The Venetian Affair (14 page)

“It isn’t really like that, you know.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well—”

“You have another date? Just my luck.”

“No. At least—not exactly—”

He smiled. “You just put on your prettiest dress to run around in the rain.”

She looked at the white kid gloves, her small black silk bag. “I got dressed up for a party. But I changed my mind.”

“That’s my fault, probably. I sat here conjuring you up. And you arrived.”

“It was the fault of the party.”

“Food or people?”

“People.”

“All of them?” he asked, amused, still puzzled.

“One of them.” She gave a little laugh. “When you are faced with certain situations, the only way to deal with them is—run.”

“I thought you were a little breathless when you came in here.”

“And I had to choose a restaurant like this! If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have retreated right out into the rain.” She looked around the tables. “Not a woman in sight.”

“Two most respectable ladies,” he corrected her.

“Firmly attached. Like their hats. Think of all the cafés on the Left Bank where I could have slipped in by myself, ordered an omelette, and not even raised one eyebrow. And I had to choose this one!”

The lady does protest too much, he thought, his interest growing. “I still wish you’d have dinner with me. I’m sure they make wonderful omelettes here.”

“Sacrilege,” she said. “If we don’t spend three hours over dinner we are barbarians. And that’s the reason I can’t have dinner with you. I just haven’t got three hours tonight. I haven’t even got two. I’ve an appointment at half-past nine. That’s less than an hour away.”

“Back to business so soon?” But she wasn’t going to have dinner with him, that was certain. He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice, and his disbelief.

That upset her a little, somehow, as if she were being ungracious. “Please forgive me. I wish I could spend the evening with you. I really do.” She hesitated. “The truth is that I’m leaving for Venice early tomorrow. I’ll be away for a week perhaps. Will you still be here when I get back?”

“No. I’m leaving Paris on Monday. I don’t get back until the middle of the month, perhaps later. Will you be here?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at him quickly. “Honestly, I don’t.”

“Historical Design and Decoration keeps you busy.”

“Yes,” she said bleakly. She tried to smile.

“Have another drink, anyway.”

“I think I’d better leave.” She glanced at the dining-room. The gentle smile on her face was still there, but she had become, very suddenly, a thousand miles away.

“I know who you are,” he told her, watching her profile. “You’re a Greek girl from the fourth century. Scopas saw you walking past in the market place.”

Her grey eyes had been startled for a moment. And then they relaxed. Her smile widened. She said softly, “You make it very hard for me to leave.” She rose. “If I don’t, I’ll—” She shrugged her shoulders, held out her hand, as he rose, too. “Thank you, Mr. Fenner.”

“I’ll see you to the door, at least.”

“You’ll give the waiter apoplexy.”

Fenner grinned and dropped twelve new francs on the table. “That should hold him.” Roussin was coming toward them, he noticed. And at the fourth table against the wall, Lenoir was on his feet, still talking eloquently. The red-haired film producer was arranging and rearranging his fork and knife, his eyes cast
down, as he listened. Abruptly, he cut off Lenoir with a wave of the hand, and it was he who was now talking. Around them, other tables were complete islands of self-absorption.

“Where do you live, Miss Connor?”

“Just across the Seine. Oh dear, have I lost a glove? No, here it is—”

“Let me take you there.” That was one way of getting her address.

Her pace quickened as they reached Angélique’s desk. Outside, the heavy thundershower was over, leaving the dark street hosed-down, clean, glistening under its lights. “It really isn’t far,” she said. “There’s no need. I’ve been enough bother to you for one night.”

“Mr. Fenner!” Roussin’s voice called quietly.

Fenner half turned. Behind him, he heard a murmured “Goodbye,” and the light staccato of slender high heels. He swung around again. She had left.

“Mr. Fenner!” Roussin’s voice was urgent enough to stop Fenner dead.

Angélique, he noted, was well within earshot. He forced the annoyance out of his voice. “I’m sorry we can’t stay for dinner tonight,” he told Roussin. “Another time.” He took a step toward the door.

“Perhaps I may have the pleasure of having you as my guest for luncheon tomorrow? Is twelve o’clock too early? That allows me some time for my friends before most people arrive.”

Lunch with Vaugiroud? Fenner wondered in amazement. Surely Roussin wasn’t being serious.

