Harlequin

by Morris West

  I would have been happy there and then to quit – close the whole business and go home; but Harlequin was stubborn as a mule on a mountain path.

  ‘Mr Frohm, you sent us a cable which I quote: “I think you need me.” So I consented, on your urging and that of Mr Desmond, to confer with you, and if I deemed your counsel right, to follow it. Now, what do you advise? To forget the murder of my wife? I will not do it. To let Basil Yanko buy me, lock, stock and barrel, and sell me to the oil-sheiks? No! To cease harassing him in the press for fear he will win damages against me? If I cannot prove these documents in court, I will invoke them at the bar of public opinion. I have committed no crime – and my moral guilts are my own business.’ He slammed his fist on the table. ‘I will not be put off, Mr Frohm I If you or your government wants to make a case against Basil Yanko, I will help you to make it. If you want to protect him, I will fight you, too, and die doing it, if I must. Now, for God’s sake, state your case – or go!’

  ‘My case begins with a dilemma, Mr Harlequin. Our government contracts with Yanko because he’s a genius and offers the best service in the market. Our Agency believes Basil Yanko to be guilty of conspiracy to defraud, conspiracy to murder, gangsterism on a grand scale. There’s a madness in our system that compounds the vices of the man. We can’t prove his guilt, because we can’t bend all the rules and if we break the law, we defeat our own ends. We want information. If you can supply it, we won’t ask where or how you get it. We won’t inhibit your access to sources we can’t touch. We will not concern ourselves with what you do outside our jurisdiction. If you break the law of the United States, you do it at your own risk. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘So far, yes.’

  ‘There are other risks, too, Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘I’d like to hear them.’

  ‘I warned you that it would be dangerous to ally yourself with partisan interests. You chose to ignore that warning and associate yourself with Aaron Bogdanovich, an Israeli agent, and Leah Klein, a well-known, not to say notorious, journalist with Zionist sympathies. You are now listed, with Mr Desmond, as targets for terrorist attack. Don’t open suspicious mail. Don’t admit unidentified visitors. Don’t walk alone at night.’

  ‘One question, Mr Frohm.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did we get on that list?’

  ‘You were computed, Mr Harlequin, as Zionist sympathisers. It’s the sort of information Mr Yanko provides at high cost to restricted subscribers. Wonderful what you can do with a data bank, isn’t it? You can even programme genocide… Now, can we co-operate?’

  ‘We can. Let’s discuss details…’

  Half an hour later, when he had gone, George Harlequin read me his own situation report:

  ‘…Milo Frohm is like you, Paul. He wants a solution; but he wants it safe. He will tolerate crime; but he will not commit it. He will forget, if I will forgive. Yanko victorious is Yanko innocent. He can’t give me back my wife; he wants me to give him a sweet, commodious remedy for a public nuisance. He picks holes in embarrassing documents but declines to put them to proof in court. Now what does that say to you?’

  ‘What someone said better, George: he has a prudent versatility.’

  ‘To the devil with versatility!’

  ‘Fine!’

  ‘What’s your answer then?’

  ‘Nothing, George. You’re set on what you want to do. Go do it.’

  ‘I want Yanko dead.’

  ‘Kill him then. Or let a contract on him. You know how it’s done now.’

  ‘I’ll do it myself, Paul.’

  I could have murdered him then. I was bigger than he, and heavier, and angrier than I had ever been in my life. I swung him round and pinned him to the wall with my fingers on his throat. I hit him with every curse in the book.

  ‘…Now, listen, you bastard! I loved Julie just as much as you. I could have made her happier than you. Your son could have been my son – but at least I stood sponsor for him into this lousy world! His mother’s dead. Do you want him to have a murderer for a father? Do you? You’re spoilt rotten, George I You’re not a man! You’re a mountebank. Peel off the mask and there’s nothing! No face, no heart, just hate and that’s less than…’

  What it was less than, I couldn’t remember. There was an interval of darkness and then I woke up in bed with an icepack on my head and Suzanne chafing my hands, and George Harlequin standing at my feet, like Mephisto come to claim payment on his bill. I had mislaid my voice and, when I found it again, it had shrunk to a whisper. I said:

  ‘Get to hell out of here.’

