77 Rue Paradis

by Gil Brewer

  “But—I am Frank Baron!”

  “Certainement!”

  “Are you ridiculing—”

  “But no, monsieur. I know for a fact that you are Frank Baron. I know all about you.” Follet waved his hand across his face, dropped the hand into his lap. The cigarette jiggled between his lips. “You are in trouble, monsieur.’

  Something like a cloud of relief spread through Baron. His hand was trembling as he held the passport. In the back of his mind he realized that somehow Gorssmann had substituted this faked identification for his real papers, but more than that, he sensed in Follet’s voice the thing he had been looking for: understanding.

  “Well?” Follet said.

  Baron looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  Follet shrugged, puffed rapidly at his cigarette. There were tiny tinges of red high on his cheeks and his eyes burned brightly. He coughed mildly around the cigarette.

  “I am satisfied you are telling the truth,” Follet said. “But truly, monsieur, you are in a terrible position. I have no way of telling you how terrible.” He paused. “I have no right to tell you how terrible.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, monsieur. But what is it you want me to do?”

  Baron began to feel the slow mounting wonder all over again. Was he never to find a shadow of peace?

  “You did right in corning here,” Follet said. “In one way, that is. In another way, it is the worst possible thing you could do. I mean, regarding your daughter, monsieur. I take it she means much to you?”

  Baron nodded.

  Follet shrugged again, the bony shoulders moving beneath the tent of his suit jacket. “And this—this girl, Elene Cordon? You are concerned about her, too?”

  Again Baron nodded, turned away. He got what Follet was trying to say.

  “Isn’t there something you can do?”

  Follet glanced away. The cigarette had gone out between his lips. He leaned over, spat it out on the floor, stepped on it, proceeded to roll himself another. Baron watched the long dangling shreds of tobacco fry and sizzle as Follet lit the new cigarette. It bobbled precariously between his lips.

  “We know of Hugo Gorssmann,” Follet said. “I have even met the man. Over ten years ago, monsieur, I allowed Gorssmann to slip between my fingers.” Follet cursed obscenely. “He is a go-between; a very smooth operator. We would like to have him, monsieur. I would personally like to— But never mind. Gorssmann makes his contacts, arranges certain deals. He is of no country. He sells his merchandise to the highest bidder. Here in Europe, things are different from where you live, monsieur. There is much middle dealing. Small trifles are planned and carried out with magnificent energy and scheming. This is no small trifle. Gorssmann will stand, as he told you, to make enough to retire on it.” Follet paused, smoking. “It is obvious what he wishes you to do.”

  “Yes?”

  “To steal this thing that is so important. We know of Cassis, the plant, Baron. What Gorssmann says is true.”

  Baron began to pace again. Follet seemed to be avoiding the issue.

  “You know, of course,” Follet said, “that when you complete the job for Gorssmann, there is but one thing?”

  Baron paused, turned, looked at Follet.

  “Death, monsieur,” Follet said. “Hugo Gorssmann was lying in his teeth. I don’t wish to alarm you, but your daughter, monsieur—”

  “Don’t say it!” The words rushed from Baron’s lips.

  Follet shrugged again. He was completely calm, composed. “You must face these things, or not face them—as you choose.”

  Baron sat in a chair at the table, rose and paced, then returned to the chair and sat again. All the time he was very conscious of Follet’s eyes following his every move. He knew Follet watched him, trying to discover something. He wondered what it was. One kind of light burned in Follet’s eyes—the light of question.

  “We know who Gorssmann is dealing with now, too,” Follet said. “But where the fellow is is something else again. It is a reincarnation of the Nazi movement in Germany, monsieur. The head of this movement is the man we want. There would be no sense in trying to stop Gorssmann.”

  The words hung there in the air.

  “What are you trying to say?” Baron asked.

  Follet shrugged. “Simply this, monsieur. We cannot intervene.”