He wasn’t. It was only an excuse. For, without being obvious about the little manoeuvre, he had managed to turn his back
to Angélique. He dropped his voice, spoke rapidly. “A message has just come. Mr. Carlson will be at your hotel. Eleven o’clock. Tonight.” More normally, he added, “Please give my apologies to the charming young lady for detaining you. I am sorry that tonight has been so busy. Excuse me.” He turned away, to bow politely to another departing guest. It was Monsieur Fernand Lenoir, hurrying out with a crisp step, a pleasant smile for everyone, a man of grace and good manners, healthy, happy, and wise. The perfect picture of a discreet and successful man of affairs, Fenner thought, and followed it out into the street.

He could see no sign of Claire Connor. The interchange with Henri Roussin had taken only a matter of seconds, but it had been long enough for her to vanish in the darkness. At the corner, he halted and lit a cigarette to give himself time to study the boulevard. It was crowded and hopeless. There were several pretty blonde heads, many little black dresses. For a minute, he watched the busy traffic, the swarm of people hurrying to make up for the delay of sheltering from the heavy shower of rain, and saw his hopes for a most promising evening disintegrate.

Monsieur Fernand Lenoir, he noticed, had found a taxi. Fenner watched it speed away, thinking gloomily that there was one man who knew where he was going. From the side street behind him, where the Café Racine lay, a grey car came swiftly, turning the corner sharply to take the same direction as Lenoir’s taxi. Well, Fenner thought, Lenoir may know where he is going, but does he know he is being followed? The idea amused him. His gloom began to lift. Surely, his evening was shattered, but it had not been planned in the first place. He had better find a cab, himself, and return to the Crillon, let the porter there deal with all the palaver of making a call to
New York. After that, a quick supper in the bar, and back to his room by eleven o’clock for Carlson. He’d be half-asleep by that time, in any case: this had been a long, long day, and not one of the most restful, either. It would be pleasant to wake up tomorrow and think about his own interests, for a change. Goodbye Professor Vaugiroud, goodbye Roussin, Lenoir and quiet film producers. And goodbye to Claire Connor. That, at least, he regretted to say. She was only a mirage, he decided: a dream shining out from an expanse of desert, thirty minutes of delightful hope, and then nothing. Goodbye Claire.

But through the rest of the evening, at odd times, she would keep coming back into his mind. Mike Ballard must know her address. And there was that firm, too—Historical Decoration and Design. Or Design and Decoration. She would be back in Paris some time, wouldn’t she?

Not goodbye at all, he decided over his cognac and coffee. You just gave up too easily there, he told himself. And felt better.

Eleven o’clock found Bill Fenner, relaxed in pyjamas and dressing-gown, ready for bed the minute he got rid of Carlson. He wasn’t disappointed in Carlson’s punctuality. “Hello,” he said as he opened the door. “And where have you been? You’re five seconds late.”

Carlson, looking at Fenner’s clothes, had his own question. “What’s the idea? I didn’t know drama critics went to bed before dawn.”

“I’ve had a hard day. And what’s
your
idea? Out with it. Then I’ll pitch into that bed and not move an eyelid until noon.”

Carlson took the most comfortable chair. He needed it. He said, a little gloomily, “Your raincoat never showed up at the airport.”

Was that all? Fenner wondered. “Oh, it’s here. It was left at the porter’s desk at five o’clock. An exchange was proposed, but our story of returning the other coat to Orly was passed on. Did anyone try to pick it up there?”

Carlson nodded. “A man tried to claim it around seven o’clock. But alas, alack, it had already been impounded by the Sûreté. Which must have made his telephoned report, back to Paris, a little on the sombre side.”

“I thought that would have made you cheerful.”

“It would, except for one thing. Mr. Goldsmith’s friends have traced you to this hotel. So my job is to get you out of here.”

“What?”

“That’s right. Get dressed, pack, and pay your bill. We’re moving you out.”

“But—”

“You were going to look for another hotel, weren’t you?”

“Sure, but I haven’t got around to finding one.”

“I have a friend who has lent me his apartment. You’ll like it there. It has a view of the Seine and Notre-Dame and all the rest of the American dream.”

“Look—” began Fenner.

“I’m looking. At your safety, friend. Get cracking, will you? I’ve had a hard day myself.”

Fenner stared at the blue eyes that were meeting his with the hardness of cold fact behind them. He began peeling off his dressing-gown. “I suppose you’ve already arranged for a car to meet us at the front door?” he asked with some annoyance.

