Lumley waved for Blackwell, who materialized immediately. “I say, Blackwell, would you mind terribly bringing Mr. Blaine a selection of the club's papers, there's a good fellow. Mr. Blaine is free to remain here as long as he likes this afternoon as my guest.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Blackwell.
“Keep an eye on him, will you?” Lumley requested.
“I shall take very good care of Mr. Blaine, sir,” replied Blackwell. “You may rest assured on that account.”
Blackwell turned to Rick. “Would the gentleman like another glass of cordial?” he inquired.
“The gentleman would,” said Rick.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Their rooms had been gone through very carefully; that much was evident when he opened the door. Rick had seen better, but still this was not an amateur job. Just enough had been disturbed to let him know he'd had visitors. Just enough was put neatly back into place to let him know they were gentlemen. Just enough had been destroyed to let him know they meant business.
“Boss, we been tossed,” said Sam, who'd been back for an hour and hadn't told a soul or touched a thing. He'd seen this before.
“Any guesses who?” asked Rick, surveying the wreckage.
“I think I might have a suspicion,” said a voice behind him.
It was Renault, hard on his heels.
“Come on in and make yourself comfortable, Louie,” said Rick. “Somebody else already has.”
Renault glanced around quickly. “Seems like old times,” he remarked, snapping open his cigarette case and settling into an easy chair by the electric fire.
“Don't flatter yourself,” said Rick. “Your boys weren't this good.” He started to poke through the debris.
Their closets had been emptied. Clothes lay on the floor, pockets turned inside out, except for Rick's dinner jacket and trousers, which their visitors had thoughtfully left hanging so as not to rumple.
Renault smoked while Rick and Sam took inventory. “When your curiosity gets the better of you, do let me know,” he said, puffing away. The dapper little Frenchman was resplendent in a new suit, new shoes, and a fedora.
“I thought you just bought a new suit,” said Rick.
“One must watch one's appearance at all times,” said Renault.
“I prefer to watch my back,” said Rick, surveying the room. “I guess I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
Their passports were gone. Whoever had paid them such assiduous attention had wanted to make sure they wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon.
“Ricky, how many times have I told you to always carry your identity papers with you?” asked Renault. “We Europeans do.”
“Maybe that's why so many of you want to become Americans,” replied Rick. “We live in a free country.” He couldn't tell Renault that New York City gangsters never carried anything identifying themselves on their persons, so they could be free to give the cops any phony name they wished. Old habits died hard. “Okay, Sam, forget it. We're here for the duration, so we might as well make the best of it.” He checked the liquor cabinet. “At least they didn't drink our stash.”
Sam halted his search for the passports and poured Rick and Renault each a stiff drink.
“It's my fault,” began Rick. “I’ve just spent the past few hours getting suckered by a limey.”
“Boss, you slippin’,” said Sam under his breath.
Rick ignored him. “Sitting on my duff at the Garrick while British Intelligence paid us a visit, courtesy of Reginald Lumley.”
“Or perhaps courtesy of Victor Laszlo,” retorted Renault.
Rick and Sam both turned to look at him. “What?” said Rick incredulously.
Renault smiled inwardly. He enjoyed having the undivided attention of Richard Blaine, a man who had always held himself to be superior to the likes of Louis Renault. True, they were now friends and, even when they hadn't been, had done a great deal of profitable business together in Casablanca. Rick had always kept himself aloof from Renault and the refugee horde; he was in Casablanca, but not of Casablanca, and he never let anybody forget it. Until she walked back into his life. That, Renault decided, was what had finally separated Rick Blaine from his rival club owner, Arrigo Ferrari: a woman named Ilsa Lund.
“I mean, here we are, having followed Victor Laszlo and his wife from Casablanca to Lisbon to London, and what do we really know about them?” Renault took a sip of his drink. It was an Armagnac, his favorite. “I wasn't Prefect of Police in Casablanca all that time without learning a thing or two about the human animal. About what motivates him, about what drives him. About what obsesses him.”
“I can think of a few things,” said Rick.
“So can we both, my friend,” replied Renault. “Money, of course. And power. And women.” He laughed to himself. “You know, Ricky, there was a time back there in Casablanca when I worried about you and women. You didn't seem to have any interest in them at all, and, well, I…”
“You what?”
Renault didn't bat an eye. “Now don't take that the wrong way,” he explained. “I simply meant that a man who doesn't like women even half as much as I do makes me nervous. What I mean is, I don't understand such a man.”
“Meaning me,” said Rick.
“No, meaning Laszlo,” said Renault. “This Laszlo is an odd duck. He responds to neither money nor power. Indeed, the only thing that seems to interest him is his glorious cause.”
“What's wrong with that?” asked Rick.
Renault snapped open a cigarette case and withdrew a Players. They weren't Gauloises, but they would have to do. “Mind you, Ricky, I’m sure altruism and selflessness have their place in this world of ours, but I must confess that for the life of me I can't see where if they are not accompanied by some other, more tangible, rewards.”
“Maybe Victor Laszlo really believes in something, Louie,” said Rick. “Maybe he's even willing to die for it.” He took a sip of bourbon. “And maybe he's just a chump.”
