by Morris West
That evening I paid a brief visit to the Club and I was welcomed like a long-lost brother. Everyone had read the statement. Most agreed that it was a clever piece of laundering. No one was sorry to see the end of a very dirty episode. It was good to watch Basil Yanko eat humble-pie for a change. It was better still if you’d bought Creative Systems on the fall and made a tidy profit on the afternoon market. Nobody wanted to talk murder or kidnapping or fraud. There was a general agreement that these days it paid to have a low profile and keep your political opinions to yourself. Harlequin had handled himself very well. Lots of class, that boy! The European touch, eh? Why didn’t I bring him in for cocktails one night… I left after an hour, bathed in the reflected glory of a smart operator who had beaten the market.
On my way home, I called at the Salvador to pick up Suzanne. She was still working and George Harlequin wanted to talk to me.
‘Tomorrow will see the end of it, Paul. Yanko has already lodged his funds in escrow. They’ll be passed to us as soon as documents are exchanged at five o’clock tomorrow. I’d be grateful if you’d come. Karl Kruger will be here and Herbert Bachmann.’
‘Basil Yanko?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why the party?’
‘It’s not a party. It’s a condition of the deal. Yanko agreed to issue the press statement. We undertook to provide photographic evidence of reconciliation. Karl Kruger represents the Europeans. Herbert represents Wall Street. You’re the floating world. I’ve hired the photographer. I know it’s a sorry concession, but it’s the least Yanko would settle for, and the most I could tolerate.’
‘Very well. I’ll be there. How much is Yanko paying?’
‘In all, twenty-five million.’
‘How much are we in profit?’
‘After recouping losses on the share dumping, about two million.’
‘Then, it’s a closed book and we can all go home.’
‘Yes. I leave on Monday by ship. Julie’s parents are nervous of air travel. I am, myself, now… Oh, by the way, your friend, Mendoza, called. He’s invited me to dinner with you and Suzanne on Saturday to celebrate your engagement. I told him I’d be happy to come. I’d like to have given the dinner myself but it isn’t possible now.’
‘But you will be able to make the wedding in Geneva?’
‘Yes… yes, I hope so.’
‘George, did Milo Frohm mention my talk with him?’
‘Yes, he did. I’m grateful for your concern; but there’s no need to worry.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it, George. There’s another thing that’s been troubling me. Aaron Bogdanovich said…’
‘…We owe him more money. That’s provided. You don’t have to trouble yourself.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the money, George. He told me the pair of you had arranged to kill Basil Yanko.’
‘We have, Paul.’
I stared at him, gape-mouthed.
He smiled, tolerantly. ‘You didn’t think I’d forgotten, surely?’
‘George, this is madness I It doesn’t bring Julie back. It doesn’t change anything that’s happened. It just compounds a bloody insanity.’
‘Oh, it does more than that, much more!’
‘For God’s sake, listen to me! I started you on this road. I’m responsible for everything that’s happened. I’ll live with that knowledge until my last breath. But I’m telling you, begging you, to see that it’s a horrible futility: a life for a life for a life… for what? George, I’ve admired you, loved you like a brother for twenty years. If my life would bring Julie back, I’d give it gladly. But it won’t – not a hundred, not a million lives. The only payment I can make is…’
‘I’m the creditor,’ said George Harlequin coldly. ‘I stipulate the terms. Be here at five tomorrow. After that all debts are discharged!’
I was beaten and we both knew it. I couldn’t accuse him because there were no witnesses. I couldn’t stay him because he was too subtle and Aaron Bogdanovich knew his trade too well. I couldn’t persuade him because he had stepped out of the human system into the anarchy of the destroyers. His own life or another’s had no value to him any more. I left him standing in the middle of the room, deaf and blind, bereft of the last vestige of pity.
That night I argued for an hour with Suzanne. I could have no more part in George Harlequin. She could have none either. She must resign forthwith. She didn’t need salary or pension or any other damned money with blood on it. The man was beyond compassion, beyond argument or reason. He had fulfilled his own prophecy, as he had known – and promised – from the first moment. He loved conspiracy. He was happy to join the assassins. Well then, let him go!
