He stopped abruptly, almost bumping into a woman carrying a wicker basket filled with a morning’s shopping.
“Tony!” Dorothea Kelso said.
13
Typed, retyped, torn up. The discarded pages filled the wastebasket. A typical morning’s work, thought Tom Kelso, and pushed his chair away from his desk. Maurice Michel’s desk, to be exact, in Maurice Michel’s library, no longer looking the neatly-ordered place where a diplomat had worked. Tom’s notes and maps were scattered everywhere; even the small room’s name (a little too grand for ten feet square, walls lined with bookshelves that encased door and window too) had been changed to “study”—his own quiet corner, far removed from living-room and kitchen. Much good its peace had done him. Thea and he had been here since the beginning of January, and the last two chapters of his book refused to shape up. Tomorrow was the first of March, the last month here before their return to Washington. Return to what?
Every aspect of his work now seemed to have become uncertain. Who the hell will want to read this book anyway? he asked himself angrily. Who in the United States worried about long-term policy and what they would have to cope with, ten years from now? Short-term, that’s us—jumping from one crisis to another. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it”—and that we will, even if the bridge blows under our feet and we have to swim for it.
Thoroughly despondent, restless, he rose and made his way through the silent house to the pantry where the Michels had installed a little bar. He’d better bootleg a drink or two before Thea got back from the market in Menton.
She wasn’t saying anything about his change in habits, but she must have noticed. She was too smart a girl not to be aware of them, and too sensitive not to feel the perpetual state of worry and dejection that had seized him, away back in December, after his return from the NATO meeting in Brussels.
It hadn’t been a complete failure for him—real friends at Casteau rallied round and talked with him as they had always talked, but few of them could hand out vital information. And the others, important sources for sensitive material in the past, had become tight-lipped, even evasive. He had never thought he was a particularly prideful man, but the snubs struck deep. And the results, in his reports back to the Times, were clearly seen—by himself, at least. The journalist was the first to know he was slipping, next his editors; and then the public. End of a career. Any newsman was only as good as his sources. (“Like a policeman?” Thea had asked when he discussed this problem with her. “They need informants too. Don’t they?” He had laughed and agreed, but wondered how journalists’ high-placed sources would react if they were called informants. “Let’s say,” he had answered, “that Watergate would never have been explained if there hadn’t been leaks of information.”)
He poured the second drink, another double, and wandered back through the living-room, a room he usually found cheerful and pleasant. Solange Michel had taken great care with the colours and chintzes. (“Toile!” Thea had corrected him. “Chintz my eye.”) And Maurice had made sure that his wife hadn’t sacrificed the old fireplace and the beamed ceiling in her splurge on remodelling an old house. The Michels had spent money, time, and energy on fixing up their place in Roquebrune; but Tom wondered how long it would take them to sell it, once they came back to see the huge condominiums that were being built further up the hillside behind them. Nothing, he thought, nothing ever remains perfect. In deepening gloom, he went out on to the terrace.
The trouble—or rather today’s trouble—was the telephone call that morning. From Chuck. At the airport in Nice.
The first time I’ve heard from him... Tom tried to stop brooding about Chuck, and stared down at the olive-trees in front of the house. Condominium builders hadn’t yet got their hands on that long stretch of descending terraces, but no doubt they would. And they’d be eyeing that nice piece of real estate lying far below the olive-trees, a cape that pointed its long finger into the Mediterranean, a promontory of very private land occupied by expensive villas and perfect gardens. Cap Martin wouldn’t listen to the jingle of big promoters’ coins. It could buy and sell them with cash still left in the till. It probably wasn’t even aware of the glass and concrete spreading over the Roquebrune hills above it: a density of trees, a richness of foliage, covered and protected and hid it completely.
That was where Chuck was spending the next few days. At Shandon Villa. Transportation from Nice? That was taken care of—Nealey had met him at the plane. No, he couldn’t make it for lunch. Catching up on his sleep, he had said: he never could handle overnight flights. After that, he had some business to attend to. He would drop in to see Dorothea and Tom this evening. Sixish. Okay?
