Slowly, very slowly, I learned the mastery of that inwardly shuddering,
twitching sense of impatience which, much of my waking time, made me feel
as if I were being flayed alive, the skin being stripped from me by a dull
blade, inch by inch. It was a sort of triumph of mind over emotion, this
business of forcing myself to recognize that the instruments for my mission had
to be forged precisely, and in the process there could be no speeding up of
clock or calendar.
But of course there was no need to speed them up. I was the agent of a
destiny charted for me. And knowing that, I had to know that nothing could
ever happen to Baar, Leewarden, and Rouart-Rochelle that would cheat me of
the pleasure of attending to them my own way.
They would be all mine whenever I was ready to drive the knife into
them.
120
Icame out of surgery into a bed in the
clinic’s medical building. Eventually, face masked by bandages, arm fixed
against my body so that the newly grafted skin would not be endangered, I was
moved to Cottage C, there to put in the time needed for complete restoration.
Finally all the bandages came off, and I looked into the mirror. Beardless,
pale, and with that discolored patch of grafted skin on the forearm, but, over
all, not bad. Distinctly ten years older than the David Shaw I had last seen in
any mirror, and to judge from the set of the lips and the lines of the face, they
had been a hard ten years.
So to work.
In the cottage wall was a safe, and in the safe, besides Jan van Zee’s
passport and driver’s license, was a package of writing paper and notebooks.
These, and the flight bag to lug them in, were the only purchases I had made in
Luxembourg city before Costello and I enplaned there. Letters had to be
written on paper that was uniquely for sale in the Low Countries, because
sooner or later someone might be driven to examine that paper closely.
I put in two weeks at the job, four or five hours a day, tearing up as
much as I salvaged until I was satisfied with my handiwork.
The letters were from Jan van Zee to David Shaw.
They were in a competent though sometimes stilted English,
occasionally flavored by the literal translation of a Dutch phrase, and were
written in the angular van Zee script. Before attending to the actual writing, I
tediously drafted a calendar for the past few years, the first date on it that day
when Berti van Stade’s column about me appeared in Het Oog Amsterdam. I
then entered under their approximately correct dates the memorable events in
the life of J. van Zee up to near his demise — second demise, that was,
considering that the first had taken place in the English Channel ten years
before — and once I got this far I found it easy to recall less memorable events
and chart them in proper sequence.
The letters themselves varied in length. Some contained only a few lines
simply answering a question directed at van Zee by Shaw. Others offered
detailed accounts of the daily life of van Zee interspersed with recollections of
his checkered past. Almost all contained some mention of financial
121
transactions. The 200 dollars American now received at the office of
American Express. And Thanking you for the 100 dollars American. And
once, irritably, a brief note entirely devoted to the subject. By agreement you
must provide money as needed. Send now the 500 dollars or there is no more
agreement.
Anyone interested in adding up all those numbers would find that the
total came to twenty thousand dollars. A logical figure, because it seemed that
Shaw, a would-be movie producer, was purchasing the right to use this
autobiographical material as the basis of a film. In a short note of recent date,
van Zee addressed himself to the delays in this project. You write me the filmmaking
will start soon. Last year it was the same thing. Will it be the same
five years from now? Also I do not like that title The Last Hippie. One who
works hard for his money when he must is not a hippie. This title is what we
know in Dutch as kletskock.
Obviously a testy fellow, this van Zee.
I brought Costello the collection, and he went through it carefully.
“Sounds like this guy had total recall,” he said. “Anyhow they look good. I’ll
take care of having the copies made.”
His bedroom in Cottage C was our office, and he had gone to work there
as soon as we checked in, scouting out a reliable investigative agency in
Europe and turning it loose on the list of names I submitted. From its address
— Avenue Matignon in Pans was distinctly high-priced — the agency was not
one of those B-picture deals with a French Sam Spade working out of a
shabby office. And its business card suggested wide-ranging efficiency.
“D E T E C”
UNIVERS AG. SURVEILL.
CONSTATS — PROBL. DIVERS
PARIS — BRUXELLES — GENÈVE — LONDRES
Four offices, well-located for my mission. Most important, the first
report to come in was reassuring. The information on Yves and Vahna
appeared accurate from what I already knew of them; no big deal putting
together this material. But the news that Monsieur Simon Leewarden had just
disposed of a house in Bruges and was now the weekend occupant of an
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apartment on Avenue Louise in Brussels occupied full-time by his daughter
Sarah and a housekeeper was exactly the kind of news I was ready to pay for.
Of Kees Baar no word yet, an omission that worried Costello more than
it did me.
“He’s got that million in cash to play with, Davey. What’s to say he isn’t
already holed up in Rio playing with it?”
