Harlequin

by Morris West

  After that, the women left us and Harlequin held me back for a more private discussion. Galvez had given him a copy of Yanko’s letter to the minority shareholders, a document which implied a great deal more than it stated:

  …The growth of Harlequin et Cie has been limited by and to the aspirations of the founding family; and the succession devolves upon a single infant child. Mr Harlequin himself has proved an able, even an adventurous president, but he has neglected to train a vice-regent, who could in the event of his death or incapacity take over control. His closest associate is Mr Paul Desmond, who has amasse d a large private fortune by speculative dealing; but who is unlikely to recommend himself as a stable centre-piece on any board of directors…

  Harlequin et Cie provides a secure foundation for growth. It does not, in its present state, have the impetus to growth, or the access to new investment sources which Creative Systems Incorporated could provide…

  Its information and retrieval systems are outmoded and, as recent experience has shown, are not secure against fraudulent manipulation. In the new company structure, we would immediately update these systems on a favoured-nation price-scale and operate them both more securely and more profitably…

  The reputation of Harlequin et Cie has been damaged by recent fraudulent manipulations by company staff, which are still under investigation. The purchase price is set at a premium in order to repair this damage, restore market confidence and to enable a new management to operate in an atmosphere of trust, harmony and aggressive development…

  There was more in the same vein; and the public executioner could not have done a cleaner job – no blood, no rancour, just a clean professional killing, with even a touch of mercy to it.

  I folded the letter and handed it back to Harlequin. ‘That explains everything, doesn’t it – the rumours, the doubts, the slump in business. All we need now is a bell around our necks.’

  ‘Do you think Leah Klein’s piece will answer it?’

  ‘We’ll know tomorrow, George… No, wait! Hand me the phone book!’

  ‘What is it, Paul?’

  ‘Let’s see what news bureaux are operating in the city They should have the story on the teletype…’

  ‘Will they give it to you?’

  ‘We can but try. Worst comes to worst, we’ll toss them a little bait: threats against life of George Harlequin and his entourage. We’ve got FBI authority for that one…’

  We tossed the bait and we got the story, delivered by the hand of an eager desk-man, who recorded for the world that Mr George Harlequin, presently in Mexico City, had indeed been warned by the FBI before he left Washington that he could be in physical danger. He had, in fact, hired professional bodyguards: but he declined to comment either on the source of the threats or on their relation to the current news item. The desk-man departed. We settled down to study Leah Klein’s surgical procedures. For a woman so raw and raucous, she wielded a very precise scalpel:

  ‘ …Police in London are investigating the murder of one Frank Lemnitz, who was found shot dead in his hotel suite last week… Frank Lemnitz was a criminal and an associate of criminals. He was convicted of armed assault in Chicago in 1960 and served a two year prison sentence. He was convicted on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon in Miami in 1965. This conviction was set aside after an appeal on procedural grounds. At the time of his death, Frank Lemnitz was employed as chauffeur and bodyguard to Mr Basil Yanko, president of Creative Systems Incorporated, an international computer organisation which handles high security contracts for the U.S. and other governments and for international corporations.

  ‘Two days before the death of Frank Lemnitz, another employee of Mr Basil Yanko was murdered in New York. This was thirty-year-old Valerie Hallstrom, highly-paid systems analyst and some-time friend of Mr Yanko, who was shot dead in her own apartment. The circumstances of her death are now under investigation by the New York Police and the FBI.

  ‘A notebook belonging to Miss Hallstrom and containing the secret access codes of clients, was delivered after her death to one of those clients, who immediately turned it over to the police. The companies named in the notebook are deeply concerned about this breach of their security. The U.S. Government is even more concerned because of the sensitive nature of the contracts handled by Creative Systems.