The first time since November—and all I got was a drop-in promise. Not, “Tom, I wanted to see you.” Not, “Tom, I have a lot to talk over with you.” Not, “Tom, let’s have a quiet evening together, and get a lot of things straight.” Just—sixish.
Tom finished his drink at a gulp, wondered about another, decided not. His career might be slithering downhill, his book might be choking itself to death, but he still had Thea. And this, he knew, as he looked at his glass, was no way to keep her. He knew it, and yet he kept slipping away from his resolution. How else did you blot out the feeling of failure?
He had made a real effort to stop thinking about Chuck; and Shandon; and the memorandum; and that god-damned Olivetti. (He wasn’t using it any more.) He wouldn’t even discuss these subjects with Thea. But the subconscious was a real devil, eating away at him. No matter how determinedly he dropped the hurts and disappointments out of his conscious mind, they only sank below the surface; and lay there.
So now Chuck was here, and perhaps ready to talk... There had been a slightly too jocular manner in that ’phone-call. Is that what we are going to have—an hour of chit-chat and sweet evasions? God damn it—Tom nearly walked back into the house to pour himself a third drink. At least he had started counting: a step in the right direction. But this meeting with Chuck— He dropped all speculation, tried to let his emotions subside and his mind stop questioning, and concentrated on the far stretch of coastline. It was a continuous sweep of cliffs and bays, with a backscreen of mountains whose rocky spurs ran out into the sea and sheltered the indentations of beaches. To the west, he could see the bold plunge of Monaco’s headland. Then came the bay, where Monte Carlo had tucked itself into one corner, curving eastward to the green-covered promontory of Cap Martin lying below him. In jutted the shoreline again, to form the wide bay where Menton lay with its Old Town built high above the port. And beyond that, the bay curved further inland before it came sweeping out again to the red cliffs, a mountain wall of sheer rock that formed a most definite frontier. Next stop—Italy, and the Riviera dei Fiori, and a distant view of Bordighera. And then nothing but a horizon where blue sky met blue sea. Florida, he thought, had started with several strikes against it when it set out to bat against the Côte d’Azur.
Nerves calmed, mind more at rest, he turned away. That view was better medicine, he admitted frankly, than the empty glass in his hand. Keep remembering that, he told himself. He set the glass down on the table at the side of the terrace, a private corner shielded by lemon-trees, and began walking down the rough driveway that led, from the east side of the house, to the Roquebrune road.
Thea was late. Menton, adjoining Roquebrune (or was it the other way round? One moment you were driving in Menton; next block you were in Roquebrune), was only a couple of miles from here. It was just like her to go dashing off to the market, to buy extra food—and no doubt some special items that their tight budget didn’t usually allow. (Money was another of his hidden worries: it melted, like first snowflakes on a city sidewalk, in this spreading inflation.) “Chuck may stay for dinner,” she had said when the ’phone call from Nice was over. Tactfully, and again true to Thea, she hadn’t said what was really on her mind—and on my mind too, thought Tom: why the hell doesn’t Chuck stay here with us? We’ve got two unused bedrooms, d
amn them.
Back to Chuck again, are we?
He quickened his pace, putting distance between himself and the silent house and a desk littered with discarded manuscript. I’ve become too critical, too hesitant about my own work, he thought now. I’m not fit company for Thea these days. The only time we are really happy, and not often enough either, is in that big beautiful bedroom upstairs. Solange—so she had told them proudly—had furnished it after the style of the Byblos Hotel over at St Tropez: white carpet everywhere, white plaster walls cleverly finished to look as if they were carpeted too; outsize bed, practically floor-level, covered with a white fur rug. “A love-nest at first sight,” said Thea, setting them both laughing. Well, if we can both laugh together and love together, there is hope for us. Without that, we’d have started drifting apart in these last months. It could yet happen, his common sense warned him. If he didn’t get a better grip on himself—I’ll get over this, he told himself. I must. I don’t need a sense of guilt to add to my problems.
