by Morris West
That made sense to me. I could not imagine Larry building his new identity and his new existence on a forgery. I knew, or thought I knew, the answer to my next question; nonetheless I wanted to hear Delaunay’s version. I pointed to the passage in the clipping about “discreet financial arrangements to break the money trail between the client’s old world and the new one.”
“From your own experience in the hotel business, what kind of arrangements would suggest themselves?”
Delaunay, in his bland fashion, chose to be discursive rather than specific.
“An interesting question, Mr. Strassberger. Let’s suppose I am the service provider in one of Mr. Falco’s havens. I’m a banker, a merchant, an hôtelier. I am working probably in an area of debased currency, Brazilian cruzeiros, Philippine pesos, Turkish lire. Anybody who can offer me hard or even reasonably solid currency is automatically my friend. No way in the world am I going to ask how or where the funds originate. Once a pattern of prompt remittance is set, I lean over backward, dance on a high wire, to keep my clients happy. I become also their strongest advocate with the police and the many-headed dogs of local government. I am concerned with their health. The longer they live, the more they spend, the richer I become.”
“And where does the original travel agent, our Mr. Falco, figure in all this? I can’t imagine his being satisfied with a one-time commission while you and all the locals dine for years off the plump bird he has sent you.”
“My guess would be—and mind you it is only a guess—that before he starts using our facilities, Mr. Falco already has a scale of contingency contributions arranged and a local collector in place.”
“So, one more question, again pure theory. The happy dweller in this happy paradise falls sick. Who provides the nursing care, the specialist attention which may be needed?”
“You mean”—Vianney amplified the question—“even though the patient may be able to afford the necessary treatment, it may not be available or, worst case of all, it could be deliberately withheld.”
“It’s possible.” Delaunay’s voice took on a musing, meditative tone. “In fact, the more one dwells on it, the more likely it seems that the real rewards of this curious enterprise come from the source funds—the client’s own money safely parked with a trustee or banker in Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Hong Kong, or the Netherlands Antilles. That trustee has to have full discretion, because his client has surrendered his identity and disappeared from the planet.”
“My guess would go further,” said Vianney. “The travel agent and the trustee would work hand in glove together to manipulate the estate.”
Bingo! There it was, all laid out, all numbers filled, the whole scam. Only one question remained, and Delaunay asked it.
“Why would anyone be crazy enough to take a risk like that?”
Neither of us answered him, but I heard Alma Levy’s voice echoing out of memory, clear as a bell in high mountain air.
The mountain peaks of mania are dizzy ecstatic places, over which the patient, in his illusion, soars like an eagle. The valleys into which he plunges afterward are deep, dark, and noisome with the stink of carrion.
The thought must have been written on my face, because Marc Antoine Vianney said very quietly, “Remember, Carl, this is all speculation, guesswork, the great perhaps.”
Delaunay was the first to challenge him.
“It is, however, simple to prove, one way or the other!”
“How?” The question was mine.
“You yourself become a client of Simonetta travel. You yourself become the fugitive, looking for the key to a fool’s paradise.”
When they had gone, I called my father in New York. He was having another rough day in the markets, so it took him an extra few minutes to focus on my report. His reaction was predictable.
“It’s too pat, too easy! This Delaunay fellow is blowing himself up like a bullfrog, and Vianney’s happy to let him do it. It gets him off the hook!”
I reasoned with him as patiently as I could. It was he who had pointed to the dance cards as a possible lead. The dance cards inevitably involved Delaunay. I reminded him also that the first clue to Simonetta Travel had been given to us by Corsec, who had also noted the Swiss connection with Dr. Hubert Rubens. Prima facie, at least, a pattern was emerging. We could not afford to ignore it.
By this time my father’s attention was off the market and wholly concentrated on the question of how I should proceed.
“If the guesswork is right, you’re talking about heavy criminal activity. You can’t go into it without careful preparation. You’d need a new identity, a visible source of funds other than Strassberger. You’d have to break off all open connection with our company and establish a whole new set of provenances for yourself—a new career history, in fact. Again, if your reasoning is sound, these people are playing for very high stakes. They can’t afford to risk a wild card in the deck. Therefore, you have to assume that while they take ordinary travelers for granted, their screening of potential scam victims will be very thorough. Let’s not forget that in a real sense Larry could become a hostage and a possible casualty of any mistakes you make.”
“I agree, Father. I haven’t had time yet to do any planning.”
“I know that. And you shouldn’t make any plans in a rush or at the end of a long day. However, there are a few things you might consider…”
I found myself grinning into the phone. As a banker and a man, Emil Strassberger always ran true to form: Reason with the worst, reduce the risks to a minimum, then plan the campaign like Clausewitz—textbook all the way! He was spelling it out for me now in curt sentences. “We’ll supply the funds; we’ll use the quarter of a million we were prepared to pay Corsec, and we’ll scratch up some other funds from here and there. Maybe even from the bonus Larry declined to collect! When you’ve chosen your new name and your identity, we’ll arrange for you to access the monies through Morgan Guaranty. They owe me a favor or two. Talking about identity, You’ve got one ready-made. You’re an artist. You’re a natural runaway like Gauguin. You’re going through a switch of styles and outlook. All you need is a set of works in another mode and a new signature on the canvas. Your curriculum vitae may present some problems, but I’m sure between us here and your girlfriend in Nice, we can manage…”
He was as hard to halt as a river in flood, but finally I had him silent enough to listen to what I had to say—which at that moment wasn’t too much.