  ‘Inevitably it will be asked whether Basil Yanko’s highly profitable business with foreign governments and his involvement with oil politics in the Middle East are entirely appropriate to his role as the custodian of secrets and the designer of systems essential to the defence of the United States…

  ‘Mr Yanko has recently made a spectacular bid to take over the old-established European banking house of Harlequin et Cie. The bid has been firmly rejected by the president, Mr George Harlequin; but with two unsolved murders in his household, Mr Yanko still spent time in Frankfurt wooing minority shareholders…

  ‘The takeover bid has several puzzling features. Creative Systems supply computer service to Harlequin et Cie. A security report signed by Miss Valerie Hallstrom revealed that the system had been fraudulently corrupted with a resultant loss to Harlequin et Cie of fifteen million dollars. On the day this report was issued, Mr Basil Yanko made his first offer to buy out the bank. This tactic is interesting to those who have studied the career of this brilliant and original man. Apparently, it interests the FBI as well. Asked by this reporter what they thought about all these coincidences, the FBI spokesman replied quote Well, if things coincide, they may connect; we’re looking at all possibilities unquote. The career of Basil Yanko, who is acknowledged as…’

  The rest of it was a patchwork of standard biography and the spiciest pieces from Mendoza’s report.

  Harlequin gave a small humourless chuckle.

  ‘If it weren’t for all those buying orders, I’d start selling as soon as the big board opened in the morning.’

  In the first flush of elation, I was inclined to agree with him. On second thought, I wasn’t half so sure. ‘Let’s examine the realities, George. This report helps us with our shareholders. What it will do for us in the market is an open question. It’s not a scandal yet, remember. It just smells like one. After two years of Watergate, people are pretty cynical. Politicians and businessmen are like actors; they’re expected to be competent, not continent. The only real sin is stupidity; and Basil Yanko isn’t stupid.’

  ‘Not stupid at all,’ said George Harlequin thoughtfully. ‘But he doesn’t understand clowns…’

  You come to the San Angel Inn as if you were a pilgrim come to heaven, on foot, by narrow cobbled streets and antique squares full of shadows. When you arrive, you are welcomed into a garden full of water music. You are led through a series of paved patios, trellised with vines and flowering creepers, and conducted with ceremony into the imperial past. Nothing here is new except the food and the people and the mariachi music. The rest is venerable with age: the carved beams, the iron-work, the silver, the pictures, the heavy tables and the great leather chairs made for the breeches of grandees.

  The lights are muted, the cavernous chambers swallow up the sound, so that you can eat in quiet and talk as many secrets as you choose. If you want music, the mariachis will play for you. If you want to dance, you follow them out on to the patio, where the most vigilant of dueñas would be hard put to scold the most impulsive of lovers. After the fray and flurry of the city, it is a blissful oasis of courtesy and repose.

  Here, for the first time in months, I saw George Harlequin completely at ease. He knew everyone by name, from the bus-boy to the master of the music. He held long colloquy with the chef and made private jokes with the barman. At midnight, when the musicians took a break, he borrowed a guitar, played ten minutes of passable sevillanas and earned himself a cheer from the crowd and a round of drinks from the house.

  Juliette was delighted with it all; and when we danced together, she confessed, ‘ …I’d forgotten what it was like, just to laugh like this and be silly together. It
’s almost as though we’d been split into different parts and couldn’t put ourselves together again. I’m almost sorry I’m going to Acapulco…’

  Suzanne took a more sceptical view. ‘ …He’s acting, Paul. Every moment of this is calculated. Julie’s going away. He wants her happy and contented. It’s the same mistake he’s always made. He’ll assume the risks; she’ll enjoy the first fruits. And she won’t thank him for it, because he’s robbed her of the chance to be his woman. My God! How can intelligent people be so blind?’

  At one o’clock, José Luis had still not appeared; so we left to a chorus of thanks and benedictions and walked back, slowly, towards the main road where the limousine was waiting for us. It was a pleasant, drowsy promenade. The little squares were deserted now: the shutters drawn, the lights pale and sparse through the lattices. The alleys were silent. Our footsteps rang on the cobbles; our voices echoed back from the blank walls. Suzanne and I walked in front, arm-in-arm, while Harlequin and Juliette followed a few paces behind.

