Wherever There Is Light (36 page)

Julian would gladly shoot them now, but that information wouldn't help Kendall, who was resting her head on his chest. Gingerly, Julian put his arms around her.

“I felt like it was my fault,” Kendall said.

“It wasn't.”

“And I felt worthless.”

“You're not.”

Kendall was trembling, controlling herself, trying not to cry.

Julian embraced her. Raising his voice, he said, “You're not worthless.”

Kendall held her breath, then exhaled slowly. Her trembling stopped.

Julian whispered, “Marry me?”

Kendall didn't respond immediately. Then her head nodded up and down against him. Julian knew they would have to talk about it later, but for now he was happy to take it for a yes.

I
'm sure Thayer's fine,” Kendall was saying into the telephone as Julian entered his bedroom with a towel around his waist. “Her roommate from Smith was in town, wasn't she? They could've gone off somewhere. I'll go by Thayer's, speak to her concierge, and ask around. When's your train get in? We'll be here at nine. Call.”

Kendall hung up. “That was Simon. He's in Heidelberg and hasn't been able to get in touch with Thayer for three days. He got your number from Otis.”

Julian began to dress. Sounding defensive, Kendall said, “Simon and I, we're not—”

“I know.” Julian didn't suspect her of cheating on him, but Thayer's disappearing and Simon's going to Heidelberg got his attention. Heidelberg was the headquarters of the US military in Europe; Thayer had been awfully chummy with Arnaud Francoeur at her party, and though Julian had assumed her interest in him was carnal, not political, now he wondered if Simon, Thayer, and Francoeur could be up to something. Unlikely that it was warehousing small arms in Paris, as Wild Bill had suggested in July. Julian doubted that Stalin would order the Red Army to invade Western Europe, because the Soviet leader wouldn't want an atom bomb dropped on the Kremlin. Yet who would've predicted that the Germans, the intellectual, artistic, and scientific lodestars of the West, would annihilate millions in the camps?

Outside it was one of those sun-blessed October days with the leaves, like miniature kites, drifting through a polished-blue sky, and on Place de la Contrescarpe, the
clochards
were collecting donations from the shoppers streaming down Rue Mouffetard. Julian and Kendall sat on the terrace of La Contrescarpe.

“Don't you get bored with
pain au chocolat
every morning?” she said.

“Nope. And I don't get bored with making love to you.”

“You will when we're old.”

“Then I'll still have chocolate.”

“Hah! Small compensation.”

Julian grinned and, after another bite of his pastry, changed the subject. “We didn't finish our conversation last evening.” They had gone to Tour d'Argent, and with a view of the Seine and Notre-Dame and eating duck and drinking pinot noir, they had discussed marriage. Kendall was warming to the idea, but the conversation ended when they got back to Julian's.

Kendall's smile lit up her eyes. “It's not my fault. Who told you to kiss me?”

“I thought that up on my own.”

“You were saying it would be easier to get married in the States, and I said it would be illegal in Florida.”

“New Jersey then.”

Kendall drank her
café crème
. “But we'd live in Paris?”

“I'd have to be in Jersey now and again, but I'd live here. Marcel's finishing renovating a three-bedroom upstairs. The rent's a hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

“And we could split it.” She wasn't asking a question.

“Or you could pay it and I'd be a kept man.”

“I like that. What would you do in Paris?”

“Compose an epic poem.
La Chanson de Julian
.”

There went her smile again. Beautiful. “Like
La Chanson de Roland
only about you?”

“Exactly. I'd write in between real-estate deals.”

Kendall put her hand on his. “Are you unhappy with the way we are now?”

“I want children. You said you did too.”

“At some point. But I'll still have to travel for work.”

“I'll be around, and we can hire a
femme de ménage
. I want a family. I want you to be my family.”

“I—I already feel like I am.”

Julian squeezed her hand and wished that Kendall had sounded less—less reluctant? Less afraid? He finished his
café crème
and let the matter drop. “You have a shoot today?”

“For
Ebony
. Negro expatriates in Paris. I'll be at the Café Tournon between eleven and three. First, I've got to take some film to the lab. And I told Simon I'd go by Thayer's. I'll do that, and then I'll make some calls. Otis might have seen her.”

“I'll be at the club. I can swing by your place at four and we can figure out dinner.”

“
Parfait
,” she said, and laced her fingers through his.

Julian had been sitting at the bar for two hours going over the accounting ledger with Isabella when she said, “We're making a profit and you're not taking your share.”

“That makes me a good partner, no?”

“A confusing one. You're supposed to take your money.”

“You keep it. I got plenty.”

“My cousin Arnaud wants to be our partner as well.”

“What?”

“He was here last night. We were busy, and Arnaud says I am doing so well, didn't I want to contribute to
le Parti Communiste Français
? The Communists could make sure nothing happens to my bistro.”

Apparently, a Commie protection racket was no different from the capitalist variety.

Isabella said, “That leprous asshole was there when
les tondeurs
shaved my head. My cousin, whom I cared for as a baby—dried his tears and changed his diapers—did nothing to stop them. Manny, my friend's son, tried to help, and the mob beat him to death.” Isabella closed the ledger, then stared at Julian. “And Arnaud thinks I'll give him money so he can keep sitting in the Café de Flore acting like the king of France. I would sooner suck his puny cock.”