“Perhaps he's something more,” suggested Renault.
“Now you're losing me,” said Rick. He was nearly reclining in his wing chair, his head thrown back.
“How to broach this subject?” Renault waved his cigarette in the air. “Rick, has it ever occurred to you to question any aspect of Laszlo's story?”
“Many times,” answered Rick. “Ilsa's, too.”
“Precisely. Both of them have so many loose ends, so many unexplained occurrences, so much—well, sheer coincidence, not to put too fine a point on it. Don't you think?”
“Doesn't everybody?”
Renault was barely able to sit still in his chair. “I mean, so much doesn't add up,” he said. “For example: How did he escape so conveniently from the concentration camp at Mauthausen? How has he managed to slip through the Germans’ fingers three times? Why has he been reported killed five times, only to turn up very much alive, and looking quite dapper, as if he were going on a safari instead of fleeing the Nazis, in Casablanca? Aside from that little scar on his face, there wasn't a mark on him to show that he'd been enjoying the hospitality of the Third Reich, as he claimed.” Renault was gesticulating now. “I’m telling you, Ricky,” he said, “a man who could contemplate walking out on a beautiful woman like Miss Lund is capable of anything.”
Rick was following the argument but wasn't convinced. “She's Mrs. Laszlo, Louie, even if he tried to hide it from the world for her safety.”
“So he says,” observed Renault. “How do you think Miss Lund feels about that?”
Rick wasn't prepared to answer that question. “It's not that I don't agree with you. But I think you were in Casablanca so long, playing so many angles, that you don't trust anybody anymore.”
“I made a very handsome living doing so, too,” said Renault. “Seriously, Ricky, I think we have to examine the possibility that Victor Laszlo is not who, or what, he says he is. Even his name doesn't fit: Victor Laszlo. If he's Czech, what's he doing with a Hungar
ian name? It's more than a little fishy, if you ask me.”
Rick poured another drink for himself and Renault. Over in the corner Sam was reading a book on contract bridge. Sam enjoyed playing cards, but never for money.
“I don't know much about names,” Rick replied, “but I gather they've moved the borders around here so often that hardly anybody is a citizen of the country in which he was born.” Not for the first time, he was glad to be an American. “Besides, lots of people change their names, for lots of reasons.
“You mentioned Mauthausen a moment ago,” Rick went on. “I can't prove it yet, but I’m beginning to think that whatever Victor Laszlo is up to in London has something to do with the guy who set that camp up, a man named Reinhard Heydrich. The bully who's running Czechoslovakia now. The one who probably had something to do with Laszlo's getting thrown in the jug in the first place.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “The way I see it, Victor Laszlo and his boys might be getting ready to clip Heydrich. From the looks of him, nobody deserves it more.”
“Assuming Laszlo is who he says he is,” objected Renault. “This Heydrich may be a beast, but even if he is, it may well be none of our concern who the target of Laszlo's operation is. The real question is whether it suits our interests to make it happen.” He rubbed his hands together meaningfully. “All of our interests.”
“Well, then let's assume it does suit our interests for the moment,” said Rick. “Why not? You may be suspicious of him, and God knows I certainly have no reason to like him, but aside from his fancy suits, he's never given us any real indication he's a phony. Major Strasser certainly thought he was real enough. Real enough to die trying to stop him from getting away.”
“Don't forget he had information Major Strasser wanted desperately,” said Renault.
“And now he has information we want desperately,” said Rick, jumping to his feet. “Listen, Louie, stop waving red herrings about Victor Laszlo in my face.” He looked down at Renault, who was still sitting in his chair. “However, I think you may be on to something about this mess being Laszlo's doing.”
“Really?” said Renault, rising. Sam looked up briefly from his book.
“But not for the reasons you think. Today at the Garrick I met this fellow I told you about, Reginald Lumley. He's the man Friday of the Secretary for War in Churchill's cabinet. He's our kind of guy, Louie: he likes his drink and he likes his women. I gave him one of these.”
Rick produced one of his bogus business cards and showed it to Renault. “I wrote a few names on the back, to get his attention. One was the name of his mistress.”
“You have been busy.”
“The others were Ilsa Lund, Victor Laszlo, and Reinhard Heydrich.”
“Which one hit the bull's-eye?”
Rick drained his bourbon. “That's just it. I don't know.”
“But you suspect?”
“At this point,” he said, “I suspect everything and everybody. Except maybe Sam, and sometimes I’m not too sure about him.”
Sam ignored him.
“What do you intend to do about it?” asked Renault.
“I intend to dine out on his nickel,” Rick replied. “Tomorrow night. I’m invited to a dinner party,chez Lumley. In South Kensington.” He looked around the room. “With an invitation like this, how can I refuse? I may need my passport again someday.”
“Better you than I, my friend,” said Renault. “The state of English cooking leaves much to be desired.”
“I’m not going there for the food, Louie,” said Rick.
“Indeed you are not,” stated Renault with certainty. “I know precisely why you think you're going there. You're going there to find out more about the whereabouts of our mysterious M. Laszlo. Before you get carried away with your prospects, though …” He finished his drink. “South Kensington you say? What's the house number?”