  Baron just sat there. He was stunned. He was unable to comprehend what Follet kept pressing at him.

  “You mean you’ll do nothing?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Baron felt lost. He tried, in his mind, to find some solid ground to rest on for a moment, but everything seemed to be disintegrating chip by chip. The more he pursued this thing, the worse it became.

  “You’re going to hold me here?” Baron asked.

  “But no, monsieur. That would be asinine. No. You are the guinea pig, monsieur.”

  Baron could not move. He kept on staring at Follet.

  The building was very silent. All Baron could hear was the slow, contained breathing of Follet and the occasional whoosh as Follet dispelled smoke into the already stale, ancient air of the detention room.

  “The plant at Cassis,” Follet said. “We cannot touch it. It is a separate thing, monsieur. It has its own police, its own government. This is the only way for total security. If some actuality occurs, then we may step in. Until then—” Follet shrugged, puffed at his cigarette.

  “But the French government,” Baron said. His voice was loud and the anxiousness was in it very strong now and he recognized the fear, too. “I should think this would be important—vitally important.”

  “Believe me, it is. It is the most important thing in the Republic today, monsieur. There is nothing to equal it. If it goes awry, France loses a vital step toward regeneration.” Follet paused, smoking quietly now. He slapped his hand on the table edge several times. Baron expected him to continue. Follet did not continue. He stopped slapping his hand on the table edge, raised his eyes, and looked at Baron. The eyes were quietly steady.

  “But I came here because—”

  “Because you desired aid, monsieur. Aid that we cannot give you.” Follet’s voice rose slightly now and there was a new note of seriousness here. “We want to help you, monsieur. It would give me great pleasure to act. But we cannot. We are always prepared for something of this kind. Do you know you have been under continual surveillance since you’ve been in France? Because we knew you were after the person who sabotaged your factories during the Korean war. It was becoming obvious to many, monsieur. We wanted you to lead us to this fellow.” Follet shrugged. “Now I discover that Gorssmann is in on it. He has, as he told you, been leading you around by the nose. Monsieur, this is a tired world, a sick world. Europe writhes on a bed of fever, the sickest of all. We all play against each other. We gamble and we wait, we pray and we hope.”

  “And what are you trying to say?”

  “That you are free. The door is no longer locked.” Follet nodded toward the door of the detention room.

  Baron stared at the door.

  “Freedom is a peculiar thing,” Follet said. “Isn’t it? You can have it, and at the same time not have it.”

  Baron was unable to speak and Follet continued to smoke and wait. It was very obvious and Baron knew he was trapped beyond escape.

  CHAPTER 9

  Follet moved slightly on his chair and cleared his throat.

  “If we helped you now,” he said, “if we stepped in and prevented this, we would stand to lose everything, monsieur. We would lose Gorssmann, surely. We would lose the one man who may mean more to Europe’s destiny than even Hitler thought he might mean. This is the very man you would like to meet, monsieur. It is the man who will buy from Gorssmann. We cannot afford this.”

  Baron wanted to say something. He still could not speak.

  “This has
happened quickly, I admit,” Follet said. “But we are used to this. One acts when one can, not before—usually after, when it is too late.” He stopped speaking abruptly, watching Baron closely now.

  “You mean you want me to continue with Gorssmann? Just as though I never came to you?”

  “It’s up to you,” Follet said. But Baron saw the obvious relief in the man’s eyes. “Entirely up to you. You will leave here, just as you came in. Free and not free. We will never bother you, perhaps. Remember this, monsieur. From the time you leave this building, we do not even know you exist beyond what anyone knows from the newspapers. We know of no Herbert Longwell. We know nothing!”

  “I see.”