The last stretch of driveway ran through the old Michel flower-nursery, still functioning, now owned and worked by honest Auguste and his stalwart Albertine, who came up the hill to oblige once a week with a thorough housecleaning, or, for a special evening, to cook. There had been too few of those. Not fair to Thea—I’ll have to take some days off, drive her around, visit the hill towns, explore. We’ll do that next week. The hell with my work, it’s getting nowhere as it is. I’ve got to do some rethinking of the last chapter, organise its material better, reshape and—or should I just throw the whole thing out and start over again? Remake it, fresh and alive?
He passed the rows of flower-beds, some bright with bloom, the rest promising flowers next month, and halted at the clump of mimosa by the gate. He could see no sign of their car—a small Fiat they had rented—in the rush of traffic to and from lower Roquebrune. The road was narrow, twisting up the hill, built in the days when people walked or used real horse power. His worries sharpened as he watched the stream of cars and trucks and buses. Where was Thea anyway? he wondered irritably. What had delayed her so long in Menton? She was usually back by noon. And it was certainly noon—the nursery was deserted, all hands now engaged in their mid-day meal.
And there she was at last, safely returning. The accident he had begun to fear hadn’t taken place. But it nearly did, at this very moment, as Dorothea took a wild chance to make a left turn across the path of the descending traffic.
“For God’s sake, Thea!” he yelled as she stopped inside the gate and waited for him.
“I didn’t even chip a tail-light,” she told him cheerfully. “Jump in. I’ll give you a lift to the house if you’ll trust my driving. And there’s nothing wrong with it either,” she reminded him. Hadn’t he noticed? If she had pulled up and waited to make the turn, the car behind her could have rear-ended the Fiat? He is too much on edge these days, she thought unhappily. And all her excitement about her meeting with Tony Lawton drained away. Silently, she made room for him on the seat beside her.
“You’re late.” He picked up the sheaf of papers and magazines she had bought in Menton: the Herald Tribune and Le Monde from Paris, the Observer and Economist and Guardian from London, the current Time and Newsweek. “What about the New York Times?”
“It’s later than I am.” Besides, it always arrived four days old. Another day wouldn’t hurt. “Headlines are hideous, aren’t they?”
His eyes scanned them. “Yes,” he said briefly. That’s where I should be, he thought: right back where the wires are bringing in all the latest alarums and excursions, the stuff that journalists’ dreams are made of.
“I picked up the mail on my way into Menton. You’ll find it in my handbag.”
“More bills?”
“A letter from Brad Gillon.” She brought the car to a very smooth halt beside the row of orange-trees near the back door.
Tom searched in her purse and found the envelope. It had been opened. He looked at her.
“It’s addressed to me as well as you.” Dorothea’s lips tightened. “Oh, really, Tom—do I ever open your mail?”
“What’s he saying? Telling you to keep after me about the book?”
“He isn’t badgering you about anything. He had a meeting with Chuck. Brad took him to lunch at the Century. There was a lot of serious talk.”
Tom said nothing. The serious talk should have been between Chuck and me, he thought bitterly. He was about to slip the letter unread into his pocket—he’d have a drink first and feel more able to deal with it—when the stamp on the envelope caught his eye. “Just look at that postmark, will you? February fourteenth! Two weeks on the way!” he said in disgust. “And by air mail, too.”
“Normal delivery nowadays.” Dorothea thought of her own postcards to Washington that had taken four weeks. “Better read the letter, Tom.” It was important. Doubly so because its arrival was so late.
Tom stuck the letter into a pocket. “It’s all old news by this time.” And he had a feeling he didn’t want to hear it.
“It’s still urgent enough.” She glanced at his face, saw worry increasing. So she made an effort to lighten her voice, and her manner, and the news. “He had planned to come and see us last week, after some publishers’ meeting in Paris. But Mona was in Acapulco and guess what she did? She developed pneumonia. In Acapulco—I ask you! So Brad had to cancel Europe and fly down to bring her home.”
“Stop circling, Thea. You’re getting into a constant habit of doing just that recently. You can give me the bad news.”