“Not what,” I said. “Who. Yves Rouart-Rochelle. That million, and how
to find it, must be on his mind day and night. And he expects it to be on Baar’s
mind too. If Baar suddenly dropped out of sight, it would make Yves highly
suspicious. That’s no way to enjoy your money, with Yves tracking you down
to confirm his suspicions. Baar will stay close by and in touch with him for a
long time to come.”
“Most people wouldn’t have nerve enough to play it that way, Davey.”
“Kees Baar isn’t like most people, Ray. Remember that when this thing
starts developing, or you’re in for some nasty surprises.”
Now, along with the van Zee letters to be xeroxed, I gave him additional
names for his list. Marie-Paule Neyna, last described by Kees as operating
Leewarden’s porno film factory in Copenhagen; Madame Chouchoute who,
after all, had provided, my introduction to Kees; and someone I knew only as
Renaudat, the operator who had hired the pair of thugs to hijack merchandise
from Marie-Paule and me in Marseille those ten years ago.
Costello handed me the report on this trio along with the copies of the
van Zee letters. Marie-Paule was still operating the factory. Madame
Chouchoute’s place was still a landmark of rue Houdon in Montmartre,
although Madame herself was rarely seen and was reported very ill. As for
Renaudat, according to Detec’s findings, there were several so-named i
n
Marseille, all very respectable. However, on the police record of three years
before was an entry regarding the murder of a Robert Renaudat, a felon with
several convictions and known to have been involved in the drug traffic.
So much for that side of the Atlantic.
On this side, I turned my attention to the recruiting of a proper entourage
for D.H. Shaw, film producer, when he would make his entrance on the
European scene. Miller Williams, hard at work mastering the art of motionpicture
financing and at the same time attending to my personal accounts,
123
offered substance to any entourage, but, as I explained to Costello, more was
needed to put on a proper show.
“Makes sense,” said Costello. “Did you ever take real notice of our
friend Harry on the job?”
Harry. A big, good-natured blond twenty-five-year-old, Harry was an
inobtrusive presence in Cottage C, its maître d’hôtel, housekeeper, repairman,
valet, and therapist. Naturally, since this was Florida, land of sunshine, the
initial process of providing me with a proper tan was done indoors by lamp.
Harry spotlighted my newly repaired areas, timer in hand, then expanded his
range until slowly, slowly, he obtained the desired effect, a flawlessly even
tan, head to toes, front and back. Now there was no detecting the incision
along the nose, the patch of grafted skin on the arm.
Harry even provided me with eye-filling entertainment his days off duty
when, while I was sunning on my terrace, I would observe him turn up with a
female companion to share with him the temporary use of a cabana and the
pool. It was never the same girl, but it was always a lissome beauty.
Finally, out of curiosity, I asked him where he had struck this mine.
“Stewardesses, sir,” said Harry. “If you’d like me to arrange
something —”
”Not now, Harry. I’ll let you know when I feel the need.”
“Any time, sir.”
And once Costello put the bug in my ear, I could see that Harry was
made-to-order entourage material. Harry, as a member of the party abroad,
attending to the luggage, the dining arrangements, the wardrobe. Harry, in
livery, chauffeuring the limousine. Van Zee might have preferred a Ferrari
roadburner, but, as Costello advised, this was the very reason why the
president of Shaw productions should be the chauffeured limousine type.
I approached my prospect roundabout. “You seem handy in all
departments, Harry. Where did you pick it up?”
“Yachting, sir. Mr. Charlie Schoonover’s Saraband. I signed on as
cabin boy, then made steward, then just about everything else. And Mr.
Schoonover liked things done by the book.”
“Suppose I asked you to sign on with me?”
“For what, sir?”
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“I’ll be going to Europe to produce a film. You’d take care of me there
the way you do here. Double whatever you’re getting here, plus expenses.
Interested?”
“Ready to go, sir,” said Harry.
Strategy dictated the choice of the next recruit. Among the additional
names I had submitted for Detec to work on was that of an old school friend,
Jean-Pierre, Monsieur le Comte de Liasse, and the report on him that came
back was intriguing in its possibilities. Head of prosperous De Liasse
Electronics in Paris. More important, unmarried and very much a ladies’ man.
In fact, the French press had several times given scandalized notice to his
affaires.
Harry, of course, would be the one to help me capitalize on the
possibilities.
“Harry, didn’t you tell me you could arrange female companionship for
me whenever I was interested?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m interested now, but not precisely in that sense. I’ll be
shooting most of the picture in France and Holland, and since I don’t speak
Dutch or French it would be handy to have someone around who can. Say,
someone on the order of those ladies you bring around here.”
“Speaks French and Dutch, sir? I’ll put it on the grapevine.”
