Harlequin

by Morris West

  ‘Who was the man? Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No. But I would know him again.’

  ‘What did you find in the safe?’

  ‘Money – about twenty-five thousand dollars. A file of computer print-outs. A notebook containing a list of companies and their computer codes. All the branches of Harlequin et Cie are listed, each with its own code. I believe that all the other companies are clients of Creative Systems. I took the book and left the rest of the stuff.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Bargaining power, Mr Desmond. We’ve never had it before. We have it now… in very, very safe deposit.’

  ‘But none of this makes sense.’

  ‘I think we’ll find it makes a lot of sense, Mr Desmond. Suppose Miss Valerie Hallstrom were playing her own private game: milking the computers and selling the results outside. Suppose Yanko found out. What would he do?’

  ‘Have her arrested.’

  ‘And brought to trial, with the whole sorry mess displayed in court? That would be a crippling blow to Creative Systems and to Yanko himself. It would take him years to recover. No, Mr Desmond, there are precedents, too many precedents. Some companies have even bought off offending employees and given them first-class references, rather than indict them and face millions of dollars’ worth of damage. But I don’t think Yanko would do that, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he gets rid of her the cheap way. The safe is found empty. The police assume that Miss Hallstrom surprised an intruder and was shot. It happens every day to wealthy ladies living alone. And Miss Hallstrom’s life-style helps the story.’

  ‘But we know…’

  ‘I know, Mr Desmond.’ He said it almost tenderly. ‘All you have heard is a fairy-tale, which you will forget the moment I leave. That was our bargain, remember? Later, when I have found the man who killed Miss Hallstrom, we shall see.’

  ‘Do you think you will find him?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, Mr Desmond. It’s a very closed profession but the good practitioners are all known. I’ll find him.’

  He went out smiling; but he left behind a whiff of sulphur and brimstone and half a hint of damnation. Slowly, I found myself forced into the same dilemma as George Harlequin. We were bankers; we washed money clean as cheesecloth; but we, ourselves, could never quite escape the taint that attached to it. Then George Harlequin called, brisk, business-like and so far out of character that even I could not guess the role he had chosen for the day.

  ‘Paul? I wonder if you’d mind coming to the Salvador, say in about twenty minutes. I’m having lunch with Herbert Bachmann. I need to confer with you. Then Basil Yanko is coming here at three. I’d like you to be present. Meantime, there are some other people who are anxious to talk to you… Half an hour? Well, do try to make it sooner if you can. Oh, one other thing. Would you mind taking Juliette to lunch? She’s very bored with my company, and I don’t blame her. Thanks, Paul. A bientôt.’

  The people who wished to see me were two very polite young detectives from the New York Police Department. They explained, in alternate versicles, that they had called the bank, that the bank had referred them to Mr Harlequin, who had kindly consented to call me and that they hoped, sincerely, not to have put me to too much inconvenience. I assured them they had not. They wondered whether Mr Harlequin would mind leaving us alone for a while.

  Harlequin did mind. He minded very much. He expressed it in the phrases of high diplomacy. I was his long-time friend, a trusted director, an officer of an international bank. We were standing on the property of that bank. We were standing on its dignity, too. Unless I specifically desired his absence, he would stay. It wasn’t a long argument, but it gave me time to collect my addled wits and to frame a simple, straightforward account.

  ‘I left my apartment at a quarter to eight and walked to the St Regis. I had a drink in the King Cole bar. At about eight-fifteen, I crossed to the Côte Basque, where I dined with a lady. We left the restaurant at about eleven-thirty in a Colby limousine. I dropped the lady home. The driver took me to Gully Gordon’s bar on First Avenue. I stayed there till one. The driver took me to my apartment. My manservant can confirm my arrival at about one-fifteen. He was making a late supper for himself. I shared it… Now, may I know the reason for these inquiries?’

  ‘If you’ll be patient with us, Mr Desmond, please…? You dined with a lady. Her name?’

  ‘Miss Valerie Hallstrom.’

  ‘Have you known her long?’

  ‘Three days. Miss Hallstrom works for Creative Systems Incorporated, whose systems we use and to whom we are underwriters, and investment bankers. She had prepared a report on our computer operations. We had met to discuss it. She was helpful and enlightening. I invited her to dinner.’

  ‘But you didn’t call for her at her house?’

  ‘No. I sent the Colby limousine.’

  ‘Any reason for that?’

  ‘It was simpler and I wanted to stretch my legs. I’d been inside all day.’

  ‘You say you drove Miss Hallstrom home. Did she invite you inside?’

  ‘On the contrary. She asked to be dropped a block from her house.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was unusual?’

  ‘Very. But on the other hand…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘Miss Hallstrom is a business acquaintance. I have no knowledge of her – er – domestic arrangements. New York is a whimsical city. I find it easiest to accept its whims at face value and ask no questions. I asked the driver to follow Miss Hallstrom home. Once we had seen her safely to the door, we drove on. I’m sure you’ll be able to confirm all this with Colby Hire and with the driver of the limousine.’

  ‘What are your movements in the next few days, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘They depend entirely on Mr Harlequin here.’

