The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “It is not the subject that interests the Sûreté.”

  “What is, then?”

  “There is no attorney by the name of Henry Simon in the city of Chicago, Illinois, in the United States.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “The name is false. At least, it is not his. The address he gave the hotel does not exist.”

  “The address he gave the hotel?” asked René, astonished. Joel did not have to give an address to the George V—it knew him well, knew the firm of Talbot, Brooks and Simon very well, indeed.

  “In his own handwriting, monsieur,” added the younger man stiffly.

  “Has the hotel management confirmed this?”

  “Yes,” said Prudhomme. “The night concierge was very cooperative. He told us he escorted Monsieur Simon down the freight elevator to the hotel cellars.”

  “The cellars?”

  “Monsieur Simon wished to leave the hotel without being seen. He paid his bill in his room.”

  “A minute, please,” said Mattilon, perplexed, his hands protesting, as he turned and walked aimlessly around an arm-chair. He stopped, his hands on the rim. “What precisely do you want from me?”

  “We want you to help us,” answered Prudhomme. “We think you know who he is. You brought him to Monsieur Luboque.”

  “On a confidential matter entailing a legal opinion. He agreed to listen and to evaluate on the condition that his identity be protected. It’s not unusual when seeking expertise if one is involved with, shall we say, an individual as wealthy and as temperamental as Monsieur Luboque. You’ve spoken with him; need I say more?”

  “Not on that subject,” said the older man from the Sûreté, permitting himself a smile. “He thinks all government personnel work for Moscow. We were surrounded by dogs in his foyer, all salivating, I might add.”

  “Then you can understand why my American colleague prefers to remain unnamed. I know him well, he’s a splendid man.”

  “Who is he? And do you know where we can find him?”

  “Why do you want him?”

  “We wish to question him about an incident that took place at the hotel.”

  “I’m sorry. As Luboque is a client, so by extension is Simon.”

  “That is not acceptable to us under the circumstances, monsieur.”

  “I’m afraid it will have to be, at least for a few hours. Tomorrow I shall try to reach him through his office in … in the United States, and I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you immediately.”

  “We don’t think he will.”

  “Why not?”

  Prudhomme glanced at his starchly postured associate and shrugged. “He may have killed a man,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Mattilon stared at the Sûreté officer in disbelief. “He … what?”

  “It was a particularly vicious assault, monsieur. A man’s head was rammed into a wall; there are extensive cranial injuries and the prognosis is not good. His condition as of midnight was critical, the chances of recovery less than half. He may be dead by now, which one doctor said could be a blessing.”

  “No … no! You are mistaken! You’re wrong!” The lawyer’s hands gripped the back of the chair. “A terrible error has been made!”

  “No error. The identification was positive—that is, Monsieur Simon was identified as the last person seen with the man who was beaten. He forced the man out into an alley; there were sounds of scuffling and minutes later that man was found, his skull fractured, bleeding, near death.”

  “Impossible! You don’t know him! What you suggest is inconceivable. He couldn’t.”

  “Are you telling us he is disabled, physically incapable of assault?”

  “No,” said Mattilon, shaking his head. Then suddenly he stopped all movement. “Yes,” he continued thoughtfully, his eyes pensive, now nodding, rushing ahead. “He’s incapable, yes, but not physically. Mentally. In that sense he is disabled. He could not do what you say he did.”

  “He’s mentally deranged?”

  “My God, no! He’s one of the most lucid men I’ve ever met. You have to understand. He went through a prolonged period of extreme physical stress and mental anguish. He endured punishment, to both his body and his mind. There was no permanent damage but there are indelible memories. Like so many men who’ve been subjected to such treatment, he avoids all forms of physical confrontation or abuse. It is repugnant to him. He can’t inflict punishment because too much was inflicted on him.”

  “You mean he would not defend himself, his own? He would turn the other cheek if he, or his wife, or his children were attacked?”

  “Of course not, but that’s not what you described. You said ‘a particularly vicious assault,’ implying something quite different. And if it were otherwise—if he were threatened or attacked and defended himself—he most certainly would not have left the scene. He’s too fine a lawyer.” Mattilon paused. “Was that the case? Is that what you’re saying? Is the injured man known to you from the police files? Is he—”

  “A limousine chauffeur,” interrupted Prudhomme. “An unarmed man who was waiting for his assigned passenger of the evening.”

  “In the cellars?”

  “Apparently it is a customary service and not an unfamiliar one. These firms are discreet. This one sent another driver to cover before inquiring as to their employee’s condition. The client would not know.”

  “Very chic, I’m sure. What do they say happened?”

  “According to a witness, a guard who’s been with the hotel for eighteen years, this Simon approached in a loud voice, speaking English—the guard thinks angrily, although he does not understand the language—and forced the man outside.”

  “The guard is wrong! It had to be someone else.”

  “Simon identified himself. The concierge had cleared his departure. The description fits; it was the one who called himself Simon.”

  “But why? There has to be a reason!”

  “We should like to hear it, monsieur.”