It took only a week for the vine to produce the requisite grape. Small
and exquisite, café au lait in complexion, with slanted eyes of emerald green,
and silky, raven-black hair. Her name, Harry said as he made the
introductions, was Grete Hansen.
“Grete Hansen?” I said. If you wanted the antithesis of the Scandinavian,
this daughter of the tropics was it.
She gave me a languorous smile. “Papa was Swedish, Mr. Shaw. Mama
was a local.”
“Of what location, Grete?”
“Saint Maarten in the Islands. That’s Dutch. And next door is Saint
Martin which is French. I get along fine in both languages.”
“And right now you’re a stewardess?”
“Inter-Caribbean. But if what Harry told me is true — I mean, you are
going to make a movie, aren’t you?”
125
“I am.”
“Then I’d rather work for you.” Again she turned on that languorous
smile, wetting her lips for better effect. “You know, I photograph very well.
Any chance I could get a part in your movie, Mr. Shaw?”
“At first glance, Grete, I had the feeling you could. So with that settled,
may I assume you’re now on the payroll?”
“Sure.” Without invitation, she strolled into the cottage. I followed, but
Harry, evidently sensitive to nuances, remained behind. Grete coolly surveyed
my bedroom, took stock of the kingsized bed. “If you want me to move in right
now,” she said, “most of my things are out in Harry’s car. He can bring them
right in.”
During the years with Anneke, I had taken no other woman to bed. The
temptation was sometimes acute, but weighing it against the least chance of
losing my woman I refused to take the chance. And since her death, the
temptation was not there at all. Now, suddenly, here it was again.
As it very soon turned out, Grete and I did not make an inspired pair of
lovers. Illogical as it was, a sense of guilt in me had a chilling effect at the
wrong moments, and while my bedmate occasionally showed herself capable
of an inspired effort, she was usually more dutiful than otherwise. What she
lusted after — and she made no pretense about it — was a place in movieland.
Stardom. She actually used the word now and then, and when she did she took
on the expression that another woman might have at the peak of orgasm. She
was in her way as single-minded as I was in mine, and to that extent at least,
she was a proper member of the team.
Even Costello, at first concerned about an arrangement which put an
outsider so much in our midst, finally admitted that as long as I didn’t openly
reveal my true mission to her she’d never get the picture. Catlike in so many
ways, it seemed that Grete was wholly uncatlike in one vital respect. There
wasn’t a drop of curiosity in that beautiful, egomaniacal head.
So there now remained only one member of the cast to sign up before we
took the show on the road: a professional movie-maker, someone with proper
credentials but generally unemployed. To solve
the problem, Costello turned
to a West Coast investigative agency for a list of prospects. He presented the
list to me with relish. “You’ll never guess who’s down here. An old friend of
yours from college. Guy name of Oscar Wylie.”
126
There the name was. Oscar himself, the old movie buff and nose
breaker. According to the report on him, he had so far produced a few TV
commercials and had directed one film which had sunk without a splash. Hot
Wheels. An epic of young motorcyclists, definitely not starring Marlon
Brando. He was also sweating out alimony payments to two ex-wives and was
rated on various computers as a poor credit risk.
“You wouldn’t know it,” Costello said, “but after your mix-up with him
in college, J.G. bought him off for a lousy two grand. I was going to cross his
name off the list when I saw it, but then I thought what the hell it might give
you a laugh, so I left it there.”
“Good. Because he’s our man.”
“Wylie? Somebody you had trouble with? Why him?”
“Because we’re not really making a picture, Ray. Which means we’re
making a fool out of anyone who signs on for this job. If Wylie’s the one, it
doesn’t matter. Just agree to his price and get his signature on a contract.”
“Easy.”
“And I want a print of that cheese he turned out. That Hot Wheels. There
must be a screening room somewhere in Miami. Book it for my use the day
after I’m out of here.”
“No biz like show biz,” said Costello.
“So I’ve heard. Anything new from Paris?”
He had the latest telexed reports from Detec in his pocket.
“Leewarden’s kid goes to school in Brussels. Parochial school, uniforms and
all. Frenchy’s wife just took a two-day holiday in London with a lady fnend,
same as she did last week. Some shopping, mostly casino action. But the
financial stuff about Leewarden and Frenchy comes up interesting.”
“How?”
“Leewarden’s got more bills than income. Frenchy is mortgaged up to
the eyeballs. Got a lot of paper out at some banks. Promissory notes. Might go
to a million francs, which is around a quarter of a million dollars in real
money.”
“I want that paper,” I said. “Those banks will probably be glad to dump
it cut rate, but I want it whatever it costs. Put Williams on it. Have him set up a
dummy outfit to do the buying.”
The Luxembourg Run Page 14
