The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  He entered another room only slightly bigger than his own. It was lit by candles on the table; shadows were deep in its corners, its two small windows were covered with heavy sacks, its massive front door was probably locked and certainly bolted. The Greek thrust him into the one chair at the table and then went to wait under a window. André was standing just behind the chair. A third man was seated in the darkest corner, not the man who had driven the car, someone more important, someone before whom both the Greek and André kept silent.

  The voice from the corner was speaking French, quite accurately, almost fluently. The underlying accent hinted at German, with a strange overtone of Russian. He wasn’t a Frenchman, certainly. Or English. Or Italian or Spanish or Scandinavian. German mostly; Russian inflections added. Duclos felt his pulse quicken, but he stared dully at the table in front of him as if he were half-drugged, wholly stupefied. “Monsieur Duclos,” the voice was saying, “let us not waste time. We know a great deal. We only want a small explanation from you. Why are you in Greece?”

  “I am on holiday,” Duclos said slowly, thickly.

  “You can do better than that. Why are you in Greece?”

  “On holiday. Some business, too.” He was pausing between the phrases, just enough to give the impression of exhaustion, of scattered wits.

  “What business?”

  “Designs—I am interested in design. Greek revival nineteenth century.”

  “Why did you visit Galland?”

  “Burglary, burglary in my studio.”

  “Nonsense! Why did you visit Galland? We know you interviewed a man, accused of murder, in Galland’s private office. Why?”

  “Burglar. No murder, just burglary.” Stick with that, Duclos told himself. You were called to the police station to identify a possible thief, arrested on another charge. You don’t know the other charge. You only know there was a burglary in your studio. You had wakened to see the man escape; not the man at the police station; no identification made. Stick with that...

  “Why did you visit that man?” the voice went on. And on. Duclos gave the same answers, again, and again, and again.

  Suddenly a power flashlight switched on. The Greek directed its strong flood into Duclos’ face. He closed his eyes. “Open them!” André said at his elbow, and struck him smartly on the side of the head. Just as quickly, he coiled a rope around Duclos, tying his arms to his sides and his back against the wooden chair, and knotted it securely.

  “Why were you at Le Happening?” the voice asked now.

  Duclos blinked in the strong light. “I go often.”

  “You were there when it was raided.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “You spoke to the cloakroom attendant. You spoke with her twice. You asked her about two men, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  Duclos shook his head, tried to get his eyes out of the light, as he thought around this question.

  “You are saying no?”

  “The light—it hurts my eyes.” He shook his head again.

  “Closer!” André told the Greek. The beam came nearer.

  “What two men?” the quiet voice went on.

  “Friends—I was looking for my friends.”

  “Stop lying! We have a record of everything the attendant said over her counter that night. We were suspicious of her, with good reason. We know what you said. Tell us, now, in your own words.”

  Duclos thought, nothing I said could have identified those two men as having any connection with Comrade Peter. Nothing I said to the attendant gave that away. Only two men, two men, that was all I asked about... “I hoped to meet them at the club. They never came. I asked if they had come earlier, and left.”

  “Your studio lies next to the building where Frank Rosenfeld lives. Does he visit you each week?”

  Duclos looked stupidly at the dark corner. “Closer!” André said to the Greek. He twisted Duclos’ face to meet the savage beam of light. The power lamp now rested on the table.

  “Frank Rosenfeld,” the voice said. “We know he is an American agent. We know that. We know that. We know everything. Give up and save yourself. He has saved himself. He isn’t here. You are. Why should you suffer for an American? Give up.” The light was switched off, and Duclos almost groaned with the relief of darkness. “It would be pleasant to give up, wouldn’t it? Tell me how he came to see you over the roof, down the ladder into your studio. That’s how he came. There is a ladder, there. The door to the roof opens easily. That’s how he came. Tell us about him.”

  Duclos said, “The burglar came that way. He used the ladder. He came over the roof.”

  The light switched on, came still nearer, burning.

