Draconian New York (Hob Draconian Book 1)

by Robert Sheckley

  And in another part of Paris, in the back room of Le Chat Verte, Jean-Claude was saying into the telephone, after ten minutes of talk about mutual friends, “Listen, Cesar, you know that bit of land I have near Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where you wanted to put up a restaurant? Well, even though it’s been in the family for ages, I decided why continue holding on to it? The fact of the matter is, I have a friend who is somewhat distressed for funds at the moment. … So I thought that I could make you a very good price for a quick sale, which would also give me the pleasure of advancing your desire to introduce the true cuisine of the French Pyrenees to the Paris area. … What did you say? Thais, your cook, has died of the gallbladder? My friend, I am desolated. But a replacement surely would not be too difficult. … Ah. The tax inspector! Taken everything? My friend, say no more. One understands the position all too well.”

  54

  There was a knock on the door. Khalil said, “Yes, who is it?”

  “Inspector Dupont, Immigration Service. Open up.”

  Khalil sighed and turned off the small black-and-white television. He had been dreading this visit, though his papers were in perfect order. But the French Immigration Service was known to be less than evenhanded in these matters. Still, there was no avoiding it, and he unbolted and opened the door.

  A large bearded man in a tweed suit pushed his way in, followed by a smaller man with a thin mustache. And behind Nigel and Jean-Claude came Hob Draconian.

  “Hello, Khalil,” Hob said.

  “I do not know you, sir,” Khalil responded at once.

  “We were not formally introduced,” Hob said, “but you did drive us from De Gaulle airport several nights ago. You and your cousin Ali hijacked us.”

  “You are mistaken, sir,” Khalil said. “I am not a driver. I am a student at the Sorbonne. Ouch!”

  The exclamation was forced out of him as Jean-Claude drove a fist into his stomach and Nigel guided him to a chair.

  “We are not going to have a long discussion,” Hob said, pulling up a chair and sitting opposite Khalil. “You hijacked me. I’d know your face anywhere. Do you still deny it?”

  Khalil glanced to his left and saw that Jean-Claude had taken a small folding knife out of a pocket, opened it with his teeth, and tested the edge by shaving some hairs from the back of his hand.

  “Yes, yes, I did it,” Khalil said. “It was crazy, stupid, I should never have done it. Sirs, believe me, I am not a common criminal. I am political, I do not engage in crimes.”

  “Just give back what you took,” Hob said, “and we’ll say no more about it.”

  “If only I could!” Khalil wailed.

  Nigel had turned away and given the room a search. It was a small room with no closets. It took very little time to look under the bed and the piles of magazines. He looked at Hob and shook his head.

  “Where is it?” Hob asked.

  “I do not know,” Khalil said.

  “Peste!” said Jean-Claude, and he put an inch of knife into Khalil’s shoulder and scraped along the shoulder bone. Nigel hurried over and grabbed Khalil’s head, preventing his scream.

  Hob, trying not to look as if he were about to throw up, said, “Khalil, you’d better tell us. No amount of money is worth what my friend is going to do to you.”

  “Listen to me,” Khalil said. “I’ll tell you everything I knew. I followed orders. I followed the orders of Henry. You know this Henry? He sent me directions from America, he was spoken for by the organization, he told me what to do. I brought your package back here. Henry came here and he opened the package, he said it was cocaine, he left it here for one night. Then the next day he took it away. And he took my bomb, too! No, don’t use the knife again, I’m telling you everything I know.”

  “Where is Henry?” Hob asked.

  “Ah, God, if I knew I’d tell you! I don’t think Henry is really a part of our organization at all. But he took the package and left. The package and the bomb. That was yesterday. He hasn’t come back, he hasn’t telephoned. I’m convinced I’ll never see him again. And I never want to! That’s the whole truth!”

  Jean-Claude looked at Hob. “Shall we see if he changes his tune?” He gestured with the knife.

  “No. Leave him alone. Let’s get out of here.”

  “He could be lying!” Jean-Claude said indignantly. “I barely scratched him!”