Suzanne fought me at every step. All right! He had sworn murder. He could unswear. He could be prevented right up until the final moment. He was too complex to dismiss so curtly as one beyond reason. She had worked with him for years. Yes, he might conspire, but had I never thought that my harsh judgment might be a factor in his design… Whatever he believed himself, she didn’t believe he was capable of murder. Anyway, in spite of all, she would work out the last days of her contract. I had a duty to make the payment he demanded and attend the meeting. Did I think he was trying to involve me? No, I had never said that. Then I should be there. If I wouldn’t go, she could never again trust anything I promised. I said I had done everything I had promised. No, I had not. We had both sworn to walk the last step of the last mile with George, and that last step was still to be made… And so on and so on, until we ran out of words and we sat dumb and hostile, each waiting for the other to surrender. As usual Suzanne had the last word:
‘Paul, nothing can happen at the meeting. The room will be full of witnesses. You will be one of them. When the meeting is over, you ask Yanko to wait in my room. Then you speak privately to George. You tell him that unless he gives you a solemn promise that Yanko will not be harmed, you will warn him before he leaves the hotel. Then you will have discharged your responsibility. I’ll have discharged mine. Does that sound reasonable?’
‘There’s a flaw in the reasoning. If George is prepared to kill, he is prepared to lie.’
‘Then, if you have the slightest doubt, you still warn Yanko and tell George you’re going to do it.’
‘If ever I’m in the dock, sweetheart, I hope I have you for the defence.’
‘Once you’ve got me, chéri, you’ve got me for always. So if you want to escape, now’s the time.’
We went peaceably to bed; but somewhere between midnight and dawn I woke to a new and terrifying thought. Suppose the meeting didn’t take place at all. The documents were drawn, the intent was clear for the newspaper release, the money was already in escrow. If Yanko didn’t arrive, if death caught up with him on the way, the settlement could, and probably would, be made by the new president of Creative Systems. In which case, the triumph would be complete: Yanko dead and his money safe in Harlequin’s pocket. Aaron Bogdanovich and George Harlequin both had a taste for ironies, and this one was very tempting to their sensitive palates.
10
I arrived at the Salvador at ten minutes to five. I spent a few moments with Suzanne and then went in to join Harlequin, who was checking documents with his attorneys. Punctually at five, Karl Kruger and Herbert Bachmann arrived, and close on their heels, a swarthy, bearded young man with a pair of cameras hung round his neck. At five minutes past the hour, Yanko’s attorneys arrived and immediately settled down to compare documents with their colleagues.
At ten past, Yanko had still not arrived and George Harlequin made a tart comment about the unpunctual habits of geniuses. When he had still not arrived at five-fifteen, his attorneys were visibly embarrassed. One of them called Yanko’s office and was told he had already left. He muttered an apology and buried himself again in his papers.
At five-twenty, Harlequin was pacing the room, flushed and angry. Karl Kruger was dying for a drink. Herbert Bachmann and I were trying to make small talk at the window. At five-twenty-f
ive, Basil Yanko made his entrance with an off-hand apology about cross-town traffic.
Harlequin snapped, ‘Our time is valuable, too, Mr Yanko.’
Basil Yanko was unperturbed. ‘This little visit is costing me twenty-five million dollars. Now, may I see the papers, please?’
He must have read them a dozen times before, but it pleased him to parse and analyse them for another ten minutes before he announced himself ready to sign. George Harlequin then insisted that Yanko’s attorneys rehearse verbally the heads and intent of the agreement.