“I hear what you’re telling me, Father. I’ll accept all the help you can offer. Right now I want space to breathe and reason through this myself. Like you, I’m uneasy about Delaunay, and I can’t get a clear reading of Vianney. In both cases, it’s probably a question of idiom. They’re the locals, I’m the outsider. I sense that they’re putting me over the jumps to see how I perform against the Parisians.”
“They do it every time, by God!” My father was happy to vent his frustrations at being so far away from the action. “But they’ll learn, Carl! They’ll learn! Why don’t you relax and give yourself a night on the town—use the dance card if you want. Meanwhile, I’ve just thought of someone who could help us greatly. Let me brood on it and I’ll talk to you again, same time tomorrow. How much of this can I tell Madi and your mother?”
“You explain it to Mother. I’ll call Madi myself.”
“Good! But please don’t make any more moves until I get back to you.”
“It would be useful to know what you have in mind.”
“It would be a waste of time to discuss it if it can’t be done. Be patient and trust me. Good night, son.”
“Good night, Father.”
My conversation with Madi was longer and more stressful. She was living in a nightmare of fears, angers, and jealousies while trying to keep a brave face for the children. They, it seemed, were less troubled than she by their father’s absence, which they accepted as a normal pattern of life. First I had to talk her through an outburst of emotions and
then walk with her through every possibility, good and bad, of Larry’s situation. Finally, I was able to focus her attention on my immediate need.
“I’ve seen you and Larry sitting on the floor of your living room planning your holidays. You were surrounded by travel brochures and magazines. Cast your mind back and see if you can recall where Larry was interested in going and what attracted him. Don’t confuse his choices with places you finally visited. Don’t let your own preferences cloud your mind. Put it another way. If Larry had followed his own impulses, where would he have chosen to go? Try to remember his exact words. Think about it. Make some notes.”
“How will that help? It’s just another piece of guesswork.”
“The guesses have been right so far, because they’ve been based on reasoning. I’m just running with the luck. What else can I do?”
“You could do me a big favor.”
“Anything.”
“Call Dr. Levy. She’s eager to know what’s going on, and she’s strong as a rock, holding me up. Also, she may have something to contribute to your guessing game.”
“I’ll do it now. You dig out your travel brochures and start work. Give my love to the children.”
“They love you, Carl. So do I.”
I loved her, too. I shared in a special family fashion her rages and fears and frustrations. At that moment I could cheerfully have murdered Larry Lucas. It was a singular relief to talk to Dr. Levy, who demanded a calm and clinically precise narration of all that had happened since my arrival in Paris. She wanted word portraits of all the characters involved and an account of my relations with each one. Her verdict made me feel better.
“So far, I think you have done well. I believe you should follow this line of inquiry through the travel agent. However, I caution you again: Larry is a very intelligent man. It will be much easier for him to use people than for them to use him. So do not expect continuity in this or any other line of inquiry. Be prepared always for a fracture point, followed by tangential behavior.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Doctor.”
“Let me put it another way. Larry has established a brilliant career in banking. Suddenly he quits. He has a good wife and a stable marriage. He quits that too.”
“Has he ever quit you, Doctor?”
“Clever Carl!” said Alma Levy with dry humor. “Of course he has quit me, many times, as he has done now. Always he has come back like a penitent schoolboy. This time—if what you tell me is true—it may not be possible for him to return. He may find himself captive to those who have helped him disappear. It will not happen at once. It may not happen at all, but it could: oh, indeed it could!”
Which brought me back to the same question I had put to Madi. “Where in the world might Larry choose as his place of exile?” I asked her.
Alma Levy was silent for a few moments.
“I can give you no ready answer,” she said at last. “I shall have to replay certain tapes of my interviews with Larry. But again, I warn you, those indicators may no longer be reliable, or if they are reliable, they may not be permanently so. I remind you to be prepared for abrupt changes and destructive discontinuity. You tell me Larry is moving only a few days ahead of you. You must try never to lose the scent of him, otherwise you may lose him altogether. Call me again tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I’ve been able to dig out of the tapes. Now tell me, Carl, how are you holding up?”
“Don’t ask me, Doctor. I might be tempted to tell you.”
She laughed. “You’ve a long way to go before you need me! I’ll drink a toast to you.”
Which left me hungry, thirsty, and restless, alone in my hotel suite in Paris, holding a blank dance card for the evening.
I would have welcomed company but I was too edgy to go looking for it. There were friends I could have called, but I shied away from the simple action of contact and explanation. I could have used Delaunay’s network of squeaky-clean concubines, but that would have required a minimal interest to begin with and raised the old end-game question, “What do you say to the girl afterward?” Finally I decided that the least stressful company would be my own.