“He didn't tell me,” replied Rick. “He said he'd send a car.”
Renault looked at his friend gravely. “I wouldn't be taking that ride if I were you. Not after this—although, luckily for us, I fear they may have overplayed their hand.”
“Why not?” asked Rick.
“Because, if we're talking about the same house, I’ve already been there,” replied Renault. He let the effect of his words sink in.
“I’m all ears,” said Rick.
Renault asked for another drink and lit another Players while he was waiting. “Thank you, Sam,” he said, taking a sip. Leaving out any reference to Raoul, he narrated his discovery of the address of the house that Laszlo had been seen entering by members of the Resistance. How he had taken a cab across London, from the worst of the bomb damage in the East End to the relatively unscathed precincts of Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, to see the place for himself. How he had walked around the neighborhood, hoping to discover some way in which the house distinguished itself from those elsewhere on the street. How he had noticed lights on in the upper floors, but only darkness below, long after the feeble daylight had waned. How, about an hour after sundown, in a flurry of activity, a number of men in suits, several of them carrying briefcases, came and went through the front door—which, as far as he could tell, was the only entrance from the street—but still no lights were to be seen on the parlor floor. How, after spending all night and part of the morning running up a fortune in cab fees, he had finally caught a glimpse of what he had hoped all along to see.
“Laszlo?” asked Rick.
“No,” said Renault. “Ilsa Lund. Leaving the house and getting into a taxi.”
Rick was up and out the door before Louis had a chance to stub out his cigarette. Renault caught up with him just as he jumped in the cab.
“Number forty-two, Clareville Street,” Renault told the driver. He looked over at Rick. “I thought you might like to know where we're going before you get there.”
“You're full of surprises, Louie.”
Renault bowed. “It's part of my charm.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” replied Rick.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In less than fifteen minutes they reached the house in Clareville Street, just off the Brompton Road. A big white row house of five stories, it huddled indistinguishable from its brethren in a row of what the British called mansions. A small sign that read “Blandford” was its only Distinguishing characteristic. On either side of it were dark houses that bore signs reading “To Let.” In New York you generally knew where the rich people lived just by looking at their houses. Not here. Here, you didn't know anything. Rick had long believed you should never trust people, but he'd never before realized that you shouldn't trust houses, either.
Rick's heart was hammering as he and Renault alighted from the taxi. “The direct approach has gotten us this far,” he said. He walked up the stairs and punched the doorbell.
To his surprise, it was answered almost immediately by a little old lady.
“Good evening,” said Rick, raising his hat.
“Good evening to you, sir,” replied the woman. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore an apron around her waist. She eyed the pair of them with just a hint of interest—or was it suspicion? “Would it be rooms you two gentlemen might be wanting?” she asked politely.
A rooming house? That would explain the men coming and going, the activity upstairs, and, to a certain extent, the lack of same downstairs. Had Renault just fed him a bum steer? “As a matter of fact, we were,” said Rick. “The hotels around here are full up.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid we're fully booked at the moment as well,” she informed him regretfully. “You might try Mrs. Blake down the road at number sixteen. She's often got a room or two to spare.”
She started to close the door. Rick had spent part of the conversation trying to see into the house beyond her, but she was standing in a small anteroom, beyond which a pair of very solid-looking wooden double doors shielded the rest of the place from view.
“A
re you quite sure, madam?” Louis asked in his most ingratiating manner. “We have traveled a great distance, and have heard that your establishment is without compare.” To complete the continental effect, he bowed deeply.
“Oh, my,” said the woman. “It's terrible, the lack of space in London these days. With all the Yanks arriving, it's awfully difficult finding a proper place to lay one's head.”
Renault spoke up again. “I wonder if we might come in and have a look around? Just in case you were to have an unexpected vacancy in the next few days.” He clicked his heels together. “An ally from Free France would be most obliged.”
The woman's face brightened considerably. “By all means,” she said. “Blandford is the finest bed and breakfast in this part of London, and I’m happy to show it off, especially to two fine gentlemen such as yourselves.”
She opened the front door wide, and they stepped inside.
They were in the parlor of a well-to-do home. The room boasted fresh flowers in the vases, bookshelves along the side walls, and a picture window whose prospect was of a lovely summer garden, now faded and wan in the winter darkness. In the center of the room stood a grand piano, its top down and covered by a lace cloth, on which stood various family photographs. Rick looked them over, but the faces didn't mean anything to him. Just more strangers, half of whom were probably dead.
“I was given this address by some friends who I think may be staying here, Mrs. uh … ,” said Rick, fumbling for an opening. The house certainly looked like what it purported to be. Neat as a pin, in the British way, with a tea service laid out in the parlor and pictures of cats interspersed with idealized portraits of the royal family on the walls.
“Mrs. Bunton,” the woman replied. “At your service. Widowed going on twenty-six years, and not a day goes by that I don't think about the second Somme, and my poor Bertie, killed at Amiens and victory so close. Won't you please sit down?” She indicated a sofa. “May I offer you some tea?”
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