Her eyes shone with anger, which Julian preferred to the hopelessness that he'd seen when they met. And since Francoeur had been one of Kendall's lovers, he didn't object to hearing that he was hung like a mouse. “Don't pay Arnaud. I'll talk to him.”

“
Bonjour
,” Marcel said, as he walked into the club.

Isabella was suddenly grinning like a young coquette. “Julian, did you know the girls flirt with my doorman?”

“Because you tell them I can do more with one arm than any man with two.” Marcel bussed her on one cheek, then the other. “I have to show Julian the new apartment. Will you excuse us?”

“
Bien sûr
. Be here by five. So I can feed you. You are still too thin.”

As Marcel and Julian headed up Rue Blainville, Marcel, speaking English to Julian for the first time, said, “I've heard from an associate. We need a taxi, and you will need to spend some of your cash.”

“For?”

“To go to Pigalle and pay
une fille de joie.
”

The Moulin Rouge, the cabaret famous for its cancan dancers and the red windmill on its roof, was still in Pigalle, and so were the prostitutes on Boulevard de Clichy. The government had outlawed the
maisons de tolérance
after the war and, with the economy a wreck and most of the GIs gone, the girls had taken to quoting prices to men going in and out of the green, cylinder-shaped pissoir that stank from a block away. Marcel turned onto a side street, and Julian saw more girls standing on Place Adolphe Max and eyeing the statue of Hector Berlioz, as if the composer, looking prosperous in his cravat and cape, were a potential client. At the corner, an old man in a pilled sweater and patched trousers was selling roasted chestnuts in cones of newspaper, and Marcel said to him, “
Bon travail, mon ami
,” and walked past a fleabag hotel to a house with a crumbling stucco exterior. Marcel asked Julian for a fifty-dollar bill, then banged on the door. A woman answered. She had hennaed hair done up in pin curls, a peignoir that advertised her wares, and the countenance of someone who expected nothing and got even less.

“You spoke to my friend,” Marcel said, holding out the fifty. “Can you repeat the story?”

She took the bill as if plucking a grape from a vine. “Four days ago a Negro in a nice suit was outside. I came downstairs and asked if he would like to come up. He said no, he was waiting for a woman. His French was shameful. He was an American.”

“And the woman?”

“She arrived in a taxi with a scarf over her hair. I saw her from my window. She had a face like a doll. The Negro handed her something and went away. She stood there long enough for me to smoke a cigarette and two men came in a truck. One had light hair, the other a beret like yours. The woman unlocked the front door of my building and went in.”

Julian said, “So the Negro gave her a key?”

“Perhaps. The two men carried six wooden crates into the apartment below mine. Then they left in the truck, the woman on foot.”

“May we see the crates?” Julian asked.

“Do you have a key?”

“No,” Julian said. “Do you?”

“I have a knife, hammer, and screwdriver.”

Another fifty rented all three. Julian had no trouble with the lock. It probably hadn't been changed since the reign of Napoleon. The apartment was unfurnished and the walls were mildewed. A dirt-ringed bathtub was in the kitchen, and the crates were in the windowless bedroom. Inside the crates were M1 carbines; M3 submachine guns; military Smith & Wesson revolvers; and ammunition for all of them.

Marcel said, “The American weapons Wild Bill mentioned to you.”

Nodding, Julian loaded a revolver, tucked it in the back of his waistband, and dumped some cartridges into the pocket of his sport coat. Then he hammered the crates shut. The woman was standing in the entranceway. Julian returned the knife and tools, then gave her a hundred dollars and warned her, “Talk to no one about this. You'll be safer.”

They were out on the boulevard again. Marcel said, “The one with the light hair, I would wager that's Francoeur. Do you know the others?”

“Two out of three, I think. They've been at Dans le Vent. The Negro's Simon Foxe, the woman's Thayer Claypoole. No one has seen her for a while.”

Marcel let out an exasperated sigh. “She's missing? You should've told me. Wait here.”

He went into a
tabac
, and from the open windows Julian could smell the aroma of potatoes frying in oil. When Marcel came out he headed straight for a cab with Julian behind him, and he gave directions to the driver as they settled into the back seat.

“What?” Julian asked.

“My younger brother was an inspector at the Brigade Criminelle. He has retired to Brittany. But he had many friends at the Brigade, and I spoke to a detective. This Thayer's college roommate—a niece of the American ambassador—has been searching for her.”

“Have they located Thayer?”

“Maybe.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere you would want to be.”

B
icycle patrolmen weaved between the police cars parked on Quai des Tuileries. A crowd had formed along the low wall on the quay, and
les flics
in their kepis and capes were blocking the onlookers from going down the stone ramp to the Seine, where the linden trees bent toward the river as if their autumn-gold leaves were peeking over the shoulders of the police.

Marcel said, “I'll see if I know anyone.”

He was gone for five minutes.

“I'll have to call the Brigade for details, but I heard reporters from
Le Parisien
and
France Soir
talking. There is a dead woman, and the cops believe she jumped from the bridge. Another lovesick young woman, and someone told the reporters she had a wooden mask on.”