by James Hilton
'Well, to begin with, he's first-rate company--clever--serious and yet gay about it--full of enthusiasms and idealisms. He's less inhibited than most English boys, I should guess. And all-round in his interests--games as well as studies. Dances well, for instance. He asked me to a dance at the hotel.'
'And to play tennis?'
'No, I suggested that.'
'He said you were good.'
'I wasn't bad, considering I hadn't played for years. He's quite good. We won against some people who were very bad indeed.'
Charles nodded. It was not unlike certain occasions that in his own professional career had ranked as successes. He was thinking of this when she added: 'That's really the whole story.'
'Is it?' He smiled. 'Well . . . so much for l'affaire suisse.'
'Don't joke about it.'
'I'm sorry. You play tennis--I make jokes--each of us, it seems, has a way of dealing with a delicate situation.'
She laughed then, for the first time. 'But you like making jokes-- far more than I like playing tennis.'
'I should hope so . . . But seriously, how did the scene change to Paris?'
'Because I left Switzerland when my stay there was finished--I've been in Germany since--so he wanted to meet me here--just once-- before I finally go home. I told him there wouldn't be time, as I was only just passing through, but he said it so happened he'd be in Paris anyway--because he was having dinner with you.'
'Plausible.'
'I still tried to put him off, but he said he was sure his dinner with you would end in time to give us an hour or so. He seemed to think you'd want to go to bed early during the Conference.'
'He just thought of everything, eh?'
'He put me in a spot where I couldn't refuse.'
'Well, I don't really blame him.'
'I hope you don't blame me either. If I hadn't kept up the pretence of leaving I think he'd have changed all his own plans and cancelled his appointments in London today. Of course I didn't want him to do that.'
'So there really ARE appointments?'
'Oh yes. One of them's this morning--with his dentist. He told me all about it. He's very punctilious about such things. Almost ascetic in some ways--doesn't drink or smoke--'
'He did both--a little--at dinner with me last night.'
'Then he loves you,' she said softly. 'The oddest things can prove love, can't they? And since you asked me, I must tell you what a delightful son you have . . . the uninhibited ascetic. All those early formative years in America and then an English school-- really, you couldn't have devised anything more ingenious . . . I hated to lie to him, especially when I was seeing him off and he thought I was just going to another platform to catch MY train.'
'You were lucky--and clever--to have managed it so well. When ARE you leaving?'
'Next Tuesday. By air.'
Charles looked at his watch. 'I--I can't put into words--quite all-- that I feel . . . and how grateful I am to you for--for being so kind to him. I'm fond of that boy, though he probably doesn't realize it--why should he?--we've had so little chance to get to know each other.' He turned the slight tremor of his voice into the beginnings of a laugh. 'Just one more question--sheer curiosity--before I have to go. . . . Why Rocher's?'
'I know--of all places. But even that was sweet of him. He thought because I'm American it was what I'd enjoy most.'
'Then you've given me the right cue--will you dine with me one evening at a place I know you will enjoy?'
'Yes--if you won't be disappointed.'
'Why should I be?'
'Gerald told me you're a great authority on food and wine. I'm not. I just love good eating and talking.'
'One of which I promise and the other you're bound to supply yourself.'
'Oh, now, PLEASE. . . . Is that the kind of thing diplomats have to say at conferences?'
'If only it were. . . . What about tonight?'
'Fine . . . and by the way, why did YOU come to Rocher's?'
'That's one of the embarrassing things I might have to confess-- during dinner.'
And so it was arranged. Before he finally left she said 'Good luck', and as he rode to the Conference he felt both in need of and fortified by it.