  At the entrance to the last alley, we stopped under a pendant lamp to admire the strange, antique perspective: the iron balconies with their intricate scrollwork and their trailing plants, the lamps swinging from their rusted brackets, the pools of glowing gold on the cobbles, the carved bosses over the archways, all converging at the far end to the pillar of neon light which was the entrance to the highway.

  One moment the alley was empty, the next there was a man, black against the light, with a gun at his hip. I yelled and threw myself at the women, trying to drag them to the ground with me. I heard the rattle of automatic fire, the splatter and whine of bullets, a man’s curse and a woman’s scream, running footsteps, silence. When Harlequin and I scrambled to our feet, the alley was empty; but Suzanne was kneeling beside Julie, who lay groaning on the cobbles with blood all over her dress.

  At six in the morning in the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, the surgeon delivered his verdict:

  ‘…She took two bullets, Mr Harlequin: one in the thigh, the other in the lower abdomen. Fortunately, there is no spinal damage, but there’s quite a mess inside – the womb, the bowel, the peritoneal tissue. We’ve done the best we can for the present. If there are no complications, we would hope to tidy the rest of it later. I’m afraid, though, she won’t be able to have any more children… Danger? Yes, Mr Harlequin, there is danger. Deep shock, massive trauma and haemorrhage. We’ll be watching her closely for the next few days. You can see her for a few moments if you like, but she won’t recognise you…’

  He went in alone while Suzanne and I waited in the corridor with a policeman, a detective and a pair of reporter. When he came out, he looked like a stone man, grey, grim and pitiless. When the pressmen asked for a statement, he recited it in a monotone.

  ‘You are aware that a bid has been made to take over my company. You are aware that a man has been murdered in London and a woman in New York and that both were connected with Creative Systems Incorporated. I state now that this attempt on our lives is related to all those events… You may quote me as saying that I shall not rest until the man who ordered it – and I beg you to mark the phrase – the man who ordered it, is brought to justice. No further comment at this time.’

  The detective seized on the words and worried them like a terrier. Harlequin cut him off with cold savagery.

  ‘Tenente! We have talked to you for three hours. We have referred you to the Swiss police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Here you have to look for a hired assassin. The real culprit is beyond your reach. I will not name him because I can prove nothing. Bring the statements to the hotel and we will sign them. I am obliged for your assistance – but in God’s name, let us be done!’

  Back at the hotel, he ordered us to eat breakfast and meet him for a conference inside an hour. I argued, Suzanne pleaded, that he should get some rest. He refused. He would not let us rest either until certain essential things were done. If we needed stimulants to keep us on our feet, he would provide the doctor to administer them. He was like a man possessed by a winter demon, frozen and obdurate, beyond any touch of compassion. When we went back to his room, he was already at work. What he demanded of us, what he had already begun to execute, filled me with horror.

  ‘... Suzanne, the following cable, urgent, in my personal code to all branches. Quote. My wife critically ill following murder attempt Mexico City stop This attempt related recent activities Creative Systems Incorporated stop You are ordered sell at best all repeat all our holdings and all holdings of our discretionary accounts in Creative Systems and affiliates stop You will continue selling whatever losses involved stop You will advise non-discretionary clients of our intentions stop Non-compliance for whatever reason or on whatever advice will result instant dismissal. Signed George Harlequin, President.’

  I could not contain myself. I exploded into protest. ‘George, that’s madness! You can’t do it!’

  ‘I’ve already done it, Paul. I’ve passed verbal orders to London, Geneva, Paris and New York. I’ve also told Herbert Bachmann and Karl Kruger, to give them a chance to protect themselves. As for your own holdings, I’ve told Geneva to sell them. I’ll cover you, personally, against loss.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you’ll ruin yourself!’

  ‘Perhaps… At this moment, Paul, I don’t care. Understand that! I do not care! Suzanne, another cable to all minority shareholders: the first two sentences identical – “My wife etc. etc.…” Then, continue, quote, I urge you most strongly reject Yanko offer or at least defer acceptance until outcome police investigations stop Not possible at this stage rule out criminal activity on part of buyer. Signed George Harlequin.’