  “No,” Hob said. “Let’s go. Now.”

  They left, Jean-Claude muttering, “Calls himself a private detective.”

  55

  It is possible to get from the metro stop porte d’ltalie to the metro stop Cite by changing at place d’ltalie, and then changing again at Denfert-Rochereau. But it is faster and more convenient to go beyond Cite to Chatelet and then walk back to the Ile de la Cite across the boulevard du Palais, and this is what Hob Draconian did. Coming onto the island, the Palais de Justice loomed on his right, and across the street was the imposing Prefecture de Police. He turned left down the short rue de Lutece and came to the main entrance of the huge and forbidding Hotel-Dieu. Inside, he walked down a snuff brown and ocher corridor, past nuns with huge floating headdresses, and down two flights of marble steps to the basement. A blue-uniformed attendent directed him to the morgue.

  “Ah, Hob, come over here,” Inspector Fauchon said. Fauchon was standing with a little group of medical men. He was wearing a lightweight fawn-colored topcoat. It looked frivolous in these grim surroundings. They were just inside one of the holding rooms, where ceiling-high rows of what looked like great filing cabinets held the bodies of the recent dead.

  Fauchon said, “Dr. Beaufordans, could we see the subject?”

  Beaufordans, a small man with a black goatee, wearing a long white smock with a white cap tied to his head, gestured to two attendants and said something in a low voice. The attendants checked a list and slid out one of the long filing drawers, removing it entirely from the cabinet. They carried the drawer to a long table and set it down, and, at a nod from Beaufordans, slid back the cover. Beaufordans himself leaned over and pulled down the gray rubberized sheet.

  Beneath it was the cadaver of a man, small, his skin colored a pale yellowish brown, his eyes closed, lying as though in sleep. Beaufordans gently rolled the head to one side, demonstrating the great gunshot wound, now completely dry, that had destroyed most of the left side of the head, including the ear.

  “Do you know who this is?” Fauchon asked Hob.

  “That’s the man I knew as Henry Smith,” Hob said. “Has he been dead long?”

  “About twelve hours. The single gunshot wound did it, probably a forty-five-caliber weapon at close quarters.”

  “Where?”

  “The Saint-Martin canal near the rue des Recollets. Not far from the Hôpital Saint Louis, but of course they brought him here.”

  “Has Mr. Rosen seen him?”

  “He identified him earlier. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Hob, but I needed a second identification.”

  Hob stepped away. Fauchon made a gesture. Beaufordans covered the body and the attendants replaced the lid and brought the box back to its place in the cabinet. Fauchon took Hob’s arm and escorted him out of the morgue.

  They didn’t speak until they were on the outer steps of the Hotel-Dieu. Then Hob asked, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “Nothing I am at liberty to say at present. Do you have any ideas, Hob?”

  “I believe Henry had an associate named Khalil. Has he been questioned?”

  “We are trying to find Khalil. There is an all-points bulletin out for him.”

  “He might be able to tell you something,” Hob hazarded.

  “We hope so. We’d like to know how he came to lose these.” Fauchon reached into his pocket and took out a plastic bag. From it he removed a string of blue ceramic beads with a silver clasp.

  “What are they?” Hob asked.

  “Worry beads, I think you would call them in English. Many Arabs, as well as many Greeks and Turks, carry them.
Telling the beads gives them something to do with their fingers while waiting for fortune to smile on them.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “In Monsieur Henry’s dead hand. Khalil’s name is engraved on the clasp. Perhaps he will have an explanation—if we ever find him.”

  56

  “He was pretty stupid to think he could get away with it,” Emilio said. “But he had us going pretty good while it was on. Still. It was just a matter of time. Am I right, Inspector?”

  “You refer to Henry?” Fauchon said.

  “Of course. It all ties into him. Especially with Mr. Draconian’s recent discovery.”

  “And what is that?” Fauchon asked.