* * * * *
Sir Malcolm Bingay was still indisposed and Charles had to carry the ball--to use an athletic metaphor which seemed to him singularly inappropriate. Most of the day he was embroiled with Palan, who gave no sign of any effects of the previous evening's dissipation--or indeed, of having had any social intercourse with his opponent at all. Charles was puzzled but not altogether surprised. His own strategy in such circumstances was to ease himself into a situation like a key into a lock, to see first if it fitted before one tried even the slightest turn. All morning he performed this fitment, matching Palan's performance by one of his own that was perhaps equally baffling; but in the afternoon he gave the first sharp twist by interjecting a phrase of English into his French and adding (in French): 'I will not translate for the benefit of M'sieur Palan, because I have a feeling I shall be understood.' Palan did not bat an eyelid.
The whole day was a nerve-exhausting stalemate, a laborious exploration of deadlock.
In the evening Charles took Anne Raynor to a small restaurant near Les Halles. He put on a black tie and was interested to note that her dress would have been suitable whether he had or not. He also noted that she knew more about food and wine than might have been expected from her disclaimer. All these matters, however, were secondary to the fact that he liked her and that their shared affection for Gerald seemed to bring them into a warm contact. During the day he had had to telephone his London flat on some business matter, and his housekeeper had mentioned that Gerald had arrived there in time for breakfast (not that Charles had really had doubts). He told Anne that Gerald must have had a tiresome day. 'I can't imagine anything worse than going to a dentist after an all-night train-and-boat journey--except perhaps the kind of day I've just had myself, arguing with that fellow who joined us last night at Rocher's. The odd thing is that personally I don't dislike him. He fascinates me slightly. He has a peculiar trick-- I'm sure it's a trick--of making you feel he's always just about to see your point of view. Of course he never does. He can't let himself. He has his line to follow and daren't deviate by a hair's- breadth. Only you don't always know what the line is till you've wasted hours in futile debate. That's another trick they have-- physical exhaustion as a weapon.'
'Don't you also have to follow a line?'
'Oh yes, but not so slavishly. We allow ourselves a little leeway. If I might make a parallel, Palan's side are the trams, but we're the trolley-buses. . . . What was your impression of him, by the way?'
'I'd say he's an interesting character. . . . No, I don't dislike him either.'
'He's a braggart and I'm sure half the things he says about his past are lies.'
'But if the other half are true it would still be remarkable. Do you really think he was being watched as he said last night?'
'By his own men, possibly. Nobody's ever trusted completely on their side.'
'I wonder why he joined us then. Couldn't it get him into trouble?'
'I thought of that too. He wanted me to go back to his hotel afterwards for a drink. I fancy he'd drunk a little too much himself. He was talking in a rather wild way. Of course I didn't go.'
'In case he might be trying to trap you?'
'Into what? . . . No, it's hard to give a reason, except one's general suspicion of those fellows. Their code's different, therefore you have to be on your guard all the time. A strange thing, diplomacy, nowadays--full of novelties.' He felt he had better turn the subject a little. 'Television, for instance, in your country. I understand Gladwyn Jebb made a great hit that way recently. How would Metternich or Castlereagh or Disraeli have taken to it, I wonder?'
'I think Disraeli would have been fine if he'd remembered to be like George Arliss.'
'Then Abraham Lincoln should really have sounded like Charl
es Laughton, but I'm quite sure he didn't.'
She laughed. 'I don't think YOU need worry, television or not. You're rather like most Americans' idea of an English diplomat.'
'That alarms me. Perhaps it also explains why I haven't climbed any higher in my profession. . . . You know what they call me?' Some faintly masochistic urge propelled him to the disclosure. 'STUFFY ANDERSON.' There--he had said it. It was always a barrier that had to be crossed, and in any friendship whose progress pleased him he always wanted to mention it first, rather than have it later discovered.
She said casually: 'Yes, I know. Gerald told me.'
'What? HE knew? Now how would . . . oh, well, I suppose there are all sorts of ways.'
'He said it showed how popular you were.'