  He didn’t go; perhaps he hadn’t heard me. He came and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. It was a dirty trick; but you could have killed me.’

  I wished I had and I tried to tell him so; but my voice stuck in my throat like a fishbone, and I coughed and gagged and spat up a small gobbet of blood. Suzanne went pale.

  Harlequin shook his head. ‘He’ll survive, Suzy. He’s got a fight or two left in him.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasted this one on a bastard like you, George.’

  He cocked his head on one side and looked at me like a specimen under glass and said with sour humour, ‘Saul Wells is coming at nine in the morning. You should be on your feet by then. Be gentle with him, Suzy. He’s still rather fragile…’

  Knowing Saul Wells, I expected no long session at the Wailing Wall. He had a whole pocketful of proverbs for all occasions of death and disaster. Madame Harlequin was dead; he was grieved but not permanently scarred. Alex Duggan had disappeared, but he’d show up as soon as he wanted to – make dough or make time. Meantime, Saul Wells, super-sleuth was pursuing his relentless inquiries.

  ‘…So here’s the add-ups and the take-aways. Alex Duggan could be dead, sure. I say he’s not because Yanko can’t afford another corpse in his stable… So he’s alive and where is he? When I lost him, he was heading south to San Diego, right? Mexico he doesn’t want to see again. He’s making for cattle country? The hell he is! Our little Alex is a city boy and he loves home comforts and a little drinkie with the girls before he goes home to momma – who, I should tell you, is, herself, a nice piece of homework. So it’s my guess he’s holed up somewhere on the coast with a beach-bunny. However, he’s got to sleep, eat and buy gas and maybe rent himself another car, because we have the plates of the one he drives… So, we’ve got photographs and a description and a list of the credit cards issued to him through the company. All we need now is to get lucky…’

  ‘I’d like to talk to his wife,’ said George Harlequin.

  ‘You, Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Why not? Do you know her telephone number?’

  ‘Everything, Mr Harlequin, except what she wears to bed.’

  ‘And where her husband is,’ said George Harlequin, drily. ‘Let me have the number. I’ll call her now.’

  ‘Why don’t we just go round to her house?’

  ‘Please, Mr Wells! I know what I’m doing!… Mrs Duggan? My name is George Harlequin. You don’t know me, but my company uses the services of Creative Systems. Your husband did some work for us in Mexico City. I understand from his office that he’s been missing for a couple of days. I have some information which may help you… If you prefer, I could pass it to the company or to the police… I’m at the Bel Air. I can send a car to pick you up. You can? Splendid. Let’s say half an hour…’

  Saul Wells was still dubious. He said so, in blunt words, ‘You say you know what you’re doing, Mr Harlequin. I hope so. If you blow this one, you may lose Alex Duggan permanently.’

  ‘I’ll risk that, Mr Wells.’

  ‘He’s your witness. Do you want me here while you talk to her?’

  ‘Better not, I think. Your job is to find Alex Duggan and find him quickly.’

  Saul Wells went out chewing unhappily on his cigar. Harlequin leafed through his notebook and punched out a number. After a few moments, I heard him say, ‘This is George Harlequin calling. I should
like to speak to Mr Basil Yanko… Oh, is he? Thank you. I’ll call him there.’

  ‘George, what the hell are you doing?’

  He looked up at me with a humourless grin. ‘Calling Basil Yanko. He’s here on the Coast.’

  ‘What are you going to say to him?’

  ‘I’m going to invite him to a meeting.’

  ‘I think you’re out of your mind.’

  ‘When I call, pick up the extension and listen.’

  As usual, it took a long time to get through to the great man. It was something of a shock to hear, once again, the curt, dry tone, tinged with faint contempt:

  ‘Well, Mr Harlequin! This is a surprise. Please accept my sympathy on the untimely death of your wife.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m at the Bel Air with Mr Desmond. We arrived last night. I believe it may be appropriate for us to meet at this time.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Harlequin. I think it would be most inappropriate – unless it were in the presence of my attorneys.’

