The Venetian Affair (34 page)

Claire saw his glance, his worried eyes. She heard the intensity of his voice. And she left her private world of regret and remorse, and came back to reality. She nodded. “I believe you,” she said at last. “I’ll start packing.” Her eyes, too, searched the room quickly. And then they met Fenner’s. “All right,” she said, “let’s get this job finished.”

“We’ll finish it,” he said quietly.

Two men sat in a darkened room. Outside was the shadowed stillness of a narrow canal threading its cold, black way between the high walls and barred windows of quiet houses toward the warm glow of sunset on the broad and bustling Rialto. But here, in this room, the drawn shutters cut off the distant sounds of life. Here, behind locked doors, Venice was forgotten.

The two men were on board the Simplon Express. They listened to the rattle of its wheels, to the voices of a man and a woman talking happily, clearly audible except when the brakes screeched to give warning of a curve ahead on the railroad track. They might have been sitting in a neighbouring room of the sleeping car, with a connecting door left ajar to let them overhear Claire Langley and William Fenner discussing themselves in between filling out details in Customs declarations.

They listened intently. They were both men in their middle forties, obviously affluent by their excellent clothes and careful
grooming. One was Fernand Lenoir, dark-haired, tall, thin, with the diplomatic manner, now permanently established even if it was far from natural, of a government official whose career depended on politeness to his equals and deference to his superiors. The other was shorter, more heavily built. His brow was heightened by thinning reddish hair, which had receded in an even line; his face, blunt-featured and broad, was sallow and coarse-skinned, unprepossessing from a close front view—the eyes were small, closely set, clever-quick; the mouth was wide, thin-lipped, determined—but in profile, with the expression lost and only the strong bone structure showing, it could be called handsome. He was a man of many names, many interests, and one ambition. For the last fifteen years he had been known to most people as Robert Wahl.

Robert Wahl... Naturalised Frenchman, a clever writer turned subsidised business-man, with money made in publishing and in radio, and, in recent years, a small but valuable reputation as an original in the film world. His real name? Alexei Kalganov, a name that existed more in top-secret files than on people’s tongues. His face had appeared only twice in print. The first time was in a photograph taken at a May Day celebration in Moscow when Kalganov had stood third from the left behind Stalin, and the foreign experts on Soviet affairs had wondered for four days—until another international crisis had sent them prognosticating in wider fields—whether this unknown (identified by Tass as an agricultural expert named Shakhov) would be a rising star in the variable Russian firmament. The second appearance was in a photograph, highly unauthorised, hastily taken by a Freedom Fighter in Budapest, of a group of smiling Soviet officials clustered around a benevolent Mikoyan,
with an oversized tank as appropriate background. (Kalganov’s hand had instinctively covered the lower half of his face. He was the only one in the group to be unidentified. The Freedom Fighter was arrested and shot that same day.)

Even Fernand Lenoir, who had been working under his direction as far back as 1944 when Vaugiroud had been marked for liquidation—an intransigent bourgeois intellectual who would always rally to any resistance, a potential leader who must be eliminated with the Nazi retreat—never mentioned the name of Kalganov. Or addressed him as Kalganov. It was an identity he guarded, like the Neolithic men who hunted and fought and died as Running Wolf, Sitting Bear, Bird-in-the-Grass, but whose real names were kept hidden to give them secret strength, to protect them from their enemies. Kalganov would have been the first to scoff at religious superstition, but he clung to the practice of supersecrecy as the first law of self-preservation; and in this he was not far removed from those he sneered at. Only in the form of his self-perpetuation did he differ from those who aimed, by their deeds at a Happy Hunting Ground, a paradise beyond this life: his deeds if successful, would be the shaping of history, and that was something which could never be undone. He would have his own kind of immortality.

Lenoir rose impatiently. They were coming to the end of the recorded conversation. “Good night, Claire,” the American’s voice was saying, “
Mes hommages
.” After that, there would only be the interminable sounds of a train, its passengers silenced by sleep, climbing its way up toward Switzerland.
Lenoir moved to turn off the machine. “That’s all,” he said.

“Leave it!”