Charles was somewhat consoled. 'Nice of him to think so--or to pretend that he did. But I don't believe he's altogether right. Not that I'm unpopular--far from it. But many of my colleagues probably think the nickname suits, and I daresay it does--I'm a bit of a back number in some ways . . . For instance--my reason for coming to Rocher's last night--I said I might have to confess it to you.' He then explained about Gerald's fidgetiness during dinner and the excuse of the fictitious boat-train for an early departure. 'Of course it was just because he wanted to meet you--I don't really blame him at all. But I was curious, and also, well, being the old-fashioned person I am, I thought he might have plans that would land him in some less desirable company . . . So I followed him. What an ignoble suspicion to have had, and what an out-of- date thing to do! But you see, it's the old world that I remember-- old in history as well as in geography.'
'I've sometimes found the new world not so young.'
'It would be a comfort to think so. And back numbers ARE-- occasionally--more readable than the latest. As an editor, hasn't that ever worried you?'
'Why are you talking to me like this?'
'I really haven't the slightest idea--unless it's because I'm tired after bickering with Palan all day. To him I've got to appear always alert and combative--whereas with you I can relax and be myself.'
'But you're not yourself when you're too modest.'
'Yes, I am--and also when I'm conceited. I'm both.'
She turned to him with a slow serene scrutiny, then asked: 'What sort of life have you had?'
'LIFE? My life?'
'Has it been happy--or--or rather unhappy?'
But this was going too far; he woke abruptly from the trance of self-revelation into which his tiredness and her comfort had made him slip. He answered, talking fast while he pulled himself into control: 'You Americans--it's the PURSUIT of happiness, isn't it, not the happiness itself, that's laid down as one of the aims of your republic? My father used to point that out. . . . So to you it might seem that I haven't pursued happiness very successfully. You might even say, if you knew, that once or twice it's pursued me and I've run away from it. That, of course, is unforgivable, and I think had I been born in America I should at least have stood my ground. . . . But as for calling my life--as a whole--UNhappy, I'd certainly say no to that. Oh, definitely no--at least nothing to complain of--mainly run of the mill. . . . A little more wine? Good. . . . Things kept happening--the usual mixed bag of events-- and they still are. This evening, for instance--how delightful! Such a long time, Anne, since I enjoyed myself so--er--so UNSPEAKABLY. Meeting you last night was quite an event--for which, to be fair, I have to thank my son, haven't I, and the fact that he was so willing to deceive his father! Unscrupulous but--in the circumstances--very fortunate. And not silly. Oh no. Love can be many things, but that isn't one of them. People who say so have never known it--or else have forgotten it. I was a few years older than Gerald when I first had the experience, and the girl--she was actually younger than he is now. There were people then who said it was silly. I didn't think so, and I've never thought so since.'
'What became of her?'
'She married somebody else--and happily, I believe.'
'You also married somebody else?'
'Yes. And that was happy too--until--'
'I know.'
'Gerald again the informer?'
'Yes, if you put it that way.'
'I hope, then, he also told you--though he could hardly have remembered--what a remarkable woman my wife was. She was great fun and she had courage and loyalty and she knew how to get her own way with people. She helped me tremendously in my work. She . . .' The waiter came and took his order for another bottle of wine. He had drunk very little. He went on smoothly, but as if it were not what he had been going to say: 'She usually stopped me from making a fool of myself. . . . Now it's your turn. . . . I mean, to talk.'
'All right.' She smiled. 'What shall I talk about?'
'Yourself. I know so little about you. For all I know you're . . .' He tried to think of a way to finish the sentence. '. . . you're engaged to a Texas oil millionaire.'
'No . . . But how did you know I was an editor?'
'I asked at the hotel desk. I found out all I could about you.'
'I wouldn't like you to get a wrong impression. It's a children's magazine and I'm really a teacher. . . .'