  René shook his head in bewilderment; nothing made sense. A man could register at any hotel under any name he wished, of course, but there were charges, credit cards, people calling; a false name served no purpose. Especially at a hotel where one was presumably known, and if one was known and chose to travel incognito, that status would not be protected if a front desk was questioned by the Sûreté. “I must ask you again, Inspector, have you checked thoroughly with the hotel?”

  “Not personally, monsieur,” replied Prudhomme, looking at his associate. “My time was taken up interrogating those in the vicinity of the assault.”

  “I checked with the concierge myself, monsieur,” said the younger, taller man, speaking like a programmed robot. “Naturally, the hotel is not anxious for the incident to receive attention, but the management was cooperative. The night concierge is newly employed from the Hotel Meurice and wished to minimize the incident, but he himself showed me the registration form.”

  “I see.” And Mattilon did see, at least insofar as Joel’s identity was concerned. Hundreds of guests at a large hotel and a nervous concierge protecting his new employer’s image. The obvious source was accepted as truth, another truth no doubt forthcoming in the morning from more knowledgeable men. But that was all René understood—nothing else. He needed a few moments to think, to try to understand. “I’m curious,” he said, reaching for words. “At worst, this is an assault with severe results, but nevertheless an assault. Why isn’t it a simple police matter? Why the Sûreté?”

  “My first question, monsieur,” said the plainspoken Prudhomme. “The reason given us was that the incident involved a foreigner, obviously a wealthy foreigner. One does not know these days where such things may lead. We have certain controls not available to the arrondissement police.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” asked the man from the Sûreté. “May I remind you that as an attorney you have an obligation to uphold the courts and the law? You have been offered ou
r credentials and I have suggested you call my station for any further verification you might wish. Please, monsieur, who is Henry Simon?”

  “I have other obligations, as well, Inspector. To my word, to a client, to an old friendship—”

  “You put these above the law?”

  “Only because I know you’re wrong.”

  “Then where is the harm? If we are wrong, we shall find this Simon undoubtedly at an airport and he will tell us himself. But if we are not, we may find a very sick man who needs help. Before he harms others. I am no psychiatrist, monsieur, but you have described a troubled man—a once troubled man, in any event.”

  Mattilon was uncomfortable with the blunt official’s logic … and also something else he could not define. Was it Joel? Was it the clouds in his old friend’s eyes, the unconscious verbal slip about a blemished rock in the dirt? René looked again at the clock on the mantel; a thought occurred to him. It was only eight-forty-two in New York.

  “Inspector, I’m going to ask you to wait here while I go into my study and make a phone call on my private line. The line, incidentally, is not connected to the telephone on the table.”

  “That was unnecessary, monsieur.”

  “Then I apologize.”

  Mattilon walked rapidly to a door on the opposite side of the room, opened it and went inside. He crossed to his desk, where he sat down and opened a red-leather telephone index. He flipped the pages to the letter T, scanning the names until he reached Talbot, Lawrence. He had both the office and the house number; the latter was necessary because the courts in Paris were in operation before the East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbot was not there, he would try Nathan Simon, then Brooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was necessary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone.

  “I’ll be damned, how are you, René? You in New York?”

  “No, Paris.”

  “Sounds like you’re down the block.”

  “So do you. It’s always startling.”

  “It’s also late where you are, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It’s very late, Larry. We may have a problem, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “A problem? I didn’t even know we had any business going. What is it?”

  “Your missionary work.”

  “Our what?”

  “Bertholdier. His friends.”

  “Who?”

  “Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”

  “Who is he? I’ve heard the name but I can’t place him.”

  “You can’t … place him?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve been with Joel. I arranged the meeting.”

  “Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?”

  “You weren’t aware of it?”

  “Last time I spoke with him was two days ago in Geneva—after that awful business with Halliday. He told me he was all right, but he wasn’t. He was shaken up.”

  “Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not in Paris on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, is that what you’re saying?”

  Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. “No, he’s not,” said the senior partner softly. “Did he say he was?”

  “Perhaps I just assumed it.”

  Again Talbot paused. “I don’t think you’d do that. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me.”

  “That’s part of the problem, Larry. I don’t know where he is. He said he was taking the five o’clock plane for London, but he didn’t. He checked out of the George Cinq quite a bit later under very odd circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His hotel registration was altered, changed to another name—a name I suggested, incidentally, as he didn’t wish to use his own at lunch. Then he insisted on leaving by way of some basement delivery entrance.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “I’m afraid it’s the least of the oddities. They say he assaulted a man. He may have killed him.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I don’t believe it, of course,” said Mattilon quickly. “He wouldn’t, he couldn’t—”

  “I hope not.”

  “Certainly you don’t think—”

  “I don’t know what to think,” interrupted Talbot. “When he was in Geneva and we talked, I asked him if there was any connection between Halliday’s death and what he was doing. He said there wasn’t, but he was so remote, so distant; his voice sounded hollow.”

  “What he’s doing …? What is he doing?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure I can find out, but I’ll do my damnedest. I tell you, I’m worried. Something’s happened to him. His voice was like an echo chamber, do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Mattilon quietly. “I heard him, I saw him. I’m worried too.”

  “Find him, René. Do whatever you can. Give me the word and I’ll drop everything and fly over. He’s hurting somewhere, somehow.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Mattilon walked out of his study and faced the two men from the police.

  “His name is Converse, Joel Converse,” he began.

  * * *

  “His name is Converse, first name Joel,” said the younger, taller man from the Sûreté, speaking into the mouthpiece of a pay phone on the Boulevard Raspail, as the rain pounded the booth. “He’s employed by a law firm in New York: Talbot, Brooks and Simon; the address is on Fifth Avenue. The assumed name, Simon, however, was apparently a convenience, and not related to the firm.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Whatever this Converse is involved with has nothing to do with his employers. Mattilon reached one of the partners in New York and it was made clear to him. Also both men are concerned, worried; they wish to be kept informed. If Converse is found, Mattilon insists on immediate access to him as the attorney of record. He may be holding back, but in my judgment he’s genuinely bewildered. In shock, might be more accurate. He knows nothing of consequence. I could tell if he did.”

  “Nevertheless, he is holding back. The name Simon was used for my benefit so I would not learn the identity of this Converse. Mattilon knows that; he was there and they are friends and he brought him to Luboque.”

  “Then he was manipulated, General. He did not mention you.”

  “He might if he’s questioned further. I cannot be involved in any way.”

  “Of course not,” agreed the man from the Sûreté with quiet emphasis.

  “Your superior, what’s his name? The one assigned to the incident.”

  “Prudhomme. Inspector First Grade Prudhomme.”

  “Is he frank with you?”

  “Yes. He thinks I’m something of a mechanical ex-soldier whose instincts may outdistance his intellect, but he sees that I’m willing. He talks to me.”

  “You’ll be kept with him for a while. Should he decide to go back and see Mattilon, let me know immediately. Paris may lose a respected attorney. My name must not surface.”

  “He would go back to Mattilon only if Converse was found. And if word came to the Sûreté as to his whereabouts, I’d reach you instantly.”

  “There could be another reason, Colonel. One that might provoke a persistent man into reexamining his progress—or lack of it—in spite of orders to the contrary.”

  “Orders to the contrary, sir?”

  “They will be issued. This Converse is solely our concern now. All we needed was a name. We know where he’s heading. We’ll find him.”

  “I don’t understand, General.”

  “News has come from the hospital. Our chauffeur has taken a turn for the better.”

  “Good news, indeed.”

  “I wish it were. The sacrifice of a single soldier is abhorrent to any field commander, but the broader tactics must be kept in view, they must be served. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Our chauffeur must not recover. The larger strategy, Colonel.”

  “If he dies, the efforts to find Converse will be intensified. And
you’re right, Prudhomme will reexamine everything, including the lawyer, Mattilon.”

  “Orders to the contrary will be issued. But watch him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now we need your expertise, Colonel. The talents you developed so proficiently while in the service of the Legion before we brought you back to a more civilized life.”

  “My gratitude isn’t shallow. Whatever I can do.”

  “Can you get inside the Hospital of Saint Jérôme with as little notice as possible?”

  “With no notice. There are fire escapes on all sides of the building and it’s a dark night, heavy with rain. Even the police stay in doorways. It’s child’s play.”

  “But man’s work. It has to be done.”

  “I don’t question such decisions.”

  “A blockage in the windpipe, a convulsion in the throat.”

  “Pressure applied through cloth, sir. Gradually and with no marks, a patient’s self-induced trauma.… But I would be derelict if I didn’t repeat what I said, General. There’ll be a search of Paris, then a large-scale manhunt. The killer will be presumed to be a rich American, an inviting target for the Sûreté.”

  “There’ll be no search, no manhunt. Not yet. If it is to be, it will come later, and if it does, a convicted corpse will be trapped in the net.… Go into the field, my young friend. The chauffeur, Colonel; the broader strategy must be served.”

  “He’s dead,” said the man in the telephone booth, and hung up.

  5

  Erich Leifhelm … born March 15, 1912, in Munich to Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm and his mistress, Marta Stoessel. Although the stigma of his illegitimacy precluded a normal childhood in the upper-middle-class, morality-conscious Germany of those years, it was the single most important factor in his later preeminence in the National Socialist movement. At birth he was denied the name of Leifhelm; until 1931 he was known as Erich Stoessel.

  Joel sat at a table in the open café in Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport, trying to concentrate. It was his second attempt within the past twenty minutes, the first he abandoned when he realized he was absorbing nothing, seeing only black letters forming an unending string of vaguely recognizable words relating to a figure in the outer reaches of his mind. He could not focus on that man; there were too many interferences, real and imagined. Nor had he been able to read on the two-hour flight from Paris, having opted for economy class, hoping to melt in with the greater number of people in the larger section of the aircraft. The concept at least was valid; the seats were so narrow and the plane so fully occupied that elbows and forearms were virtually immobile. The conditions prohibited his taking out the report, both for reasons of space and for fear of the proximity to straying eyes.