I changed into jeans, sneakers, and a well-worn windbreaker, shoved a small sketchbook and a clip of colored pencils into one pocket and a wad of francs into the other, locked my wallet and documents in the small combination safe in my suite, and marched out into the night.
My destination was a place I had discovered during my postgraduate sojourn at the Beaux Arts. Tucked away in a dingy alley between the Quai des Augustins and the Boulevard Saint-Germain, it presents a great wooden porte cochere framing a small wicket gate, over which a carved wooden sign announces BOITE DES COULEURS—the Paint Box. Once inside the wicket gate, you find yourself in a large courtyard paved with ancient cobbles which still bear the tracks of iron-rimmed coach wheels. The walls on either side are pierced by narrow windows, barred and heavily curtained. The end wall is broken by two larger mullioned windows, glowing with the colors of ancient stained glass.
Inside, there is a great barnlike space, part bistro, part bar, part studio. It is full of steam, cigarette smoke, and the smell of rich country soup, which with bread, cheese, and wine is the full menu in the Paint Box. The guests are artists of one kind or another who come for cheap food, congenial company, and a companionable workplace. The models, male and female, are extras. The guests make a contribution for their services whether they use them or not.
This is one of the pleasanter relics of la vie de Boheme which are still to be found in odd corners of Paris. The atmosphere is relaxed. It is your privilege as a guest and a fellow artist to stroll about, peer over people’s shoulders, and offer comment, criticism, or an invitation to after-supper diversions in another place. This is Bohemia still and it can get rowdy and bawdy, but Madame Lutèce, wielding a heavy iron ladle, makes a very formidable watchdog, while her husband, Louis, is an old legionnaire with a stone head and fists like hams.
I am known and accepted here, which means I’m entitled to a grunt from Louis and a wave from Madame while I find a place for myself among the clutter of tables, easels, and the motley of guests who are either drawing, eating, drinking, or engaged in the preludes to lechery which, Madame insists, must be consummated in some other place.
I chose first a place at the bar. Louis poured me wine and brought me food. I was eager for both and I paid little attention to the models or the table guests or the small passing traffic between them. It was a relief to be in my own element again, unnoticed, anonymous, free—at least for a while—from the briar patch of other lives. When I had finished eating I turned my stool around and sat with a glass of wine in my fist, watching the next model on the rostrum.
She was one of the old identities of the artists’ quarter, a big swarthy woman with a Rubens body and the fluid movements of a onetime belly dancer. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, which she peeled off slowly to a chorus of whistles and rhythmic handclaps, then used as a drapery for a series of well-timed poses. She was a wonderful subject—all curves and deep shadowy creases and an arrogant indifference to everything but her own body.
I set down my drink, took out my sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, and began to sketch her. I moved away from the bar, changing my position each time she assumed another pose, until I was down on one knee trying to deal with an image foreshortened from her foot soles to the mane of coarse dark hair trailing across her breasts.
The sketch was still unfinished when she ended the short session, put on her dressing gown, and glided back into the shadows. I remained kneeling, making the last shadow strokes, when I breathed a drift of familiar perfume, felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard Arlette Tassigny’s mocking voice.
“Not bad, not bad at all! I’d buy it if you weren’t such a salaud!”
She was smiling, but she was not amused. I lurched as I stood up but she made no move to steady me. She demanded an instant accounting.
“So! You make a big dramatic exit from N
ice. Family business, you tell me! Suddenly you’re back in Paris and I don’t hear a word from you! How long have you been here—or did you leave at all?”
“I arrived this morning—and I apologize for not calling you. Things are in crisis mode just now.”
“Obviously! A blind woman could see that. And what better place than this to enjoy a crisis! Tell me about it.”
“I will, when you’ve finished scolding. And what, pray, are you doing here?”
“What I always do in Paris: buying stock for the summer trade, sniffing for new talent.”
“Do you have any talent with you tonight?”
“In fact, I do—except it’s not new. It’s old Jules Beaudouin. He’s a fine painter, but he’s been out of fashion for ten years, living on hope and cabbage stalks. I’ve agreed to buy half a dozen canvases, take a dozen more on consignment, and see what sort of a market we can make for him this season. Come and meet him—unless of course you have other plans.”
“Introduce me to Beaudouin by all means. Afterward, if you’re still interested, we’ll have a late supper at my place and I’ll tell you my story.”
“And where, my negligent one, is your place?”
“Le Diplomate.”
“Oh-la-la! Aren’t we grand! You’re not living there on what I’m making for you.”
“It’s the company suite. I’m here on business for Father. You’re welcome to share it with me.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. I told you there’s a crisis. I may have to move elsewhere very quickly. But tonight, at least, I can tell you bedtime stories.”
“How can I refuse? But first you’ll have to help me with Jules Beaudouin. He’s a good painter. He just needs someone to give him back his courage.”
It should have been easy. It wasn’t. Jules was garrulous and eager to impress. After an hour, my composure was beginning to wilt and Arlette’s patience was fraying around the edges. It was after midnight before we set him on his way and walked back to Le Diplomate with a river mist rising about us. As I explained what had happened to Larry Lucas and how I was trying to deal with it, and the possible role of Simonetta Travel, Arlette became more and more uneasy.