* * * * *
He got back to his room about one o'clock, which was much later than usual during the period of the Conference. But he felt refreshed and did not plan to hurry the ritual of the last drink alone and the half-hour of pottering over his diary and letters. As always after an evening out in good company he missed Jane. 'Now there's the kind of girl you ought to have married,' she had said, in joking self-disparagement on a very few occasions; but the peculiar thing was that she had had a rare knack of saying it about the right--or at least not the utterly wrong--women. There had been Clara Delagny at Santiago, and the German baroness at the Gismondi party at Villefranche . . . it had been fun, evaluating them with Jane, who knew so much and could make such good guesses even about what she didn't know. . . . So he mused now upon what Jane might have said about Anne Raynor, and was still musing a moment later when the telephone rang. It was exceptional to be called at such an hour and he hoped Bingay didn't want him for anything; he didn't feel like discussing business. But the thought that he might have to made him brace himself for the professional and official manner, so that when he heard and recognized the voice he was less taken aback than he might have been.
'M'sieur Anderson, a thousand apologies for disturbing you. . . . It is I, Palan. . . .'
'Yes?'
'I would like, if I may, to see you for a few minutes.'
'You mean--NOW?'
'If you please.'
'But I--I'm just about to go to bed.'
'I am here, in the lobby downstairs.'
'Well, I'll come down if it's really important, but--'
'No, no, I will come up. It will be easier that way. What is the number of your room?'
'It really IS important?'
'Yes. May I come up now?'
There was a note in Palan's voice that intrigued Charles at least as much as it warned him; it sounded like a child's eagerness until one pictured Palan standing at the open desk within earshot of the hotel clerks, as he would be, presumably; and Charles found such lack of concealment far more puzzling than any amount of deviousness. That, he reflected, was the besetting neurosis of his profession; when a man did anything straightforwardly one was always suspicious. An obscure distaste for the neurosis made Charles answer: 'All right. Come up. Three-three-four.'
A measure of excitement gained on him during the short interval of waiting. It was, he knew, the result of his evening with Anne; it had infected him with a curious sense of new adventure, of desire to step boldly where normally he would have been circumspect. He warned himself, but even the warning only added to the inward excitement. Presently he heard footsteps along the corridor. Assorted wisps of memory from a hundred spy and detective novels came to him as he went to the door. Bingay would certainly think he was doing a foolish thing. Suppose Palan were not alone? One heard fantastic stories of what those
people were capable of. . . . Anyhow, he opened the door, and Palan WAS alone, looking no more fearsome than he always would at that hour, for he was one of those men whose beards grow fast and dark.
'Merci, mon ami. J'espčre que vous n'ętes pas fatigué.'
'Not too much, but I shall need some sleep soon. . . . Come in-- and please speak in English.'
'Si vous voulez.' Palan walked across the room and pulled the blinds slightly aside at one of the windows overlooking the Place de la Concorde. Charles did not like this. 'What are you looking for?' he asked rather sharply.
'To verify what I already guessed. One cannot go anywhere without someone watching.'
'You mean YOU cannot. I can, I hope.'
'Not always. You were watched tonight.' Palan laughed. 'I watched you, my friend. I saw you take the American girl to dinner at Rousellin's--the American girl who was supposed to have returned to America. You were there for four hours. Then you brought her back here, where she is staying also. Am I not right?'
Charles was on the point of becoming angry. 'Look . . . you said you had something important to say. The way I spend my evenings is of no importance--except to me.'
'She is a very charming girl.' Palan slumped into an easy chair and stretched his legs. 'Do you remember, M'sieur Anderson, last night you invited me here for a drink, but I permitted myself to take a rain-check.'
'A WHAT?'
'I beg your pardon--an American word, meaning that one expects on a later occasion the pleasure one has previously declined.'
'All right, but I have only whisky.'
'Excellent.'
As he was pouring it Charles could not repress the instincts of the host. 'I hope you don't mind Irish. The flavour is perhaps an acquired taste.'
Palan took it, sniffed, swallowed, and nodded. 'It has my full approval.' He swallowed again. 'I must explain that I did not follow you tonight with any sinister intent. I merely wished to see you as soon as possible without interfering with any other engagement you had.'
'That's all right. Anybody can follow me who wants to.'