  ‘George, if that cable gets out – and it has to get out – Yanko can sue you for criminal libel.’

  ‘I want him to sue, Paul! So you will call Leah Klein and tell her exactly what’s happened, exactly what we’re doing. When you’ve done that, call José Luis. He hasn’t heard the news; otherwise he would have called. Tell him to get the dollars we need and to meet me here at midday. Then set a meeting with Aaron Bogdanovich as soon as you can!’

  It was like watching a man making ready for seppuku, laying out the red mat, setting the short sword on the table, preparing with ritual deliberation to plunge it into his belly. I was to be the Kaishaku, the friend who chopped off his head the moment the knife went home. I would not do it. I made one last, desperate attempt to reason with him:

  ‘George, I beg you to listen to me! I owe you a lot: but you owe me something, too, I’m claiming payment. I want you to hear me out…’

  ‘Suzanne, please type up those cables. Oh, you could save us time and make that call to José Luis and another to Pedro Galvez. Tell him what’s happened, ask him if he would be kind enough to come now.’ When she left the room, he launched himself into a swift, tumbling monologue: ‘Paul, you will say nothing! I know it all. We can argue till Doomsday. I will not change one word, one act of what I propose. You think I am frantic – out of my mind with grief. I am not. If Julie dies, I am dead myself. I have loved her in a way even she has never wholly understood. If she lives, I am like Lazarus come back from the dead to find that his world was forever changed, though not a twig or stone of it was different. At this moment, I can do nothing for Julie. Nothing! She does not even know that I love her. The surgeons will probe her; the nurses will care for her. Then, if we are lucky, I can hold her hand and bring her flowers… And all the time Basil Yanko sits in New York and makes a financial equation out of it! I will not let him do it. I will not let him believe a moment longer that he may do it. His best weapon is secrecy and the fear that secrecy engenders. No more l I’m taking him out into the open. It reduces my advantage, yes. It gives me one, too. I can stand up in the light and he can’t. In the market, they’ll say I’m a fool, a clown! Let them! I would be more a fool if I could not cast off the chains by which they want to bind me: possession, prestige, all the rest. One thing more, Paul, one only: a warning for you. If Julie dies
, I will kill Basil Yanko. I will not want you near me at that time…’

  After that, I had nowhere to stand and nowhere to fall, and not a word worth saying. Suzanne came back with the telegrams. I went back to my own room to call Leah Klein and Aaron Bogdanovich.

  Disaster was meat and drink to Leah Klein. She regretted – though she had grace enough not to say it – that we didn’t have a corpse. However, the surgical details would do almost as well. The stock dumping would make good copy, too. A friend of hers had a few shares and he would be grateful for the chance to unload before the panic started. She would do what she could to dissuade buyers and put the fear of God into brokers. When I quoted Harlequin’s phrase on ‘criminal activity’, she gave that big throaty laugh and said:

  ‘So he’s that mad, is he? Tell him he’s got company in Washington. Also I’ve had a visit from a friend of yours, Milo Frohm. He wanted to know where I got my information. Which, of course, I didn’t tell him. Keep in touch, Mr Desmond. You’re doing fine. And remember, an exclusive from me gets you more space than the wire-boys can give you. So, if the lady dies, let me know first, eh…’

  Aaron Bogdanovich had the news already. He registered regret but no emotion at all. ‘…I had a man follow you to the restaurant last night. While you were eating, he walked over the route twice. He said it was clean both times. When you left, he followed again. He was close behind you when it happened. He didn’t show afterwards because he would have been pulled in for questioning. Frankly I wasn’t expecting trouble so soon.’

  When I told him what Harlequin was doing, he was only mildly interested. His prime concern was the security of his own operation. He refused to change the appointment; the time-table was too important. I was angry and I let him know it. He reminded me, coldly, that I had set the priorities of the contract and that Harlequin had endorsed them. The car would call for us at nine next morning, unless Madame Harlequin died in the meantime. For comfort, he gave me only a terse aphorism: