The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “And I’m Veronica Clark.”

  “What’s your address, by the way?”

  “The Hotel Beauharnais.”

  “Would you have—” A sad-faced woman, with a basket of posies for sale, stepped backward from a table and separated them. “Would you—”

  “I see them,” she said in a low voice. “Uncle Peter looks very solemn. Do you think he is wondering if I’ll be a good influence on Maritta after all? How late are we?”

  “Thirty-five seconds.” Craig looked over the tables, caught sight of a blonde girl with her hand upraised as a welcoming sight. “Are you afraid of him?” he asked, looking now at the square-faced, blunt-nosed man who sat, Spanish grandee fashion, beside her. He was middle-aged, heavily constructed, and very well dressed. Not that that meant a thing: the first three hundred dollars that any fly-by-night operator made seemed to go on a suit nowadays. I’m doing him an injustice, Craig thought; he looks a very solid citizen, indeed.

  “I don’t know him. Maritta is a little nervous about him, though. He’s very old-fashioned, she says.” Veronica waved back to her friend.

  “Let me come and apologise for you.” Thirty-five seconds’ worth of apology. He led her towards the table where the blonde and her tight-faced uncle waited. Maritta might be quite a handful at that, Craig decided, admiring the tip-tilted nose, marking the expensively casual hair and the little black dress with its mink jacket. Green eyes, he noted, and a warmly welcoming smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, ignoring introductions to prove he wasn’t staying. “It’s my fault. We met by accident. No, thank you”—this to Maritta, who was pointing to the chair beside her—“I’m on my way. Miss Clark and I didn’t quite finish our conversation.” He pulled out a chair for Veronica, said to her quietly, “Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maritta said, “I’m leaving tomorrow, Ronnie. I thought we’d go over—” She paused, looking at Craig with a dazzling smile of sweet apology. “I’m really so sorry.”

  “Then we’ll lunch tomorrow, instead,” he told Veronica. “I’ll call you in the morning?” He shook her hand. “Goodbye,” with a bow for Green Eyes. “Goodbye, sir. Sorry to intrude.” And that should hold the old bastard, he thought, turning to make a quick and efficient exit, bumping into the sad-faced flower girl again. Well, he thought now, as he left the tight rows of tables and waited for the traffic to stop so that he could cross the street, it’s always the way; you wander around Paris for a week and never see her, and when you do meet her you are granted ten minutes and thirty-five seconds. But even two minutes and twenty-seven seconds would have been worth it.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t leave tomorrow. A few more days would be pleasant. The week of tensions and loneliness dropped away from him, as he strode down the avenue with as much zest and interest as if he were setting out for his first walk through Paris.

  When he came down to the hotel bar, at six, showered, changed, and very much in his right mind, he found the small green room empty except for an Indian drinking orange juice and an Egyptian sipping lemonade. Jules’ welcome was astoundingly warm. He rushed to mix a Scotch and soda, and his voice almost trembled as he confided that, today two English ladies had come in demanding tea. With cake. Yesterday, there had been three American children wanting something called Cokes. Cokes, cakes and fruit drinks, Craig reflected, would convert Jules to tolerating heretics like himself who drank Scotch with ice and soda. It was not, Jules went on, that he disliked tea or those other drinks, except this room was not the place; it was an invasion of sacred rights, and he was not a cow to dispense milk. Besides, it drove away the real customers. And there’s the rub, thought Craig, and drank his Scotch and seemed to listen. She was a quite remarkable girl. In the middle of that tourist and expatriate crowd in the American Express building, she had been unique among beehive hair styles and haystack heads. At the Café de la Paix, she had made mink look negligible. He had known a lot of girls in the last fourteen years, some rather more than well. Two he had almost married. In every case, he had drifted into love before he had headed out, sometimes with regrets to remember, more often with frank relief. But drifted was the word; it had been a gradual thing of weeks, getting pleasanter and pleasanter until it seemed inevitable. That was love, he had thought. Love at first sight? He had never believed in it. He still didn’t... Impossible. At his age? It was worse than impossible; it was silly.

  “Good evening, Jules,” Jim Partridge said, sliding on to the stool next to Craig. “Hello, there! And how are you?”

  “Feeling my age. How are you?” He looks exhausted, Craig thought. Business must have been hard today.

  Partridge was studying the younger man with amusement. “Is that what’s making you so happy and scared?”

  “What?” Damn it all, I’m not so transparent as that. Or has Partridge got a gadget for thought-reading as well as one for listening to conversations across a room? Craig shook his head and laughed.

  “Glad to see you in a better mood than I expected,” Partridge said softly. “Make it a double Martini, tonight,” he told Jules in a cheerful voice. “Found a couple of good chairs today, authentic Louis Fifteenth, with some of the original tapestry still on them. A little careful cleaning and cautious repairs and we’ve really got something.”

  “Better mood?” Craig echoed, suddenly remembering the recriminations he had worked up over lunch today. “I’ve a few complaints—”

  “That’s right,” Partridge said smoothly. “Let’s get the dust out of my throat, first, shall we? And what about resting our backs in a comfortable chair?” He took a sip of his drink, gave Jules his approval, and led the way to a table against a wall. He sat down with visible relief, took off his glasses, looked ten years younger and gave a grin to match. “Are you doing anything this evening? I’m at a loose end myself. What about dinner together, in some nice quiet little place not too far away? That will save time.”

  “Suits me. I’ve a lot to say. And the quicker, the better.”

  “How soon do you feel like eating?”

  “Any time. I didn’t have much lunch, today.”

  And I had none at all, thought Partridge. “Fine. We’ll shock the French but we’ll get a dining-room to ourselves. Just let me finish this drink gratefully. Have another, won’t you?”

  Craig shook his head. All he wanted was a subdued corner in that quiet dining-room. Still, he was going to be given at least some time with Partridge, so he might as well look cheerful meanwhile and talk politely.

  Partridge didn’t hurry. He smoked a cigarette as he finished his drink at normal speed, and listened to Craig. I’ll have to remember, Partridge told himself, how little he knows. I’ll have to try to put myself in his place, forget everything I’ve discussed with Rosie and Bernard and Duclos and Chris Holland in these last six days; forget everything I’ve read in those last months, every clue, guess, inference, deduction, fact. All he knows is that Heinrich Berg is a Nazi, the kind who would be none the worse of a hanging. All he knows is that Berg had friends who’ve given him a hard time this week. All he knows is that Berg walks free, and Sussman’s murder is being called suicide. That is all he knows. Good God, where do I begin to talk with him? And how much could he stand? How much is safe—for him, for us?

  “You’ve really been very patient,” Partridge said, finishing his drink at last. “Look, can I borrow ten more minutes from you? I need a wash up. Came straight from the street. I’ll admit I was anxious in case you had left Paris. And I wouldn’t have blamed you, either.” He drew out his wallet, riffled through some business cards and a snap-shot of a girl in a bathing suit, found a small photograph and handed it over to Craig. “Recognise your friend?”

  Craig, completely disarmed by this time, took it with the same easy smile with which it had been presented to him. It was a small study in truculence, unflattering enough to be a police photograph. The man staring back at him under the sharp lighting was young, f
air-haired. He wore a belted raincoat. In the picture, the raincoat was dry. Apart from that, it was the man who had rushed from the café to follow Sussman.

  “Thought that would keep you happy, meanwhile,” Partridge murmured, taking the photograph back as he rose.

  “Who got him?”

  “Galland and Tillier, of course. Strictly police business. See you in ten minutes? I’ll meet you at the corner of the street.” Partridge made his way leisurely out of the bar, which was now beginning to have a few more customers. To his practised eye, they all seemed reasonable people. No more Jordans swooping down on Craig, anyway. Once out into the lobby and past the observant porter, he increased his speed. Ten minutes weren’t so long, considering he had to make his usual evening ’phone check with Bernard’s office. Not that Bernard’s man could have had many worries trailing Craig today: suspicion was off him, thank heavens. But it was wise to keep a finger on the pulse; in this line of business anything could happen.

  * * *

  The restaurant was about two blocks’ walking distance from the Rue Saint-Honoré. It lay at the junction of several small streets lined with newly built butcher shops. Nearby was a giant, smoothly surfaced square almost filled with the solid bulk of a huge garage. As they skirted it, Partridge had looked at it without much enthusiasm. “You’d never believe it,” he said, breaking his long silence, “but only four years ago this was one of the old Paris markets. Open stalls, cobblestones, sixteenth-century houses as background. It used to amuse me to find all that tucked away behind bright avenues and smart shops. Let’s hope progress hasn’t dolled up our restaurant with chrome and steam tables.” But the restaurant had insisted on keeping its own character. And it was good. Not expensive. Just good. Craig relaxed completely.

  The room, almost empty at this early hour, was pleasant and placid. The waiters, old as the furniture, knew how to retire into the background as soon as they had served the food. The corner which Partridge had chosen was lit just enough to let one see what one was eating. The leather backs on the chairs, padded and buttoned, were comfortable. This, decided Craig, was the kind of place people could talk. He waited expectantly, but Partridge again was in no hurry. He seemed contented with light-hearted quips through the main course, but Craig had the feeling that he was paying as little attention to the general gossip as he was to the excellent lamb chops and asparagus on his plate. Behind his easy words was a thoughtfulness. He had been like this ever since he had come down from his room at the Saint-Honoré and joined Craig with a nod and a searching glance. Those ten minutes upstairs had produced something more than a clean shirt, a fresh tie, and neatly brushed hair. And what’s wrong now? Craig wondered. “You know,” he said as the coffee was served, “I hope that route we took along the Rue Saint-Honoré to get here wasn’t symbolic. In the days of the Terror, it was the main drag for the tumbrils on their way to the guillotine.” He dropped his light tone, let some of his rising annoyance show. “Whose neck is going to get chopped this time?” he demanded. What had happened to that trust Partridge had seemed to feel in him earlier this evening? If any reproof is in order here, thought Craig, it’s mine to give, not to take.

  “You can begin with my neck,” Partridge said evenly. “You’ve got a few cutting remarks to make, I bet.”

  “And you’d win it. Sure, the murderer has been caught, but what about the man who gave him orders to murder? Yes, Berg. I saw him yesterday. He walked right past me. And I had no number to ’phone, nobody to warn. I got back to the Saint-Honoré, practically exploding with the news, and I couldn’t even talk to you.”

  “That was just as well,” Partridge said very quietly. “There was one of Berg’s agents watching you, at that very minute. They’ve been tailing you ever since last Thursday morning. But so have we. Now, go on: you’ve got every right to complain. You’ve had it rough, and we didn’t seem to be doing much, did we? It was a difficult situation, and you handled it well. I’ll say that for you.”

  Craig could only stare. Grouches were not so easily registered when you were told they were thoroughly justified, even expected. Compliments added, too. “What’s this about having me followed?”

  “Protection. Just in case a car knocked you down and its passengers wanted to take you to the hospital. Or in case a man grasped your wrist, told you he had instructions to bring you to see Detective Galland and Tillier and, when the needle in your wrist made you black out, helped you most kindly into a waiting car. Little things like that. Troublesome. So some self-effacing Frenchmen have been keeping an eye on you, ready to rush to the rescue. Now, now, don’t look so startled. We think that phase is all over. In fact, this afternoon we were quite sure that Berg had no more interest in you. But one thing does puzzle me—”

  “I haven’t finished,” Craig cut in. “You mean you knew about my second meeting with Berg?”

  “We had reports on it.”

  “And you didn’t follow him?”

  “Let’s say we weren’t geared for that.”

  “Tell me one thing.” Craig leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes were cold and sceptical. “Do you want to catch Berg?”

  Partridge looked at the tightly pressed lips, the hard-set jaw. Craig could be a tough customer if he chose. “Yes. We’ll catch him, and a lot more besides.”

  “Well, what’s being done about it? Don’t you think you owe me a holding explanation ast least? In return for handling certain difficult situations? I’d like a little more than some sugar-coated approval! Sweet suffering—”

  “Take it easy, pal. We are allowed to have some serious after-dinner conversation in a public restaurant, but not to frighten the waiters out of their shirt fronts.”

  “Sorry.” But there was no retreat in the quieted voice.

  “You know, I agree with every word you say. Only, I do see things from a different angle, from a different set of facts.”

  “Of course,” said Craig, coldly.

  “I was prepared to give you one or two of them. I’d want to know them, if I were you. But—”

  “That’s right. There’s always a but.”

  “You could clear it away.”

  “I?”

  Partridge’s light tone changed to sudden attack. “This afternoon you talked with a man at the Café de la Paix. Why?”

  “Why? For Christ’s sake—I just went to—” Craig stopped short. “How did you know about that? Oh, I see. One of those self-effacing Frenchmen, again?”

  Partridge relaxed a little. Craig hadn’t denied it, and that at least was a good start on this difficult topic. “You really had us all puzzled, and in our job it isn’t really pleasant to be puzzled about friends. You see, one of our agents snapped a picture of that table as a flower vendor ran some interference for him. It made a nice diversion.”

  “He took a photograph?” Craig hadn’t seen even a Minox camera around. “How?”

  “He lit a cigarette.”

  “I didn’t even notice anyone doing that,” Craig admitted ruefully.

  “Good. You weren’t meant to.”

  “Have you been photographing me all over Paris?” Craig was sharp-voiced again.

  “Only when you met someone. You don’t know how useful it has been to a friend of mine at the Sûreté who collects photographs and drawings for his file on subversives. In fact, he has the best file on Communists, French or otherwise, who have been active in France. You’ve added two to his collection in the last few days. And perhaps you could even help with some added information about a third—the man at the table. Yes, he’s on file, too. He worked in Paris four years ago, then went back to Moscow. Now, judging from the photograph, he’s returned to France. What’s the name he is using, nowadays?”

  Craig could only sit staring at the quiet face opposite him. “Communists... I begin to see why you’re so damned slow to take an interest in Berg. A Nazi isn’t worth bothering about when a Communist can be caught,” he said bitterly. “Is that it?”

  Partridge only s
hook his head.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Craig demanded.

  “I’ve already told you. I said we would catch Berg—and a lot more besides.”

  There was a pause. “A Nazi working with Communists?” Craig’s disbelief was clear.

  “You’re getting close. I knew you would, once you started using your brain instead of your emotions. Actually, Berg never was a Nazi, except for show. And he did it very well, according to reports. He was said to be such a virulent Nazi that he embarrassed some neutralists, 1943 brand—Pétainists—who met him in Berlin; and they did not embarrass easily.”

  “I’m so damned stupid,” Craig said softly. Berg’s agents had been following him, accosting him, hadn’t they? Berg’s agents were being photographed for the Communist file at the Sûreté. Therefore Berg had to be a Communist or else the Sûreté was completely crazy. His face tightened. “Is the man at the Café de la Paix another of Berg’s?”

  “We don’t know that. We only know that he is a trained GRU agent, holding the rank of colonel. That’s big stuff, let me tell you. What is he pretending to be?”

  “What’s Veronica getting into?” Craig asked, lost in his own worries. “Good God, what’s she getting into?”

  “Veronica?” Partridge was remarkably still.

  “Yes, the girl I was with—Veronica Clark. The dark-haired one—”

  “I haven’t seen the photograph, just heard about it,” Partridge told him. “There was a fair-haired girl at the table, too. Who was she?”

  “Maritta Maas, a friend of Veronica’s. They’re art students. Look, Jim—” Craig discovered he was almost desperate—“Veronica’s in the clear. She can’t be—”

  “Who was the man?” Partridge’s quiet voice insisted.

  “Uncle Peter. Maritta’s Uncle Peter. I didn’t wait for an introduction. The only reason I was at that table, frankly, was to finish my invitation to dinner. I was asking Veronica—”