Lenoir’s hand hesitated and stopped. He didn’t show his annoyance. He lit a cigarette, and walked around the room, stretching his shoulders. Gold and cream and faded green—the room’s elegance was a piece of the past, like the dust-smeared candelabra and the chipped teardrops of the crystal lamps; a place only fit to be rented to some antique-crazy American who had replaced the English as upholders of what was finished and over. Still, it was a strongly built house, well silenced, remote from the busy little streets and square behind it, yet central enough to be useful.

“Keep quiet!” Wahl commanded, and listened intently to a sound track recording the nothings of an empty night journey.

He is always thorough, too thorough, Lenoir thought. A virtue, of course. But does he never become bored with his virtues? Lenoir studied Wahl’s expressionless face. Never, he decided. He moved with his crisp step toward the room’s communicating door, heavily ornate with late Renaissance panels and tarnished, silver handles. He unlocked it quietly and slipped through into the adjoining library, where Sandra was at work. He closed the door gently behind him.

She was sitting at the large writing table, transformed—with a portable typewriter, a bright light, scattered sheets of paper, inks and pens—into an island of efficiency in a sea of high-backed chairs, dim lamps, and ornamented bookcases that reached the painted ceiling. She looked, as she glanced toward him, a little tired. She pushed her glasses up on to her brow. In her plain black dress, sleeves rolled up, bracelets and rings and earrings in a discarded heap near an overfull ashtray, her hair
twisted behind her ears, a cardigan over her shoulders to protect her from the damp chill in the air, a pair of white cotton gloves on her hands, she was far removed from the elegant hostess in Dessès chiffon of only three nights ago. Now she was the efficient and most private secretary, completing the final piece of top-secret work. The last, in every way. Perhaps he should be glad that Wahl had turned up in Venice: let him break the news of her recall. “You look cold. Why don’t you light the fire?”

“I have tried. It smoked. Why don’t we have the furnace turned on? Or does it smoke, too?”

“Heating in September? You have still kept some of your American habits, Sandra.”

“In July, this place could feel like November. Oh well, I’ll soon be finished here—just checking the copies of the letter. You wanted seven in all?” And if he counts them, how am I going to explain the eight copies I’ve made? But he didn’t, and she talked on to distract his attention. “Five for the men you meet today, and two for your pet neutralists. When do you see them?”

“Tomorrow. Is this the original letter?” He stretched out his hand to pick it up.

“Careful!” She lifted it with her gloved fingers. “I’ll hold it, while you read.”

“It looks very good,” he said with real pleasure. “You notice I placed the main emphasis on the Americans, making the English more of a go-between. The style is just right, don’t you think?”

“It could be the wine merchant himself. How do you like his signature?”

“Most authentic. You would have made an excellent forger, Sandra.”

You’ve given me enough practice, she thought.

He had a criticism, of course. “The type jumps a little.”

“It’s Trouin’s own typewriter, isn’t it? If it jumps, it jumps.”

“So typical of him to tolerate the imperfect.”

“I hope he hasn’t discovered it’s missing.” Carefully, she laid the perfectly faked original on the desk before her.

“No more than he noticed the missing sheets of his writing paper. He was too busy preparing to leave for Switzerland.”

“How did you borrow the typewriter? Bribe or make love to his secretary? Or was it stolen by a cleaning woman?”

He joined in her laughter, without much humour. “You must not pry out all my little secrets. Actually—it was very simple.”

“You’re too modest, Fernand.” That pleased him and brought real warmth to his face. “It’s a brilliant idea. I just hope this sheet of Trouin’s writing paper has at least one sample of his fingerprints.”

“I can assure you it has. You’ve been very careful with it?”

“Didn’t take off the gloves once. Let’s finish this job. I’d like to see the original safely in its envelope, just in case anyone is forgetful enough to pick it up without gloves. If it’s spoiled, we are out of luck. Completely.”

“I gave you three sheets of his writing paper,” he said sharply.

“I had to destroy two. The signature wasn’t good enough,” she lied most innocently. “I don’t think much of the type of nib that our wine merchant likes to use. It’s too soft.”

“Typical,” Lenoir said. He was still annoyed.

“When does he commit suicide?”

Lenoir stared at her, forgetting nibs and two wasted sheets of paper. “You know, Sandra, you really are indiscreet at times.”

“Only with you, darling.” Her blue eyes were large and sad. “You used to enjoy my little jokes.”

“This is hardly the time for any joke.”

“Especially when it hits on the truth.”

“Sandra!” he said quietly, warningly. He glanced at the door to the sitting-room.