  “It is Rosenfeld who sends you to Mykonos. Why?”

  Duclos shook his head. “Rosenfeld? I have no client called Rosenfeld. Rosenblum, yes. Rosenblum... But he didn’t send me to Greece.”

  “Why are you going to Mykonos?”

  Duclos was sagging under the heat of the lamp. “To Mykonos, and Rhodes, and the islands—Syros and Tinos, and Lindos on Rhodes and Delos near Mykonos, and—” He let his voice trail away.

  “I could make him talk,” the Greek said. “I could—”

  “No,” the voice said, “not yet. He is stubborn, but he will be more helpful when he knows how hopeless it all is. It amuses me to ask him questions and to hear his quick lies.”

  And that, thought Duclos, is a lie in itself. They have only been trying to connect my visit at the club, the police station, the ladder, the roof, Rosie next door, the reservation for Mykonos. They sense something, know nothing. Stay stupid and ignorant, Duclos; it may be hopeless for you but not for your friends. They don’t even know your connection with the Sûreté, or they would not try to make you confess you were an American agent. He said, “You’re crazy men, all crazy. Why are you doing this to me? Why? I step off a plane and you—”

  “Why did you visit Milan?”

  So there was that, too, was there? Duclos sighed. “Business there. And business in Florence.”

  “Business in Milan with Italian Intelligence?”

  Duclos stared, groaned as his eyeballs seemed to be singed with fire. “With an art dealer.”

  “In Milan you met an Italian agent.”

  “An art dealer,” Duclos repeated.

  “An agent of the Italian government,” the quiet voice insisted. “Rosenfeld sent you.”

  Duclos shook his head. “An art dealer,” he kept on. “He comes to Paris—he sees me. I go to Milan—I see him. A friend. Art dealer.” He closed his eyes. André opened them with a dash of hot wax from the candle he had shaken over Duclos’ face.

  “You can’t be so tired as that,” the voice said from the corner. “I have only begun my questions. They will last until dawn, until noon, until tomorrow evening if necessary.” There was a pause. The light was switched off. “Why not tell me what you know, in your own words? It would be so easy to talk with me. I know a great deal about you. I know too much about you. Tell me about your friends. Why should you face this unpleasantness for them? You are alone. They did not protect you. They left you. You are alone. Helpless. And hopeless. That need not be. Isn’t it silly to argue with me like this? There is so little difference between us—no difference at all. We both want the same things in life, don’t we? Peace. Peace, and pleasures, and peace. But the Americans have not let you see that. They would have you destroy me, wouldn’t they? They have betrayed you and attacked us. Why don’t we make friends? We could work together. And have peace. There is no difference to divide us, except the lies that the Americans have told you. Listen to me. And talk with me. Meet me half-way. Talk. That’s all. And I shall tell André to loosen the rope and make Demetrios remove the lamp. I don’t want to use such things. Believe me...

  Again there was silence. The rope was loosened a little, not enough to free him, just enough to relieve the pain in his arms. By the soft candlelight, he saw the gleam of a revolver in André’s hand. Someone fo
rgot to tell him there was no difference between us, Duclos thought, and half-smiled in spite of his real exhaustion. He was faking nothing now, except stupefied ignorance.

  “Begin at the beginning, tell me everything. You will be glad you did this, tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow, even if I talked, I would be dead, thought Duclos as he looked at the knife that the Greek had whipped out when the rope had been slackened. Demetrios might be the type of barbarian who enjoyed using a knife. He would be efficient with an axe, too. Cold metal, that was Demetrios.

  “Tell me about your friends. First, the ones in Paris. When did you meet Rosenfeld?”

  I have said all I dare say, Duclos thought now. Any more talk, and elaborations, and I will be tripped up. He knows no more than he did when he started his persuasion. Perhaps less. I have given him explanations that he had not expected, and he is stuck with them. He cannot move forward, find firmer footing, unless I provide the steps. So I stay silent, now. I’m weak with lack of food and water, weak with the drugs they managed to put into my body, weaker perhaps than I realise. By dawn, or noon tomorrow, I would even begin to forget the things I did tell them, change them a little, become confused. So now I don’t talk at all, not at all. There’s no choice really between life and death; he would never have spoken the names of André and Demetrios if he meant to let me leave here alive. Duclos looked at André’s revolver, at the Greek knife. I’ll choose André, he thought. And above all, I must choose the right moment.

  “When did you meet him first?” the casual voice asked as if this were a harmless conversation about a common friend.

  Duclos was thinking, I must choose carefully and well. They must not learn that death comes from a small pellet broken between my teeth. How could a man on holiday, a man interested in antique design, possess such a thing as the pellet? If they learn about that, they learn that their suspicions are right. It would be stupid to give them that consolation. But how do I choose the right moment? Even make it a last attempt to escape? Would there be any chance of success? With luck, wild luck? He knew better. Only in the storybooks and adventure films did you have Duclos, with one bound, going free.

  “Do I amuse you?” the voice asked quickly.

  Duclos allowed himself one last sentence. “You have kidnapped the wrong man—I have no money for any ransom.”

  “Duclos, we know who you are. Stop this! We know. Now, in your own words—”

  Duclos shook his head slowly. The rope would soon be tightened again, the squat power lamp with its beam directed at his eyes would be turned on. Questions and questions, hour after hour. No food, no drink, no rest, no sleep. I am to fear André and Demetrios, the hidden threats of violence. I am to trust the quiet voice of the unseen man, his offers of help, his touches of sympathy, his suggestions which will seem more reasonable as I grow weaker, tireder. And after that, if I haven’t broken, then the real work on me will start. But I will not die as a whimpering animal, he told himself in rising anger. I am a man.

  He lunged forward at the table, the rope around his body pinning loose, and managed to tilt it. The two candles toppled and rolled, the lamp slid onto the floor with a crash. Behind him, André caught a loop of the rope, pulled him back, raised the butt of the revolver. Duclos bit down hard on the pellet between his teeth as André struck. He let himself fall sideways, taking the chair with him. The guttering candles dripped their smoking wax on the floor beside him, flickered faintly. The room darkened. The shouts, commands, confusion were moving farther and farther away, a blur of sound fading softly into nothing. Nothing.

  The Greek found the lamp and switched it on. André picked up the candles, placed them back on the table, tried to light them. But the wicks were smothered in wax. “Get fresh candles,” he told Demetrios, “then give me a hand with him.” He looked at Duclos lying half-tied to the chair on the dark floor.

  “Is he faking?” the voice from the corner asked.

  “No. He’s out all right.” André pulled the loosened rope as tight as it would go and tied the ends into a firm knot at the back of the chair. “He’s out for a good ten minutes.” He stood back, waiting for Demetrios, and lit a cigarette.

  Insarov rose, came out of the black shadows. “He’s secure?”

  “Like a trussed chicken.”

  “Then we’ll get some air.” And talk. A little talk is certainly needed. I begin to think that the alarm flashed through Peter in Paris brought me here on a futile mission. Unnecessary exposure is always disastrous. “Tell the Greek to call out if Duclos makes one sound, one small move. We’ll be near at hand.” He lit a cigarette as André unlocked and unbolted the heavy door, then stepped out into the cold darkness. The man on guard by the stone wall swung round with his shotgun held at the ready. “Check with my driver,” Insarov told him, and sent the man stumbling along the rough path towards the road, past the second of the two small stone houses tightly shuttered, closed, empty. He disappeared into the mass of wild bushes and scrub trees near the sheltered spot, off the road, where Insarov had left his car. Insarov shook his head at the man’s clumsiness. Too eager. Fortunately, this whole area was deserted during the week at this time of year. Still—He half-turned to look at André, who had approached silently enough to please him. “Keep that cigarette shaded,” he said sharply. “Did it take so long to make the Greek understand my orders?”

  “Oh, well—you know the Greeks.” André was always a little nervous with Insarov. In Paris he had only seen him vaguely, fleetingly, either when he passed through the back corridor of Le Happening or when André had been called in to the dressing-room for instructions from Peter. He had never expected to see him here, hadn’t even known he was in Athens. Athens? No. The car had been driven only an hour, so the driver had let slip to Demetrios—those Greeks, always imagining that you couldn’t understand their language!

  “You don’t like them?”

  “They think they are the only people with brains and courage.”

  Insarov smiled acidly. “And do you think your Frenchman has brains and courage? Or is he just stupid and innocent?” André stared in surprise. “But he listened to me at the airport—he went along with me, then. That’s some kind of proof, isn’t it? He can’t be what he pretends he is.” And I saw him at the club, André thought indignantly, I saw him wandering round the back of the stage, talking with the cloakroom woman, and we know now what she was. Comrade Peter took me seriously enough, trusted me...

  “Did he really go along with you at the airport? He might only have been humouring you to gain time to call a policeman. He directed you to a wrong hotel, didn’t he? That proves he wasn’t believing what you said. Did he make any reference to Zafiris?”

  “No.”

  “He made no remark we could use against him?”

  André thought back to the airport meeting. Apart from refusals to be helped with his luggage, and an attempt to leave, Duclos had made only one blunder. “He said it would be better to travel separately to Athens, better to meet at the King George. That implied something, didn’t it?”

  “That implies he was trying to get rid of you.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “Perhaps working for Interpol—narcotics.”

  “But the connection with Rosenfeld—”

  “There is no actual connection we have been able to discover. I was only trying to see if there might be one.”

  “And I believed—” André began in amazement, and then laughed softly.

  Insarov wasn’t even flattered. He looked at the Frenchman contemptuously. Did he really think this was a proper interrogation? “If you had questioned the cloakroom attendant thoroughly, for several days, we might have had one piece of information to rely on. Or if you had fully investigated the report you had from your Paris sources about Duclos’ visit to the police station, you could have given me more facts about any supposed burglary. We’ve been working only on coincidences.”

  “There was so little time. We gathered what we could
.” And it had been gathered well. Until this minute he had thought of it as a triumph that would leave even a Russian speechless. The risks had been incredible. Nervously, he smoothed his well-brushed hair; and as he felt its new coarse texture, he saw himself on Sunday night, walking into the Grande Bretagne with Duclos’ luggage and passport, hair dyed dark brown, cheeks pinked up like a damned woman, wearing Duclos’ jacket and hat and his watch and his ring, scrawling a signature at the reservation desk, asking for his mail, going up to the right room, staying there thirty-six hours, keeping out of sight, waiting for telephone calls. “Well, we did pick up his tickets for Mykonos,” André said, still angry.

  “That boat also stops at Syros and Tinos. And goes on to Rhodes. You heard him.”

  “You don’t think he is important to us?”

  “I would need two weeks of preparation, at least; another two weeks for questioning; perhaps four weeks of letting him wait in solitary confinement; more questioning. And only after all that, we might begin to know, not guess, his importance.”

  “Why go on, now? Why not turn him over to Demetrios?”

  “Torture can be a great stupidity. If used too early, it is a self-defeating process. A weak man will agree to any story to please the torturer. I do not want agreement. I want the truth. Who is Duclos? Where is he going? Why? Once we learn all that, we can see what further questions must be asked. Then, and only then, has Demetrios something to work on.”

  “But do you expect him to answer your questions—”

  “I never expect. I listen. And in his evasions, he will answer more than my questions.” Insarov smiled, watching André, who was another type who thought that only he had brains and courage. “Clever men can never resist talking even to show they can outwit you. In another hour of questioning he will begin to think he has beaten me. The hour after that, all I do is to pick his story to pieces. He will be goaded to talk more, change his story, forget what he said hours before. And then, we have him.”