  “I hope so. And this remember: We cannot help you in any way. No matter what happens to you, it is not our concern, unless you tread on us—as anybody might. It is completely up to you. We will be forced to treat you the same as we would treat Gorssmann, if it comes to that. You must understand this. From the moment you leave here, we don’t know you, until you cross our path. It must be this way. If at any time you wish to speak with me, it will be arranged. We will be around, perhaps. You’ll never know. But you will be treated as though we were not around. You, monsieur, as of right now, are an enemy agent—a spy in the pay of an international spy ring.” Follet clawed in the breast pocket of his suit, tossed the bundle of franc notes on the table. “You know what happens to spies?”

  Baron frowned.

  “It can easily happen to you, monsieur. Like that!” Follet snapped his fingers loudly. He stood up, withdrew his smashed felt hat from his pocket, began straightening it. “If you do ever wish to reach me, come to the Café Demoiselle on the Prado, near the Place Castellane. Speak to the madame, ask for Room Two. You will remember?”

  Baron’s mind was in a whirl. He nodded. He experienced the sudden desire to run, to run someplace, anyplace at all, and hide.

  “You can do nothing?” Baron said. “Nothing at all?”

  Follet took the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it on the floor, stepped on it. He smiled at Baron. He rapped Baron lightly on the shoulder. “C’est la vie, eh?”

  Baron wished he did not feel as ill as he did.

  “Come,” Follet said. “I wish to show you something. We will take a small ride together, then I will leave you.”

  Baron walked dazedly toward the door. Follet opened it and they went into the office of the commissaire. The commissaire was not there. They went on through, across the waiting room. The agent’s hat still hung on the doorknob. Baron walked with one hand in his pocket, his fingers clenched around the bundle of franc notes.

  “We will use the back way,” Follet said.

  They walked through the silent, dark building, out into a still darker alley. A car was waiting. They climbed into the rear seat and a driver in plain clothes started the engine.

  “It won’t take long, monsieur,” Follet said.

  Baron sat silently in the midst of despair.

  * * * *

  They entered a small driveway behind a gate, shielded by tall shrubbery. After the car stopped, Follet guided Baron through a shadowed doorway and into a broad hall lit with dim bulbs along its ceiling.

  “Through this door, please,” Follet said.

  Baron did not even wonder what was coming. As they went down a flight of stairs and into a fairly large room, cement-walled, cool, and approached a desk, he could think only of the many things Follet had told him. And his mind mused on the impolite edge of fear. He heard Follet speaking with a man at the desk, but he paid them no attention. Follet again took his arm, guided him down the length of the room. They stopped by a table covered by a sheet. Baron’s heart rocked abruptly and the fear mushroomed.

  The man who talked with Follet was a squat, middle-aged fellow with a sober red face. He wore a gray apron. He leaned forward and whipped the sheet back off the table, and Baron looked down into the half-closed, horror-shot eyes of Elene. Her body was stretched out on the table beneath the turned-down sheet. She still wore the same clothes he had last seen her in and her arms were tight against her sides.

  “Well?” Follet said, watching Baron. “Is this the girl?”

  Baron could not tear his gaze away. It was bad. It was very bad. Elene’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. Her head lolled backward, mouth gaping, partially off the table’s edge. Whoever had done this job had taken three separate strokes with a sharp instrument. On one of the cuts, the killer had sawed with the blade. There was no sign of blood. The clothes were damp.

  The sudden sensation of death came into Baron.

  “She was found on the edge of the canal, not an hour ago,” Follet said. “Her name is Elene Cordon. Is she the same?”

  “Yes,” Baron said. “She is the same.”

  Baron hesitated, then reached out quickly. He lightly pulled back the front of Elene’s blouse, probed between the cold breasts. He withdrew the five-hundred-franc note, stood there staring at it in his hand. It was wet and one side of it was stained darkly with her blood.

  Baron turned away, still holding the note.

  “You begin to see?” Follet asked.

  “Yes,” Baron said. “I begin to see.”

  “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

  Baron looked at Follet, suddenly now overwhelmed with the knowledge that Elene was dead, that he would not be able to tell her of the many things he had wished to. She had been a very fine woman and they had murdered her, cut her off when she might have pulled herself up to a plane worthy of herself.