  They were sitting in Max’s sitting room in the Hotel du Cygne. Hob was there, looking sleepy, rumpled, and displeased. Max was in his dressing gown, and looked like he never planned to leave the hotel. They were all there except Aurora, and she was expected soon.

  Hob said, “I ran down that matchbook that you showed me, Inspector. The one you took from Kelly’s body. It was from a falafel stand in the Marais. I went to the synagogue nearby. The rabbi said that a man answering Kelly’s description had been in looking for Henry. I told Detective Vasari about it.”

  “But you didn’t think to tell me?” Fauchon asked.

  “I forgot. I was a little too intimidated by the line of corpses you showed me.”

  “Only two. A private detective, in his line of work, must run across dozens, perhaps hundreds of such fatalities.”

  “You must be speaking of some other detective,” Hob said.

  “I would never have believed it of Henry,” Max said. “Such a nice person. Religious, too.”

  “A double agent,” Emilio said. “Pretending to be a Jew, but working for the Arabs.”

  “You still don’t know who killed Henry,” Hob pointed out.

  “One thing at a time,” Emilio said. “This is all conjecture. But it looks like Kelly got on to Henry, and Henry killed him. Then Henry was killed by his sidekick, this Khalil.”

  “Why?” Hob asked.

  “How should I know?” Emilio said. “Maybe Khalil found out Henry wasn’t really working for Islam. Maybe he found out he was an undercover agent for the Seventh-Day Adventists.”

  “Now we are moving beyond the realm of probability,” Fauchon said. “Or so I hope.”

  “Pick up Khalil,” Emilio said, “and the whole thing will unravel.”

  “At least to the extent that a case can be made against him,” Hob said.

  Emilio turned and glared at him. “You got somebody better in mind?”

  “I don’t have anyone in mind,” Hob said. “And you still haven’t turned up the dope.”

  “Khalil must have it stashed away somewhere,” Emilio said. “There were traces of cocaine in his apartment. That’s what you told me, Inspector. When your police find him, that’ll tie it up once and for all.”

  Fauchon shrugged. “No doubt a case can be made. As for what actually happened …” He shrugged again.

  “Well, it’s enough for me,” Emilio said. “Look, I gotta get out of here. I’ve got packing to do.”

  “You are returning to America?” Fauchon asked.

  “To New York.”

  “What about the cocaine you came over to trace?”

  “Hey,” Emilio said, “that’s probably vanished up a couple hundred noses by now. The trail’s gone cold. Win some, lose some.”

  “You seem in a very great hurry,” Hob said.

  “I ain’t got the rest of my life to sit around cafés drinking coffee like you do.” Emilio turned to Fauchon. “I just have to pack a few things and I’m off to the airport. Inspector, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. If you ever get over to the States, look me up.”

  “You may depend on it,” Fauchon said in frigid tones.

  “Good-bye, Max,” Emilio said. “Be good. I’m letting you off the hook.” Emilio waved at them and went out the door.

  “Thank God that man is gone,” Max said. “Would anyone like some lunch? I can have the hotel send up sandwiches. Inspector? Hob?”

  Hob and Fauchon both shrugged. Max reached for the telephone and asked in French for lunch to be sent up for four. He listened intently to a long, voluble explanation, then said, “Can you at least send up coffee and croissants? Great, thank you.” He put down the phone. “It’s some sort of holiday. The cook’s away. But they’ll send coffee. Hob, would you mind stepping into the bedroom with me? Inspector, if you don’t mind?”

  Fauchon shrugged again. He seemed depressed. Even his shrug was subdued.

  “Hob,” Max said, “things haven’t worked out as we had hoped. I still owe you ten thousand. I can’t pay it yet. But I can give you this.” He took a billfold out of a little desk and took out four crisp hundred-dollar bills. “I’ll get the rest to you as quick as I can. Okay?”

  “Sure, it’s okay.”

  “And no hard feelings?”

  “I guess not.”

  Fauchon called from the other room, “Max, there is a person from the hotel who wants to speak to you.”

  “Just tell him to put the tray down anywhere.”

