The Venetian Affair (12 page)

There was a pleasant panelled room in front of him, with a large central display of remarkable cold dishes, cheeses, fruit, over which a large fan revolved slowly. Around the walls were well-spaced tables, covered with white linen, only half-filled at this hour. The lights were bright in unshaded globes. Plenty of polished brass, but not an inch of chromium, he noted. Only two women were in sight, and they were both middle-aged,
carefully coiffured and dressed, listening with small, correct smiles while their husbands discoursed airily. This was a man’s restaurant, most definitely.

No one paid any attention to him except Madame, who sat on a high chair at an old-fashioned desk to one side of the doorway. “Good evening,” he said, aware of her careful scrutiny.

“You wish a table, monsieur?”

“Eventually.”

“Ah, you are waiting for someone?” She was the quick, clever type who always knew what you wanted before you did.

“Yes.” For a glimpse, at least, of Henri Roussin. It was a safe answer, true enough, not committing him to anything.

She gestured to the other side of the door, where the corner opposite her held a group of marble-topped tables against a background of newspapers, each hanging from its wooden spine hooked onto the wall like a medley of medieval banners. Yes, this was the waiting-place, Fenner decided, where strangers warmed cold feet with a tepid
apéritif
until courage was recovered and they could ask if one of those empty dining tables might not possibly be granted to a mere foreigner? He selected a chair that faced the room. Madame’s powers of remote control had summoned an ancient waiter, but that was the extent of her interest. She was back to business, checking accounts, concentrating. She was a thin, small-boned woman, about thirty-five, dressed in subdued grey, with intense black hair, pale lips, thick white skin, deep shadows under her sharply observant eyes.

The waiter took his order, showed no visible signs of shock when he was asked to bring a Scotch and soda. He even suggested ice. So some Americans must wander in here occasionally. Fenner
felt less of a stray Martian, lit a cigarette, studied the room, with its small islands of complete self-absorption. There was a preponderance of grey and white heads, of double-breasted suits, of lapel decorations. Solid citizens, all of them. There was a mild clatter of heavy silver as some threw themselves into the serious business of eating, a hum of talk from those who waited for food to be cooked. Voices were low, although clear-pitched, brilliant; faces were quiet, clever; gestures were controlled but expressive. Intelligent citizens, too, but preoccupied with themselves: not one knew, or cared, what was going on around him. Just the place, thought Fenner, for a clandestine meeting. All you needed was a double-breasted suit, a long haircut, and drooping eyelids.

Where’s my drink? Fenner wondered, reaching overhead for a newspaper. And where is Henri Roussin? Madame was watching him again, and then—as he had looked over at the desk—not watching. He began to read, but could give the paper little attention. The puzzle that had drawn him to the Café Racine was unexplained: if Vaugiroud was being observed, Roussin would also be under suspicion. Yet there was no one here who seemed to be interested in anyone else, except Madame, and that was possibly an occupational disease. I am not going to snitch any newspapers, he told her under his breath, as he looked up and saw the curious eyes glance away from him; in fact, I’m just about to leave. But now, from the back of the restaurant was
Monsieur le propriétaire
himself, emanating.

He was a large man, Henri Roussin, an impressive testimonial to his chef. He moved slowly along the row of tables, a small bow here, a few words there, his head always turning to one side as he paused to speak. Quite naturally it seemed he came toward
Fenner. “You have not been served, monsieur?” His voice was half-muted, hoarse, as if it were strangled in his throat.

Fenner nodded towards the arriving waiter. He forced himself to keep looking at Roussin politely, tried to banish the shock from his eyes. Roussin’s face carried the traces of his war. Once, they must have been hideous. Surgeons’ clever fingers had worked hard, but there was still a disfigured look to the right side of the face in spite of its carefully disguised scars: an over-neatness of the ear, its lobe gone, a drawn smallness of the eye; the side of the jaw oddly fallen. His thin grey hair had its long strands brushed carefully over a bald welt, the continuation of a puckered furrow of white flesh that ran from the misshapen ear up over the brow onto the scalp. “Here’s my drink,” Fenner said awkwardly, glad of an excuse to drop his eyes. He studied the one small cube of ice that had been allowed him.