  “Yes,” Baron told Follet. “I’m going to do whatever I can—whatever I possibly can.”

  Follet said nothing. He stood there looking very gaunt and gray and he probed for his tobacco, rolled himself a cigarette. He took several large drags, settled his battered hat on his head. His face was quite expressionless.

  “You will find your own way out, then,” Follet said. His eyes brightened momentarily. “Au revoir, monsieur.”

  Baron watched Follet’s rigid back vanish across the room and through the door. Turning, Baron went over to the table. The other man waited beside the table, but stared at the floor and did not speak. Baron placed the five-hundred-franc note beside the body on the table. He did not look at her now. He turned away and left the building.

  Once again on the street, he began walking toward the Rue Paradis. There was a small clean wind. He was tired. The night was kind.

  CHAPTER 10

  Baron slowly climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. He went inside and reached for the cord on the lamp.

  “Do not turn the light on, thanks.”

  “Gorssmann!”

  “Yes, Baron, it is I.”

  Baron was very glad the lights weren’t on. Gorssmann would surely have noticed how he looked, and he did not look well. He’d had no idea that Gorssmann would be waiting here for him and it was a considerable shock. He knew he should have been prepared for this. Hereafter he would be ready for anything.

  The pale light from the street lights suffused the room, blending with the shadows, and Baron made out the enormous hulk of Gorssmann, seated on the bed. His round face shone in the darkness, lighter against the darkness of the wall.

  “You have been out?” Gorssmann said.

  Baron said nothing, listening to the hissing of escaping air as Gorssmann spoke.

  “Well?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t like being followed, either,” Baron said.

  “Yes. He was clumsy, wasn’t he? I’m afraid we can’t use that fellow any more. He was new, I was trying him out. He failed miserably.”

  “I’m tired. What is it you want?”

  “Frankly, you worried me. Where have you been?”

  “Walking. I was walking and thinking.”

  “Excellent. Very good.”

  “There’s no reason for you to check up on me,” Baron said. “You ought to know I’ll go thro
ugh with this.”

  “Ah, but I do know. Certainly, Baron. Forgive me my curiosity. I like to take particular care of—well, of persons in your position.” Gorssmann coughed lightly, then chuckled. “Also, I have decided to tell you your job, Baron. There’s no point in putting it off any longer. Then, while you get yourself in order, you can be planning the attack.” Gorssmann paused, then spoke just as Baron was about to speak. “We let you plan your own method of attack, you see?”

  “Swell of you.”

  “Watch the humor, Baron. Sarcastic humor is good in its place. Just now we must be serious.”

  Baron said nothing. He went over and let himself down into a chair by the windows fronting the Rue Paradis. He could hear somebody walking slowly up the street. It was growing late now, and with the night, the streets seemed to become lonely and reverberant. The footfalls echoed almost nostalgically. Baron listened, waiting, and was conscious that he ached more and more as time went on. His joints were stiffening and he knew tomorrow would bring plenty of pain. Joseph had done a thorough job. For a time he had forgotten his tooth, and without thinking, he touched his tongue to the cavity now. Pain lanced his jaw, brought sweat out on his face.

  “By now you must know you are to take the plans for the cosmic breather from the plant near Cassis.” Gorssmann sighed. “This, Baron, is your job. Simple? Certainly. Chevard will know where these plans are kept. They will not be at his home here in Marseilles. They will be at the plant, probably under guard, I imagine in his office. We know this much. There is one set of plans. The breather has not yet been built. They have been studying the plans. Now, further. We have reason to believe that a miniature model of the breather has been built.” Gorssmann hesitated, breathing rapidly, and Baron saw him withdraw his handkerchief from a side pocket and mop his face. “This model, wherever it is, must be destroyed. You see, there were other models, other plans. But they have all been destroyed. Only one set, only one model. That was their security measure. It was also their mistake. The mistake of underestimation.”