  “He wants to speak to you personally.”

  “All right, I’m coming.” Max came into the sitting room, followed by Hob. A tall young man in a dark suit was waiting at the door.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I am M. Lenoit, assistant manager of the Cygne.”

  “If it’s about the bill,” Max said, “I’ll be taking care of that later today.”

  “No, sir, it is not that. Though the bill remains a pressing issue.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “A message was delivered to the hotel. For you, sir.” He handed Max an envelope with a BEA insignia on it. Max accepted it and the man left.

  Max opened the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, scanned it, then read it more carefully, then snorted.

  “What’s the matter?” Hob asked.

  “Read it yourself,” Max said, handing the paper to Hob.

  “Aloud, if you don’t mind,” said Fauchon.

  Hob read, “‘Dear Max, by the time you get this I’ll be halfway to Rome. I made a deal with Maintenon to headline Ariosto’s fall line. Sorry, darling, but this has all been very upsetting and I think we’d better go our own ways for a while. Thanks for everything. Aurora.’

  “Huh,” Hob said.

  “I, too,” Fauchon said.

  “Yeah, and me as well,” Max said. He accepted the piece of paper back from Hob, turned it over just in case there was something written on the other side, then put it on the coffee table and sat down on the couch again.

  “The developments do not cease,” Fauchon said.

  “I wonder what next,” Hob said.

  And pat on the moment there was a knock at the door. The three men looked at one another.

  “I’m almost afraid to get it,” Max said.

  The knock came again.

  “Come in,” Max said.

  The door opened. A waiter came in with a wheeled cart on which were coffee for four, croissants, toast, and a single rose in a slim glass. He poured three cups and left.

  “Comic interlude,” Max muttered. “Coffee, Inspector?”

  “Please,” Fauchon said.

  They sipped in silence. There was a lot of noise out on the street just then. Horns and sirens. They ignored it, waiting for something else to happen. And it did.

  The telephone rang.

  “Probably an announcement that war has been declared,” Max said.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Hob asked.

  “I suppose I might as well.” Max picked up the phone. “Max Rosen.” He listened for a few seconds, then looked up. “It’s for you, Inspector.”

  Fauchon got up, crossed the room, and took the telephone. “Fauchon.” He listened for several seconds, grunting now and then to show he was following what was being said. Then he said, “Al
l right, Edouard, I’ll be over shortly.” He hung up the telephone and returned to his coffee.

  There was silence for a while. Then Fauchon said, “Aren’t you going to ask me what that was all about?”

  “None of our business,” Hob said. “What do you think, Max?”

  “I think you’re right. Paris police business. What could it have to do with us?”

  “Very well, I shall tell you,” Fauchon said. “That was my subordinate Edouard. I had posted him to watch Mr. Vasari’s apartment.”

  “Why did you do that?” Hob asked.

  “There was something about Mr. Emilio Vasari that did not quite satisfy me.”

  “You want a straight line?” Hob said. “All right, I’ll give you a straight line. What did your subordinate Edouard tell you just now?”

  “Sorry, that’s police business,” Fauchon said. “No, excuse me, I only make the little joke. A joke in not very good taste, in view of what has happened.”

  They waited. Finally Fauchon said, “Edouard watched from his car as Emilio got out of his taxi and went into his apartment. It was on the second floor front. Edouard had a very good view of the explosion. It blew out the front windows. Mr. Vasari is dead. Well, it has been a day of surprises.”

  “Blown up?” Hob said.

  Fauchon nodded.

  “Do you mean someone planted a bomb in his apartment?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Well,” Max said, “he was a thoroughly objectionable man. Not that I wished him dead. Khalil’s hand is certainly in this, don’t you suppose?”

  “Why not?” Fauchon said. “We seem to have him for everything else.” He finished his coffee and stood up. “I must go and see what I can see. Hob, can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  “To the nearest metro, I suppose,” said Hob, standing up. “What’s all that noise outside?”

  From the street they could hear a great blowing of horns and a sound of an excited crowd.