  ‘I should have no objection to that. If they wished to serve papers on me – as I believe they do – it might suit them to do so at such a time. However, if you prefer not to meet, there’s no harm done.’

  ‘May I have time to consider the matter?’

  ‘By all means. I shall be in Los Angeles until tomorrow evening. You can reach me at the hotel at any time. If I’m out, my secretary will be instructed to make the appointment, which I think should be here on neutral territory.’

  ‘I should prefer, Mr Harlequin, that it be in my office.’

  ‘The security is better here. My bungalow has been checked by the FBI. They assure me there are no devices of any kind. After Washington, we had to take precautions. I leave it with you then, Mr Yanko.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Thank you for calling.’

  It was a sterile little dialogue and I saw no point in it. I also saw grave dangers in a confrontation with attorneys before we were even at law.

  Harlequin shrugged off the objection with a sybilline saying: ‘If we don’t expect justice, the lawyers can neither help nor hurt us.’

  ‘This is a litigious country, George. Nuisance is a legal weapon. For God’s sake, you’ve got enough trouble. Don’t start buying any more.’

  ‘I’m not buying it, Paul. I’m creating it… Call me when Mrs Duggan arrives. I’m going to take a stroll round the garden.’

  It was then that I broached to Suzanne the idea that I should probably retire from my directorship as soon as we reached New York. It was not all vanity and pique. If he couldn’t bury his dead, I certainly wanted to bury mine and let the daisies grow over the grave-mound. If he wanted to keep his own counsel, that was his right. I was too old for fisticuffs, too frayed for wordy battles. Suzanne told me she was very close to the same decision. She didn’t ask to be loved, but she could not work for the stranger who lived now in Harlequin’s shoes. He would not be left without help. He had whole staffs at his disposal. Perhaps that was what he needed – a new series of relationships untainted by old memories. We agreed that I should discuss the matter with him, show him how we felt, and give him ample time to make other arrangements. In the end, surgery might be a kinder treatment than this constant cupping and bleeding.

  Mrs Alexander Duggan looked like all the girls in the kitchen commercials: tanned, eager, and in love with the whole, beautiful world, which, for no reason at all, had suddenly turned topsy-turvy. Even her distress had a wide-eyed wondering quality about it – like Cinderella after midnight, hoping for the return of the fairy godmother. Harlequin was gentle to her; but the documents and the facts and the photographs were a brutal revelation. She dissolved into tears and helpless cries of puzzlement and Suzanne had to take her into the bedroom to calm her. From the moment she returned, it was an inquisition, cold and pitiless, with Harlequin well-cast for Torquemada.

  ‘Mrs Duggan, my wife is dead – murdered. Four other people concerned in this affair are also dead. Your husband will be the next victim, unless we find him quickly.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he is! You must believe that.’

  ‘Mrs Duggan, let me explain something. This fraud was committed in Mexico. Your husband cannot be tried for it here. I will make no charges against him in Mexico, provided I get a statement from him telling who directed him to organise it. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘If you don’t, I can do nothing. This visit to the client in San Diego, was it routine, or something special?’

  ‘Routine. He has a monthly roster. San Diego was one of his regular calls.’

  ‘Fine. He was doing a normal thing. Now, before he left, did anything abnormal happen? Was he upset? Did he draw money from the bank? Anything at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he pack extra clothes?’

  ‘He didn’t pack at all. It’s a day trip. All he took was a swim-suit and a towel. He liked to have a swim on the way back.’

  ‘Where did he normally swim?’

  ‘La Jolla. There’s a motel there called the Blue Dolphin. It has a pool and a surf-beach. The police checked. He hadn’t been there.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘I asked him for some before he left. He had about a hundred and fifty dollars. He gave me eighty and kept the rest for himself.’

  ‘What about your bank account?’

  ‘Just our normal drawings. But I’ve told all this to the police.’

  ‘What about other women, Mrs Duggan?’