  ‘Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Impossible to be definite at this moment, gentlemen. We are engaged in some highly delicate international negotiations. We may be here for a week. I may have to send Mr Desmond to Europe or to the South Americas at a moment’s notice. Why do you ask?’

  One of the detectives produced a manila envelope, tipped out a sheaf of photographs and handed one to each of us.

  Even though I was prepared, I felt a shock of disgust and horror. Valerie Hallstrom lay like a rag doll on the floor of her living-room. Her face was a bloody mess.

  The detective reached across and took the photograph from my hand. ‘She was shot, Mr Desmond. Close range with a low velocity .38 pistol.’

  ‘I – I don’t understand… When? How?’

  ‘We’re working on that. Would you mind, Mr Desmond, if we went to your apartment, talked to your servant, checked your belongings?’

  ‘Anything you want. But surely you don’t think…?’

  ‘Routine, Mr Desmond. It helps you, too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Before you go, gentlemen!’ George Harlequin stood up, an iron man, dominating us all. ‘I am witness to this interview. Mr Desmond has answered freely all questions put to him. He has offered you, gentlemen, free access to his apartment without a warrant. He has given you facts and the means to check them. Meantime, I have a call on Mr Desmond’s services. I wish him to remain here for business discussions which involve the urgent interests of international clients. So, with deference to the police authority, may I make a suggestion: Mr Desmond telephones his servant and directs him to admit you to his apartment. He remains here at your disposal if you wish to question him further… Well, gentlemen?’

  They were the new breed: cautious, educated and rational. After a brief conference, they agreed. I called Takeshi, handed over my keys and promised to wait at the Salvador until they returned.

  When Harlequin and I were alone, he asked me a single blunt question. ‘You left out something, Paul. What was it?’

  ‘There’s nothing, George.’

  He was hurt, but he tried hard not to show it. He said, calmly, ‘Just reme
mber, you are not required to compromise yourself for me.’

  ‘I’m not compromised, George. Let’s drop it, eh? You’re meeting Yanko this afternoon. How are you going to handle him?’

  ‘I’m refusing the offer.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I take up my options to buy the minority shares.’

  ‘You can’t afford it.’

  ‘Herbert Bachmann thinks he can raise the funds for me. We’re discussing it over lunch.’

  ‘Even if he can, you’ll put yourself in debt for ten years and with the cost of money today, it could be longer. Besides, what happens if Yanko raises the offer? He could do it, you know, if he traded shares in Creative Systems instead of cash. There’s a limit to what even Bachmann can do in Wall Street without frightening the horses.’

  ‘Then, let’s see what the limit is, Paul. And how much time we can buy for our other operations. I think Bogdanovich may surprise us.’

  ‘He’s made it clear, George. He doesn’t want you to stage a confrontation just yet.’

  Harlequin was nettled. His answer was sharp and definite. ‘We are paying for information, advice and assistance. I decide how we use it. I refuse to be manipulated.’

  ‘No quarrel, George; it’s your money. But this isn’t Europe, and the American scene is pretty muddled at this moment.’

  ‘So, we must be clear, Paul. The risk is mine, the decision is mine.’

  ‘Do you need me at this meeting with Yanko?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve told him you’ll be here. I invited him to bring one of his own people if he wished. He said he needed no assistance; but, of course, he understood I was still under medical care.’

  ‘Arrogant bastard!’

  ‘That helps, Paul. I can’t bend to him now. I’m committed; with everything I am, everything I own. If men like Yanko control the machines, there’s no hope for any of us.’

  ‘How does Julie feel?’

  ‘We’re closer. Though I wonder sometimes whether she wouldn’t have been happier married to a simpler man…’

  This was dangerous ground. I didn’t want to walk on it. Before I had time to phrase a comment, the telephone rang. George Harlequin signalled me to answer it. Basil Yanko was on the line. ‘Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘No, this is Paul Desmond…’

  ‘Oh, Mr Desmond, as you know we were to have a meeting this afternoon. Unfortunately, I am involved in a rather tragic situation, affecting one of my staff. I wonder if we could defer until tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll fix it with Mr Harlequin. Same time at the Salvador, right?’

  ‘Yes, please…’ He hesitated a moment and then went on. ‘Perhaps, under the circumstances, I should tell you that the employee in question is Miss Valerie Hallstrom. She was killed last night.’

  ‘I know. I’ve talked with the police. I’ve seen the photographs.’

  ‘You, Mr Desmond?’ Either he was a superb actor, or he was shocked to the marrow. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I dined with Miss Hallstrom last night. Apparently I was the last person to see her alive.’

  ‘Did she say anything? Did you see…?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Yanko. The police are now in possession of the little information I was able to give them. I’m deeply distressed. I wish there were something I could say or do… Until tomorrow then.’

  ‘Until tomorrow…’ His voice trailed off into a vague murmur. ‘Goodbye, Mr Desmond.’

  As I put down the receiver, Harlequin asked mildly, ‘Was that wise, do you think?’

  ‘It was unavoidable.’

  ‘Was he disturbed?’

  ‘I think so. I hope so.’