‘Neither party commits nor in fact can commit to any condition which constitutes a breach of law…
‘Where either party abstains from or is restrained from action, such abstention or restraint does not and cannot include misprision of felony…
‘Neither party is immune nor holds the other immune from process by third parties…
‘The liability admitted by Creative Systems Incorporated is limited strictly to the terms set down. The damages agreed and paid are accepted under full quit claim…
‘Harlequin et Cie, and Mr George Harlequin, personally, agree not to press charges for fraud or conspiracy to fraud against employees of Creative Systems Incorporated. Charges already filed will be withdrawn…
‘Investigations set in train by Harlequin et Cie and conducted under their commission and authority will be terminated forthwith…
‘Investigations initiated and conducted by law-enforcement agencies are recognised as beyond the control of the parties and outside the scope of this agreement…
‘Each party agrees to refrain from the publication in any shape or form of material or comment whether speculative or factual which might be considered contentious or damaging to the other…’
There was more and more. There was rehearsal of detail and a display of exhibits. Finally, the two men seated themselves at the table with their attorneys beside them. The photographer asked if he might pose them differently. Yanko refused irritably. It wasn’t the signing that was important. It was the group, afterwards: five respectable money-merchants with drinks in their hands, looking happy on his money. The signing resolved a conflict. The drinks and the smiles connoted all that the market needed: security, confidence, mutual trust, brotherly love. Harlequin shrugged agreement. Karl Kruger remarked that it was a pretty cavalier way to dispose of so much geld. Herbert Bachmann said, soberly, that the geld was much less important than the goodwill.
When the shabby little ceremony was over, Yanko’s attorneys handed over a certified bank cheque for twenty-five million dollars. Harlequin folded it into his pocket-book as if it were no more than a parking ticket. Which moved Yanko to the sour comment that he had better not lose it; there was no more to come.
The attorneys repacked their brief-cases and left together. Harlequin went with them to the elevator and returned with one of his Swiss security men, who would take the drink orders. All of us settled for Scotch except Basil Yanko, who, maddening as ever, demanded a tomato juice, with a dash of tabasco, a squeeze of lemon, no salt and a sprig of fresh mint. The security man went out. The photographer drifted around fiddling with a light-meter and looking for camera angles.
There was an embarrassing pause, and then the nurse came in with young Paul, fresh from his bath and ready for supper. Harlequin swept the child into his arms, kissed him, played a finger game, and then carried him round the company to say goodnight. When he came to Basil Yanko, he said:
‘Have you any children, Mr Yanko?’
‘No, Mr Harlequin. I have never been so fortunate. He’s a beautiful child.’
‘He’s very like his mother.’
‘I never had the pleasure of knowing Madame Harlequin.’
‘Nor will this child, Mr Yanko… Here, nurse. Take him. Goodnight, little one. I’ll be up later to tell you a story.’
Karl Kruger muttered unhappily. Herbert Bachmann blew his nose, noisily. I turned away to hide the hate in my eyes.
Harlequin turned to the photographer. ‘You can start as soon as the drinks are served. How long will you need?’
‘Ten minutes. If you and your friends will just ignore me and act normally, I’ll shoot around you.’
A few moments later, the security man came in with a tray of drinks and a plate of canapés. Harlequin told him:
‘No calls, no visitors, until we’ve finished here.’
Herbert Bachmann raised his glass in a toast. ‘To the end of dissension, gentlemen.’
Harlequin made the second salute. ‘My thanks, Karl, for your efforts.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Basil Yanko. ‘And to you, Herbert. Thanks for coming here today. I appreciate it.’
‘I did it for George,’ said Herbert Bachmann, drily. ‘Also I have certain obligations to my colleagues in the market.’
Basil Yanko was tolerant but regretful. ‘My dear Herbert, I am one man in the world you cannot snub. I am ugly to look at – always have been, since I was a child. I am used to it now. For the rest, I know who I am and what I do. How many of your respectable colleagues can say the same?’
‘I thought,’ said George Harlequin mildly, ‘we were supposed to look happy.’
Basil Yanko looked at him with pale contempt. ‘I fear I’m the skeleton at your feast, Mr Harlequin. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll take my leave.’
The photographer protested. ‘Please, sir! Just a few more shots.’
‘I’ll gladly dispense with the photographs,’ said George Harlequin. ‘They were your idea, not mine.’