  ‘Oh, that…’ She managed a weak, tearful smile. ‘He didn’t have to run away to play. We’re very liberated people.’

  ‘Would he run away if he was frightened?’

  ‘Yes, he would.’

  ‘Was he frightened, Mrs Duggan?’

  ‘If he was, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Have you been through his papers?’

  ‘He never kept any at home. He had a fetish about that. He said home was to play in. If he had to work at home, he resented it.’

  ‘What about letters, postcards, bills… that sort of thing?’

  ‘We read them, answered them, destroyed them. I keep the bills in a folder in the kitchen.’

  ‘What about documents: title deeds, stocks and bonds?’

  ‘We hold those in safe-deposit at the bank.’

  ‘Who has access?’

  ‘We both do.’

  ‘Who has the key?’

  ‘I have one and Alex kept another on his key-ring.’

  ‘Did he have the key-ring with him when he left home?’

  ‘Of course. He wears it on a gold chain I gave him for his birthday.’

  ‘Mrs Duggan, how was Alex doing in business?’

  ‘Wonderfully well. Next month he was due to become Area Superintendent. The promotion had gone through in a memo from Mr Yanko himself...’

  ‘Do you have money problems?’

  ‘None. We live well, but we’ve got money in the bank and we don’t owe anything.’

  ‘So – no money worries, no marriage problems, everything going well at the office, but your husband commits a criminal act in Mexico. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Someone must have asked him to do it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, someone in the company.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. That was another of Alex’s fetishes. He said business talk at home gave you ulcers and coronaries.’

  ‘What happened to the ten thousand dollars he got from Maria Guzman?’

  ‘I never knew he had it.’

  ‘Did he begin spending more when he came back from Mexico?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long since you’ve opened your safe-deposit, Mrs Duggan?’

  ‘I? Oh, twelve months or more. If we need anything, Alex usually goes to get it.’

  ‘Mrs Duggan, I have no right to ask this. You have every right t
o refuse. I wonder if you’d mind opening it with me now?’

  ‘What do you expect to find?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Duggan. I’m guessing, as you are. But we’re both guessing about the same thing: whether your husband is alive or dead.’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s all right…’

  ‘It’s your safe-deposit. You have legal access. If you feel you need protection, I can ask an agent of the FBI to accompany us.’

  ‘No! That’s not necessary. I’ll take you down to the bank now.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Duggan… Suzanne, if Yanko calls, make any time he suggests, provided we meet here. Paul, get hold of Milo Frohm and ask him to meet me for lunch at Verita’s on Santa Monica. Tell him it’s rather important.’

  I called Milo Frohm, who was happy to have lunch. Basil Yanko telephoned to say that he would be present at the hotel with his attorneys at six in the evening. It was a sad waste of the cocktail hour, but we had to consent. Then Suzy and I played truant. We lay by the pool. We swam. We drank Bloody Marys and ate club sandwiches and drowsed under the red flowers of the bougainvillea. Before we knew, it was four in the afternoon; and when we hurried in to change, George Harlequin had still not returned. It was five o’clock when he telephoned to say he was back. At five-thirty, Suzy was summoned to prepare for the meeting; to set out pens and paper and order drinks and canapés. At six plus five, shaved, sober and reasonably sane, I presented myself at the conference with Basil Yanko and his attorneys.

  They made a curious trio: Basil Yanko, a grey-haired savant in a silk suit, and a mop-haired junior counsellor with a thin face and an air of elfin malice. Suzanne sat apart, pencil poised over her notebook, with a manila folder on the floor beside her. George Harlequin, dressed in a silk shirt and slacks, presided like the director of a very exclusive fashion house. Basil Yanko opened the proceedings with a testy demand:

  ‘Well, Mr Harlequin, what’s the order of business?’

  ‘First, Mr Yanko, do you want to serve papers?’

  ‘At this time, no. We prefer to do it in New York, if that’s acceptable.’

  ‘Perfectly… If I am not there, Mr Desmond will accept service under his power of attorney. It’s still current, isn’t it, Paul?’