  ‘I think you should call our friend Bogdanovich.’

  ‘I’d prefer to wait until the police have finished with my apartment.’

  Fifty minutes later they were back. They had checked the apartment; they had spoken with the driver of the limousine; they had talked with Gully Gordon. They thanked me for my co-operation. All they needed now was a brief signed statement. I wrote it in longhand on Salvador notepaper, signed it and had George Harlequin witness it. They thanked me for that, too, and hoped they would not have occasion to bother me again.

  There was only one small detail. They wondered why I hadn’t mentioned my meeting with Valerie Hallstrom in Gully Gordon’s bar. I told them half the truth and half a lie. The meeting was accidental and without significance. They saw that, of course. What I had failed to understand was that girls who haunted singles’ bars often found strange bedfellows. I agreed it was possible. I hoped they didn’t mean me. Of course not; but even the most respectable bachelor is hard put to prove that he has slept all night in his own bed…

  George Harlequin made a great joke of my discomfiture. He even persuaded the officers that they were off duty and could accept a cocktail before lunch. I was not amused, but I managed a happy bachelor smile and told a scabrous little story of my salad days in Tokyo. To hear us laugh, you would never have guessed that we had all been brought together by a murder.

  At one o’clock, Juliette came back, flushed and cheerful from a girl-morning in New York. She had visited her hairdresser, had coffee with a friend, shopped extravagantly and was delighted to be squired to lunch at the Fleur de Lys. Julie in festive mood could still turn heads and mine more easily than most. We strolled down Fifth Avenue, arm in arm. We window shopped at Bergdorf’s, at Van Cleef’s and Harry Winston’s. We played ‘Do you remember…’ and ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if…’ We drank large martinis and pondered the menu as if it were our last meal on earth. While we ate, we made plans for a night at the theatre and a Sunday drive into the country. We talked of a cocktail party to entertain friends and colleagues, and who among the women might be a good match for me. It was a pretty, pleasant party-game and I was glad to play it, as long as the lady was happy.

  She knew nothing about the morning’s drama; and it was no brief of mine to enlighten her. George Harlequin wanted to make his own decisions. How much he wanted his wife to know was one of them. Besides, I was tiring in the role of godfather, family friend, old Johnny Do-all. My money was pledged; the police were rummaging through my private life; people were breathing heavily into my telephone; and all I wanted to be was hail-fellow-well-met, and an Irish farewell when the girls were too ugly or the drinks ran out too early. It didn’t seem too much to ask, but then, I’d never understood women very well. By the time we reached the crêpes Suzette, Juliette had tired of small-talk and wanted to make a confession.

  ‘...I am happy, Paul – happier than I’ve been in a long time. George is getting stronger every day. He’s enjoying this battle. We’re more open with each other. When he’s upset now, he rasps. There was a time when he was so smooth and polished, I felt a hurricane wouldn’t ruffle him. I like him better this way. I’m easier to live with, too…’

  Now, what do you say, if you’re in my shoes? You’re delighted. You knew all along things would work out. Marriage isn’t always a rose-garden. All that and more. But, of course, it isn’t enough. The confession has hardly begun.

  ‘…Paul, I’ll be honest with you…’

  When a woman tells you she’s going to be honest, you should face about and run for the shrubbery, but you don’t. You sit, patient and smiling. You pat her hand and make murmurs of sympathy, and listen for the hundredth time to the siren song.

  ‘…I’m jealous of George. I’m insecure. I love him desperately; but just to be married to a man like him is a constant threat. He knows too much. He sees too clearly. I feel he’s measuring me at every moment; and all the time I’m falling short of his needs. This crisis has brought us together; but it could also take him farther away, where I can’t follow. If he’s beaten, yes, I’m there to pick him up and dust him down and love him. But if he wins, then he’s a million miles away once more. Can you understand that?’

  It’s a silly question. Why else are you there, if not to understand, and never say the unsayable: that Julie Gerar
d married a heaven-blest man; that she wasn’t content but must go on itching and scratching to know how he would fare in hell with the rest of us. But you can’t say that in the Fleur de Lys. You can’t tell her that if she’d married you, she’d be tamed and happy with a tumbling brood at her skirts, and she wouldn’t miss the Cezanne in the drawing-room, and the Hieronymus Bosch over the lintel in the banquet hall. So you smile and nod, and wonder what will happen when George Harlequin comes home with blood on his hands and dust in his poet’s mouth.

  Outside, the air was heavy and thunderous. The New Yorkers were still making their noisy, resentful pilgrimage to Nowhere. Their resentment was written on their closed, cautious faces. Their conviction was as clear as if they carried it on banners: Manhattan was a mess. It couldn’t get better. It could only get worse. It was a crazy town – money-hungry, man-hungry, woman-hungry. It snarled at you every minute of every hour and if you didn’t snarl back, it would gobble you up, body, soul and breeches. Still, there was a challenge to it. If you could beat this town, you could walk tall as a king anywhere else. But you had to beat it all day and every day. If you couldn’t, if you felt yourself weakening or waiting for a smile, you should hang on to your marbles, head back to the open range and stay there.