“That’s right,” Carlson said blandly. “At eleven-twenty-five, to be exact. Step on it, Bill.”

Fenner began to dress. His brows were down, his mouth in a straight line.

“Thank God,” Carlson said, “you are not the arguing type.”

“I can be. But you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t a good reason.”

“Several good reasons. Bill, why the hell did you have to go and see Vaugiroud?”

“Aren’t you glad I did?”

“From my point of view, it was fine. But from yours—well, Goldsmith and his coat were trouble enough for one day. Add Vaugiroud and that setup over on the Rue Jean-Calas, and you really could be in double trouble. Somewhere tonight, my friend, you are being discussed pretty heavily.”

Fenner knotted his tie, brushed his hair, and began packing. “So you think that the ten-thousand-dollar bills may connect with Vaugiroud’s idea of fabricated evidence for the next big lie?”

“I didn’t say that,” Carlson said.

“Well, I’m saying it.”

“To me only, I hope.”

“Look,” Fenner said, amusement returning, “whoever is concocting fantastic plots to shake the West into pieces hasn’t much time to worry about one drama critic who wandered on stage at the wrong moment. Besides, I’m off stage now.”

“I’m just making sure that you’ll stay off.” Carlson rose and began checking closet and drawers. “And don’t use the word ‘fantastic’ too lightly, Bill. The only time to laugh at conspiracies is after they have been smashed.”

“Then you are taking Vaugiroud seriously?”

Carlson didn’t answer that. He moved into the bathroom. “All clear here,” he called. “Lucky you didn’t spend much time unpacking.”

“Well,” Fenner said, refusing to be diverted from Vaugiroud, “that’s a relief. I began to wonder after I left you at Rue Jean-Calas if I had acted too quickly.”

Silence from Carlson.

“I took a chance on calling you. I wasn’t shown the memorandum. He just briefed me.”

“How much?”

“Just enough, I suppose, to get me sufficiently interested to help him. Say—shouldn’t I have called you? I thought you were the expert on that kind of thing.”

“Thank you,” Carlson said dryly.

“Well, seeing you’re so communicative—was your visit worth-while?”

“Interesting.”

“No real value?” Fenner asked worriedly. All that trouble for nothing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to be so damned cryptic.”

“Bad habit,” Carlson agreed. He closed the last wardrobe drawer. “All clear? When you pay your bill, give the American Express as your forwarding address. Say you’re spending the week-end with a friend if they seem puzzled by this quick departure. At twenty-four minutes past eleven, start walking out. I’ll be in the lobby, keeping an eye on you. The car, at the front entrance, will be a dark-blue Citroën. The driver will be dressed in tweeds, and has grey hair. I’ll be just behind you. And the minute you are in the car, I’ll join you. Right?”

“Right.” Fenner moved over to the telephone to call the desk, hesitated. “Shall I tell them I’m checking out, or do I just surprise them?”

“Best keep to the usual procedure.”

“That’s what I like about life with Auntie: everything is so nice and normal.”

Carlson’s tired face relaxed into a grin. He closed the door quietly.

The blue Citroën sped quarterway around the Place de la Concorde, then branched off into the Champs-Elysées. Within a few hundred yards, it stopped near some trees sheltering the driveway to a restaurant, once a private villa, which stood discreetly withdrawn into its own grounds. Quickly Carlson and Fenner climbed out with the luggage, and crossed over to a grey Renault that was waiting under the trees. Before Carlson had slipped into the driver’s seat with Fenner beside him, the Citroën was continuing on its way, up the broad avenue lined with trees and park and restaurant gardens, toward the distant neon lights of the Champs-Elysées’ busier section.

Carlson waited. He let a few cars pass before he swung the Renault out of the driveway, and followed the Citroën leisurely. He was gently humming
Get Me to the Church on Time
.

“I’m most impressed,” Fenner said. Far ahead, the Citroën had become only one of a weaving pattern of tail-lights. He was still irritated by the supercaution. “All this split-second timing just for me?”

Carlson stopped humming. “It isn’t as comic as you think. Or will you wait, before you take this thing seriously, until you’re picked up by one of Kalganov’s boys, hauled out to a quiet house on the outskirts of Paris, given the electric treatment so they can find out how much Vaugiroud does know?”