“Monsieur would like a table?”

“Eventually.” Fenner was pleased with that word: his French accent sounded better this time.

“You are waiting for someone? I shall arrange a table for two?”

Fenner said, “Well—I’m not sure—”

Roussin watched him with amusement. “Or perhaps you came to see me, Mr. Fenner?” he asked in English. As Fenner stared up at him, he added, “I’m sorry I was not here when you arrived. I was in my office, speaking on my telephone.”

Fenner grinned. “With Professor Vaugiroud? So he called you to expect me. But how did he know?”

“To be exact, he did not telephone. I called him. When we were talking, he mentioned you.”

“And described me pretty accurately.”

“The professor is always accurate. He notices the essential details. That signet ring on your left hand, for instance; the blue shantung tie; the small lapels of your dark flannel suit. It wasn’t difficult to identify you.”

“But how did he know I was going to drop in here?”

“He did not know. He only thought what he would do himself if he were you. It was a brilliant guess, don’t you think?”

“Are all his guesses as good?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Sometimes wrong?” Fenner asked jokingly.

“Not in recent years.”

“Not since August 11, 1944?”

It was Henri Roussin’s turn to stare. The quick dark eyes in the half-dead face widened for a shocked moment. He recovered. With a smile, he said, “You had an interesting talk with the professor, I see. Excuse me—” He turned away to greet two men who had entered the restaurant, delivered them into the care of a waiter, stopped at the desk to speak to Madame, and returned to Fenner. “Will you have dinner with me, Mr. Fenner? My table is just over there.”

Fenner looked across at the table. It was the nearest one to Madame’s desk, separated from it by a tactful screen of potted plants. “I’d like that very much. But another night. I have a telephone call to make before dinner.”

Roussin took that as a rebuff. “You are welcome to use the telephone at the desk,” he said stiffly.

“This is a call to New York. If you aren’t too busy, why don’t you sit down, and we can have a drink together?” Fenner glanced over at Madame.

Roussin noticed his look. His manner had eased again. “No
one would be astonished if I did. In fact, they might be astounded if I did not. I like Americans. I like to practise my English. And I like to sit down. These habits are well established. Also, I have already dropped a hint that you were recommended to dine here by one of my old English friends who now lives in New York. So we have much to talk about.”

He pulled a chair to face Fenner, and lowered his enormous bulk carefully. All his movements were calculated and slow.

“I have a feeling,” Fenner said, “that Madame does not like Americans as much as you do.”

“True. We disagree about most things.”

“Difficult.” Fenner was embarrassed.

“Ah, you think Angélique is my wife? Not at all. She is my sister-in-law. A widow. Her husband was killed in Algiers.”

“Oh, one of those OAS attacks.”

“No. By the Algerians, in 1958. In an ambush. He was a soldier.”

“And that makes your sister-in-law anti-American?”

“That is part of it. She thinks you forget about atrocities unless the Rightists commit them. The other part? Simply that I like Americans.”

Does Angélique take opposite sides just to feel she is at least that much independent? Fenner wondered.

“After all,” Roussin was saying, “I owe them my life. And they salvaged enough of my face to let me come back into the world. Seventeen years ago, they found me.” He fingered his right cheek thoughtfully. “I was more like a lump of hamburger than a man. I never forget the words I heard from the American soldier who first saw me. ‘Holy Christ!’ he kept saying, just those two words over and over again. There was a very encouraging sound in the
way he spoke them—with awe and admiration—as if he were pinning medals on my chest. Most flattering. I began to feel that by simply staying alive, I had triumphed. And so, I decided not to die. What man wants to be cheated of his medals?”

“Yet, in one sense, you have cheated yourself.”

“That was necessary. I might not be alive to talk with you tonight if the true story of these injuries had been known.” He tapped the damaged side of his face. “A bad car accident in a London blackout. I spent the war years in England, didn’t you know? Later, when all danger was over, I returned here to inherit my father’s restaurant. On the whole, I am considered a lucky man—one who has arranged his life very comfortably, except for a silly accident.”