Can I? she wondered. If I circle around it you are the one who evades it. She drew a deep breath. “He must see us, Brad says. And so he is arriving in Nice on March eighth, straight from New York.”
“But that’s next week-end.”
“Yes. Before he goes on to Paris. He wants to talk with you.”
“So we are getting top priority.” He didn’t like that idea either. “What’s his problem? Is it the book? Or—” he forced himself to say it—“about Chuck?”
“About Chuck.” She reached over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was late, darling. But I met—”
He silenced her with a kiss on her lips. “I’m sorry I was so damned sharp-set. It’s just that—” He hesitated, fell silent.
“You are worrying far too much these days,” she told him gently. “I was barely thirty minutes late. And you can blame twenty of those on Tony. We bumped into each other just outside the market.”
“Tony? Tony Lawton’s in town?”
“Come on, darling. Let’s get this basket of food into the kitchen, or the Brie will be melting over the lamb chops.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“On holiday. Sailing. The boat needed emergency repairs, so it’s stuck in Menton for today. I invited him to come back here with me for lunch, but he had some ’phone calls to make. So I asked him to come up this evening and have a drink.” She was already heading for the back door, carrying the smaller packages. Tom gathered papers and basket, and followed her into the kitchen.
“When?” His voice was sharp.
“Oh, around five.”
“But Chuck will be—”
“Chuck will be late.” He had a habit of lateness whenever something unpleasant was on the horizon, and this meeting with Tom wasn’t going to be easy for either of them. “And before you meet him, Tony wants to have a word with you. Sort of background information, I think. Necessary, Tony said. Otherwise, you’d—”
“I don’t need advice on how to handle my own brother.”
“Oh, Tom! Tony’s only trying to—”
“What the hell does he think he’s doing, sticking his nose into—”
“Read Brad’s letter.” Abruptly, she turned away and began unpacking the basket: cheeses and meat into the refrigerator; fruit and vegetables to be washed and dried. Tom turned on his heel, walked into the pantry, but the letter was now in his hand. She found she was waiting, tense and nervous, for his f
ootsteps to stop at the bar, and chided herself for even listening. But there was no sound of a bottle set down on the tiled counter, or of ice dropped into a glass. He must be reading, not pouring another drink. Not yet, at least. She faced the window, tears in her eyes as she stared out blindly at five little orange-trees trying to screen the torn-up land farther up the hillside.
Then Tom was beside her, one hand slipping around her waist, the other holding Brad’s letter. “He’s so damned diplomatic. As far as I can make out, he had something important to tell Chuck at that lunch. And Chuck didn’t like it.” He frowned at a closely-written page, trying to read between the lines. “I wish he had been more explicit. I suppose he couldn’t be—not old Brad, at least.”
“He was giving Chuck some off-the-record information. So he said.”
Tom liked the look of the whole matter less and less. “Brad wouldn’t entrust it to a letter,” he agreed, “or to a ’phone call.” His frown deepened and he looked once more at the paragraph dealing with Chuck. Brad’s script was as discreet as Brad himself.
...And so I tried some frank talk with your brother. He didn’t believe me, not then. But I think I’ve jolted him enough to start him thinking about the net result of his actions last November. Some of it can be told now, off the record. (I had to take this chance with Chuck; and he will be the last person to want it publicised. It goes far beyond personal matters.) We parted coldly, yet I still have hopes that my news will have some effect on him. He has some extra worries, too—new developments which must trouble him: Katie Collier has jumped bail, leaving her family to forfeit a hundred thousand dollars; and Martin Holzheimer has stumbled on a story that seemingly convinced him to get in touch with the police. So my guess would be that Chuck is a deeply worried young man, and more than a little scared by the way things are turning out, although—so far—he is persuading himself that he can cope. I gave him your address and telephone number, by the way; and I shouldn’t be surprised if you have a letter from him, as the first sign that my words had some effect. I hope I didn’t overstep our friendship, Tom, in trying to handle this tricky situation. But I knew the facts, and I was on the scene. That’s my excuse, anyway.
Agent in Place Page 17