Basil Yanko raised his glass again. ‘I’ll wait… Tell me, Mr Desmond, how long will you be staying in New York?’
‘Another week, perhaps. No more.’
‘I hear you’re getting married.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re a lucky man,’ said Herbert Bachmann. ‘I hope you know it.’
‘I know it, Herbert.’
‘When I met him first,’ said Karl Kruger, ‘he didn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.’
‘And now,’ Basil Yanko was almost cordial, ‘I understand you’ve retired from Harlequin et Cie. I’d like to remind you that my offer is still open.’
‘Declined, Mr Yanko.’
George Harlequin added a tart comment. ‘I think you’re wise, Paul. It’s a dangerous job.’
Yanko flushed angrily. ‘Those are contentious words, Mr Harlequin. May I remind you that they constitute a breach of the agreement you have just signed?’
‘I didn’t hear anything contentious,’ said Karl Kruger. ‘Did you, Herbert?’
‘No, Karl. I’m a trifle hard of hearing, anyway.’
Basil Yanko tossed off the rest of his drink at a gulp and set down the glass. ‘I am too old for schoolboy games, gentlemen. I must go.’
‘If you move,’ said the photographer amiably, ‘you’re a dead man.’ He was pointing the larger of his two cameras straight at Yanko’s face. ‘This one is lethal, It fires six cyanide bullets.’
George Harlequin challenged him. What the devil is this?’
‘Please!’ The photographer waved an impatient hand. ‘All of you sit down at the table. Put your hands fiat on the top of it.’
‘A floor full of security men,’ said Yanko in disgust, ‘and this happens! What do you want? Money?’
‘Sit down!’
We sat in a half-circle, palms fiat on the polished surface. The photographer sat facing us, the camera resting on the table, his finger on the trigger-button. He explained himself, baldly:
‘If anyone moves or cries out, he gets shot. If we’re interrupted, you will deal with the situation, Mr Harlequin. We’re in conference and not to be disturbed.’
‘I’ve already given that direction.’
‘You may have to repeat it. Now, who am I? Mister Nobody. What am I here for?’ From his inside pocket he took a folded typescript and a pen and laid them before him on the table. ‘I am here to wait, as you all are… Mr Yanko, you have just drunk a g
lass of tomato juice. I regret to tell you it was poisoned.’
There was a frozen moment of shock, then a gasp of horror.
Only Basil Yanko, sat contemptuous and unmoved. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m not asking you to believe me,’ said the photographer blandly. ‘I’m telling you a fact. Very soon you will feel heavy and drowsy. After that you will lose muscle control. Then you will sleep. Shortly afterwards, you will die. It won’t be painful. It won’t take too long. You’ll be unconscious in about fifteen minutes.’
‘You can’t do it,’ said George Harlequin. ‘You can’t just watch a man die.’
‘Correction, Mr Harlequin. We will all watch him die.’
‘We will not!’ Karl Kruger raised a big fist. The camera was aimed at his breast. He lowered his hand. ‘Why Yanko? Why not any of us?’
‘This…’ The photographer held up the folded sheet. ‘This is a death-list. There are six names on it, and an account of how each person died. I will read you the names: Mrs Basil Yanko, blown up in a speed boat; Miss Ella Deane, run down by a car; Miss Valerie Hallstrom, shot; Mr Frank Lemnitz, shot; Miss Audrey Levy, kidnapped in London, believed dead; Mrs George Harlequin, shot… All these killings were organised and financed by Basil Yanko.’
Basil Yanko sat rigid in his chair. He gave a harsh, humourless laugh and shook his head. ‘Oh, no I The oldest trick in the book! Did you set this up, Mr Harlequin? You, Mr Desmond?’
‘I’ve never seen this man before in my life,’ said George Harlequin. ‘I have never exchanged a word with him until this night.’
‘That’s true, Mr Yanko. You see, Valerie Hallstrom was a colleague of mine. So was Audrey Levy, who was assigned to watch Lemnitz in London… You play rough politics. So do we.’
‘You can’t prove a damn thing, and you know it.’
