can be.”
And so the evening wore on, pleasant, warm, a little sad.
Morgan drove Alice back to the hospital (he had borrowed a car) and thoughtfully went back home. There was a message for him by the telephone. Call a certain Washington number if he got home before midnight; if not, call at seven-thirty in the morning. It was only a quarter past twelve and Morgan decided to call. Trilling answered.
“When is Stern due back from San Francisco?”
“Tomorrow or the day after. Does he have a sister?”
“No, there’s no sister. I checked when I got your report. Tell him you know he has no sister and see what he says. We want him to know we’re watching him. He might just panic. I’ll be in New York tomorrow. You can reach me any time through Ninety Church Street. Anything new?”
“I keep running into diamonds.”
“We know all about that. Keep off them. Ask him about the sister.”
It was ridiculously easy, ridiculously unproductive.
Morgan was sitting at a table in the Pantheon when Jacques came in, nodding to his friends and making his way to the bar. He waved him over to the table. “Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“My pleasure,” Jacques said easily. “But why do you owe me one?”
“I took your girl to dinner yesterday. Of course, I invited you, too. So the least I can do is buy you a drink today.”
“Ah, yes, she told me. She had a very pleasant time, she said. Next time let me be the host. I’ll be in the city most of the summer. And you?”
“Off and on.” And then plunging swiftly, “Jacques, you’ve mentioned a few times you had a sister, but you haven’t. Never did have. Why say you do?”
Jacques’ eyes glazed in thought for the fraction of a moment, then became clear again. He countered with a question. “I know you’re in Naval Intelligence. But that question sounds more like the FBI. Am I being investigated?”
Morgan answered calmly and truthfully, “You’re going to marry a girl in the U.S. Navy. She has to get permission to marry an alien. Since I know the two of you, it’s natural that I should be asked certain questions.”
“I can explain easily. As a man of the world, O’Neill, you understand that one doesn’t tell a nice young American girl that one has une petite amie. Even if one is getting rid of her. I can see that I shall someday have to explain this to Alice. I am sure that you, as a gentleman, will let me explain it in my own way.”
“Sure, go ahead. I have no desire to turn Alice against you.”
“Then there is nothing else?”
“Your story sounds plausible. I suppose if it is necessary you will tell me who the girl is and where to find her?”
“If it is necessary, of course. I hope it will not be. And is there anything else?”
Morgan smiled. “It’s getting hot again,” he said. “Will the summer ever end?”
Jacques finished his drink in silence, made his thanks, and left the club.
The story that Jacques had told Morgan was quick-witted, but not true. There had been no necklace, nor had there been another girl. But if Morgan wanted to see a girl, Antoinette would do admirably. Anybody in his right senses would like to give presents to Antoinette. And the little farce would irritate Felix, which gave Jacques a moment of amusement, though he was feeling uncomfortable.
Those steady eyes of O’Neill’s, those silly eyes, one brown and one blue, were disturbing. Now that matters were getting serious, Jacques was not pleased with his situation. Why had he not waited for that inheritance? Though, in truth, at the time he had not believed it would be so substantial. But he was committed. Like the flyer who has started his dive on a target and can no longer turn away. Like the flyer across the Atlantic who passes the point of no return.
Van der Meer would have to be alerted, but that would be easy. Jacques telephoned St. Georges. “I am being investigated. Morgan O’Neill, the ONI man, is on the case.”
“O’Neill?” St. Georges chuckled. “But that is excellent. That is droll. That is excellent. It should make a comedy for the Paris theater. Pity you can’t write.”
“I wish I could share your amusement. It is not so hilarious to me. It is no joke to know you are being watched, that any little slip…”
“There will be no slips.” St. Georges’ voice changed to ice. “We have been preparing for this all along. It is only you who can spoil things by turning into a poltroon. And don’t worry about being watched. Now we will watch O’Neill, too… Any indications of the FBI?”
“No.”
“They may be in it, too. Now just act natural. Tell your girl you are being investigated by O’Neill. It is a great joke, see? And keep in touch with me. Let me know all their moves. Anything else?”
Jacques told him about the necklace and St. Georges scolded him for unnecessarily complicating things with nonexistent necklaces, nonexistent mistresses, nonexistent sisters. “Simplicity is the thing,” he said. “Always remember that. Amateurs, when they lie, get complicated. Then they forget what they have said and get caught. Professionals lie simply. Then they remember. And you are a professional now, mon cher Jacques.”
But St. Georges declared that no harm had been done, that he would instruct Van der Meer, and that Antoinette would be ready if she was needed.
It was a Tuesday and Alice worked late Tuesdays. Jacques left word at the hospital asking that she meet him at his apartment on the morrow at eight. He was glad he didn’t have to talk to her. He didn’t feel like it tonight. Nor did he feel like going back to the Pantheon where he might see Morgan. He ate a miserable sandwich at the drugstore where he had telephoned, and went to a movie. After that, he went to bed and read. It was the Pensées of Pascal, but they didn’t give him much consolation.
CHAPTER 8
When a man applies for a job, he gives as references his bank, provided he is not overdrawn, a few friends who may be counted upon to speak well of him, any previous employers who will not speak ill of him, stores where his credit is good, and the like. Thus, the investigative agency—be it prospective employer or, as in Jacques’ case, the ONI—may be supposed to get a composite picture that is favorable.
In the build-up of Jacques, St. Georges had supplied many such bulwarks. The most important, he felt, was the diamond merchant, Jan Van der Meer.
Van der Meer was Henri St. Georges’ discovery.
He had a full dossier on the man. When Van der Meer was a boy in Holland he had seen his parents murdered by the invading Nazis. Later his only sister was executed for participating in the Dutch underground. The boy had managed to escape and was now an American citizen (St. Georges had shrewdly guessed that this move was one of convenience rather than a gesture of new allegiance and patriotism), married and the father of two children. St. Georges cleverly played upon the man’s intense hatred of anything German and it was not long before Van der Meer had agreed to transmit messages for him.
He was the prize plum in St. Georges’ basket. He was thoroughly respectable and, of course, had been thoroughly investigated before citizenship had been granted him. The dropping of the Van der Meer business card had been a plant. St. Georges was delighted to have inquiries about Jacques Stern made in that quarter.
And when Morgan woke up that Wednesday morning the first thing he decided to do was disobey orders. He had been told to “keep off diamonds,” but he decided to talk to Van der Meer. He found his address in the telephone book.
West Forty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues is the diamond center of Manhattan. Literally hundreds of offices and shops line both sides of the street and in the street itself men haggle, hold stones up to the light, dart indoors to peer at them through jewelers’ glasses, buy them, sell them, trade them.
Van der Meer’s was a small unpretentious suite on the second floor of one of the older office buildings. There was a long counter running almost the length of the office from south to north. Near the single northern window a clerk was typing. Van der Meer himself was at the other end, where he was protected by an iron cage. There was a steel safe at his back.
He was a man approaching forty, with brushed-back hair and a bushy mustache whose cleanliness suggested that the pipe he held clenched in his teeth was seldom lit. He wore a black alpaca coat. He was squinting through his magnifying glass at an unset diamond.
“Good morning, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked.
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