“Oh, forget it,” she said wearily. She pulled her glasses back in place, not caring how she looked. “Shall I fold the original in three, or does Trouin usually quarter his letters?” She had lifted the letter again, studying Trouin’s embossed letterhead across its top. She noticed Lenoir’s second glance at the connecting door. “This is
your
department, Fernand. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. But Wahl will insist on seeing the letter.”

“Did he bring gloves?” She was half-laughing.

Lenoir made a gesture of impatience.

“Too bad. He will just have to read one of the copies. You don’t supervise his work. Why should you let him interfere with yours?”

Lenoir looked at her quickly. Her face was as expressionless as her voice.

“What’s he doing now?” she asked.

“Listening to a recording.”

“Oh!” She shrugged. “How shall I fold this letter? In three? Or four.”

“In three.” That was Trouin’s custom. He watched her fold the sheet most carefully, and search for the two envelopes she had addressed, one long, one square in shape.

She chose the long one. It looked as if it had been handled, crushed in a pocket. “I managed to get plenty of finger marks on this, all untraceable, I hope. You’d better destroy the other one, Fernand. You’ll find matches over on the table by that red velvet chair.”

“You are remarkably thorough,” he told her, taking the discarded envelope over to the fireplace. He studied its typed address: Major Christopher Holland, Paris 6
^e
, Boulevard Ras-pail, Hotel Saint-Denis. “Yes, we’d better get rid of this.”

She talked on in the same light voice. Adroitly, she slipped the original under a box of carbon paper, picked up one of the copies and folded it silently, inserting it into the long envelope. “I suppose you can explain why there was no postmark? That may be the one weak point.”

“Not so weak. The letter was intercepted before it could be mailed.” He cursed quietly. “The matches are damp.”

They ought to be, she thought grimly. She said, “Oh, everything is damp around here. I don’t know how these books survive.” Her fingers trembled on the long envelope she had just sealed. “Try my lighter.” She reached for her handbag, placing it beside the box of carbon paper. She opened it, searched inside with one hand. With the other, she slipped the original out of its hiding place into her bag. She snapped it shut.

“These matches are useless!” Lenoir exploded as the third one flared and died.

“Here’s the lighter,” she said, bringing it to him.

I really shall miss her, he thought. I have to depend on her a great deal. That wasn’t good, of course. That could be the reason she was being recalled. “It’s all right,” he said, striking another match. Yes, he was being disciplined more than she was. It was Wahl’s way of reminding him who held the power. The idea displeased him. He frowned angrily.

“Wouldn’t this be quicker?” she asked, holding out the lighter. He will begin to realise I dampened those matches, she thought anxiously.

“It’s all right,” he told her sharply, and the match, miraculously, flared and caught. The envelope curled slowly into black tissue. Once the address was destroyed, he dropped it into the fireplace and ground it into dust with his foot. “Where’s the original?” he asked, excessively efficient now, avoiding her eyes. Quickly, he skirted the heavy armchairs and reached the writing table, pushed her handbag aside and picked up the sealed envelope. He pointed to the seven copies. “Better get them into envelopes, too,” he said as he crossed over to a wall of bookcases.

She came back to her chair, and as she sat down again she felt her legs tremble for a brief moment. She dropped her handbag back on the floor and began folding the copies. She didn’t look at Lenoir. She could hear him swinging open three bogus shelves to reach the wall-safe behind them. It was part of the Ca’ Longhi furnishings, to match the heavy inch-wide bars on the downstairs windows and the huge bolts on the door. The Longhi family must have been almost as security-minded as Fernand, she thought. That was why he had chosen to rent this hideous place. No garden, or terrace; just thick walls rising at the junction of two canals, one big, one small. The main entrance was on the dreary little canal, with slimy steps to reach the massive, nail-studded door. And at the back of the huge house, two more doors equally sturdy: one leading into a street so narrow and shadowed that even Fernand had joked about an assassin’s lane; the other opening into a small square with flagstones uneven and tilting and the surrounding houses so covered with cracked and stripped plaster that they seemed to be sinking, too. And let’s not forget the washing, she reminded herself, strung out from windows: all our neighbours’ nightshirts and underpants.
Venice... She began sealing the letters, angrily. She felt cheated. Venice could be so many things, and she had been given its worst for her last few days.