Fenner was beginning to like Henri Roussin. “So that’s where you spent the war. I’ll remember.”

“Please do,” Roussin said very quietly, all the humour drained out of his eyes. “This deception is not a joke that the professor and I have played all these years. We had a purpose.”

“I know. And you hooked your fish.”

Roussin showed frank shock for the second time that evening. Then he narrowed his eyes, studying Fenner’s face. “And how did you extract so much information from the professor?”

“Does he let anyone extract anything, unless he wants them to?”

Roussin nodded his agreement on that. “Now I would like to do some extraction. Why did you come here? It did not puzzle the professor. But it puzzles me.”

“Oh—just checking on the story I had heard. It becomes a habit with newspapermen.”

“And how could I help you to check on the story?” Roussin
asked with mock concern. “Shall I point out the table where we hooked our fish, and caught three minnows as well?”

“Minnows—” Fenner repeated the word, searching for some way to turn Roussin’s distrust back to amiability once more. “You don’t think they are important?”

“To me? No.” Roussin’s eyes were hard. “First things first. That is my way. My main interest is the man who was the cause of this.” Once more his hand went up to his face. “The professor is a philosopher. He thinks mostly of the future. But I am a practical man: I find the past enough to think about.”

“So you don’t always agree with the professor’s ideas?”

There was a pause. “Common Market. European unity? Nonsense! But what are friends for, except to enjoy disagreement? All day, with my guests, I have to agree, agree, agree. It is a relief to disagree. A necessity, perhaps. What are friends for if they can’t help?”

Fenner studied his drink. He said lightly, “I guess I’m almost a friend. At least I’m disagreeing with you.”

Roussin laughed, a strange, strangled gasp heaving out from his massive chest. “We might be very good friends. Indeed, if I show you the table where one of our minnows is sitting at this minute, will you answer a question I would like to ask you?”

“Right now? I thought they only came here at lunchtime.”

“Right now,” Roussin repeated firmly, watching only Fenner. “The pattern is broken. Interesting? I do not think our film producer has merely developed a taste for my cuisine. He has postponed ordering. He is waiting, I think.” Roussin was enjoying himself. “He arrived only two minutes before you did. In fact, before I went off to telephone the professor about this strange development, I wondered if you might not be following him.”

“What?”

“But the professor reassured me about you.”

“What worried you?” Fenner asked sharply.

“You could have been on either side: his or ours.”

“Watchdog or bloodhound, is that it?”

“Exactly.”

“Where is he?”

“Four tables to your right, Mr. Fenner,” Roussin said, still keeping his eyes on the American’s face.

Fenner glanced casually around the room. A well-dressed man, with receding red hair and a handsome profile, sat at the fourth table. He was studying a menu, sipping a glass of wine, looking remarkably at ease. “A most affluent Communist. What’s his name?”

“You are a very inquiring journalist, Mr. Fenner.”

Yes, thought Fenner, I had better stop being so interested: I am letting myself become too involved in something that goes deeper and farther than Walt Penneyman’s assignment. “Thanks for the reminder,” he said dryly. “It’s none of my affair.”

“Most wise. But before you put all this out of your mind, you still owe me an answer. Why did you come here?”

“Let’s say I was trying to find an answer to a question of my own.”

“And that was?”

“Who told Jacques that Vaugiroud and you are still alive?” Fenner asked very quietly.

“Jacques—” The name jerked out under Roussin’s breath. “So the professor even told you that? He must trust you.”

And perhaps that’s the reason why I’ve been worrying about him, Fenner thought. “He is being closely watched.”

“So I heard,” Roussin said quietly, grimly.

“He is not the man to be panicked by the threat of danger.”

“No.”

“So he must have recognised some real danger.”

“When?”

“This evening.” When he so suddenly reversed himself about a telephone call to Carlson.

“Is this a guess, Mr. Fenner?” Roussin asked shrewdly.

“What we call an educated guess. I was given the impression that he felt time might be running out, and that he had better make sure that others knew about Fernand Lenoir.”

“Yes,” Roussin said slowly. “If Lenoir knew who we were—Yes, there would be real danger for both the professor and myself. But he does not.”

“You are sure of that?”