“No need, thank you,” Fenner said. He was sure in his own mind, now, that the coat had been picked up by mistake at the airport. He had put it down, after jamming the book back into its pocket—yes, that was the last time he had touched it.
The scene at the airport came back to him. The man next to him had had a raincoat, hadn’t he? Yes, coming back from that abortive expedition for water, he had seen the man collapse and the coat fall with him... There had been a coat thrown over his legs when they tucked him on the stretcher. So that’s how it happened...
He had better start calling Orly. He would probably have to use French, so he must get his story brief and clear. It would be better still to be able to use the man’s name: that simplified all explanations. There must be some identification on the raincoat; people did not travel around without identification. Fenner searched the edge of the sleeves and the pockets. No label, no inked name on any part of their lining. But this time, as he thrust the blank folds of airmail paper back into its pocket, roughly, annoyance growing at every defeat, his knuckles felt something. There was a slight thickness between the pocket’s loose lining and the heavier lining of the coat itself. A very slight thickness, of cloth possibly, from some hidden felt or seam. He pulled his hand out quickly, with exasperation at his own time-wasting. His impatience had added to the delay: a thread, loose in the pocket’s lining, was snagged around the stem of his wrist watch. He tried to free his watch, but it was well caught. He tried to snap the thread, but it was strong, of nylon possibly: he would end by pulling off the stem of his watch. Cut it loose? Easier, in his annoyance, to try to break the thread at its other end in the pocket. It didn’t belong to any seam, this thread; it had been drawn out of the lining material itself. So he tugged at it with a quick, firm snap. The thread ran along the lining for a good three inches, and the material parted in a neat line.
There you’ve done it, he told himself angrily. Then he looked in amazement at the two gaping lips of cloth. He hadn’t pulled at a thread; he had opened a secret kind of zipper. His watch was still firmly trapped by the end of the thread. With the coat over his arm, he went into the bathroom, found his small folding scissors in his shaving kit, and cut his watch free. After all that trouble, he felt he was owed a look at the secret pocket. Inside, lightly held in place with Scotch tape, was an envelope. It was unaddressed, opaque. There was something inside, not heavy, not bulky; smooth and firm.
Fenner walked back into the bedroom, threw the coat on the nearer bed, and ripped the envelope open. He was angry and he was troubled. The incredible secrecy of the pocket was much too professional a job for a normal person to have planned. The man in the brown suit had been either a very clever criminal or a canny lunatic.
Fenner’s first reaction was embarrassment. He never liked handling someone else’s money. All that secrecy for a few dollar bills? He counted them—there were ten—thinking of the complications ahead of him. When he called Orly, he would have some explaining to do. Or would the currency-control people be interested? Ten bills of—he looked again, thinking his eyes had added zeros and a comma. My God, he said to himself. “My God,” he said aloud. In his hands he held ten bills, each worth ten thousand dollars.
4
Fenner recovered from the shock. A hundred thousand dollars carried in a raincoat? Of all the crazy places—why not in a money belt hidden around a man’s waist? Beyond that first reaction, he did not waste any time trying to fathom the implications of this puzzle for himself. There would be plenty, he knew. He wanted someone else to start on that, someone, too, who would take the ten monstrous bills safely into keeping. Even the thought of a hundred thousand dollars lying on his dressing-table was more than disconcerting.
He put them out of sight in the envelope, replaced it in the coat (damn him for an idiot: why hadn’t he kept his eyes glued on his luggage like some first-time-abroad tourist, and saved himself this trouble?), hung the coat in the wardrobe once more. He had better start telephoning Orly.
But would they believe him? They would begin by thinking that he was some kind of crank. Perhaps he had better take the coat all the way back to Orly. The idea depressed him. What a damned waste of time, what a— If only he knew someone at the Embassy—no, the Consulate: that was the right place to inquire about this, so that it could be handled for him by the proper people in the proper way. Besides, it would be easier on his temper to be able to explain in English. This was going to take a lot of explaining, he thought gloomily. Surely Mike Ballard knew someone at the Consulate, who’d know someone, who’d know... The roundabout approach could be the quickest one.
So his first call was to the Chronicle’s Paris office, which was a general headquarters for the collation and distribution of news reports gathered mostly from European sources. (It had been established just before the war, when suspicions were aroused that one of the big European news-gathering agencies had sold out to the Nazis. Today, with the wire service doing a reliable job, it might have been disbanded, but the Chronicle maintained it as possible insurance. Walt Penneyman had very firm ideas about news: he wanted not only accuracy, but accuracy double-checked, with no opinion-moulding additions or subtractions in the presentation of facts.)
But Mike Ballard was not in his office. His secretary was French, and well trained. She was precise on all the information Fenner did not need, vague on the details he wanted. Monsieur Ballard had already left to join his friends. They were flying in a private plane. No, not from Orly. He would not be back in Paris until Monday afternoon. He would telephone tomorrow and on Sunday, of course, to hear any urgent reports. Could she give Monsieur Ballard any message from Monsieur Fennaire?
No, Monsieur Fennaire had no message. “But,” Fenner added quickly, “if he is calling for news reports, who is collecting them?”
“His assistant, Monsieur Spitzaire.”
“Spitzer?”
“But yes. André Spitzaire. You would like to talk with him?”
“But yes.”
André Spitzer was French, too, and a sharp journalist. It was something of a triumph, Fenner reflected as he put down the receiver, to have managed to extract a name that might be able to help (or advise, at least) without having actually satisfied Mr. Spitzer’s probing curiosity. Fenner had begun by explaining that he wanted someone at the Consulate who could deal with a problem involving an American citizen and French currency regulations. Oh, nothing serious, but urgent. No, no, nothing to do with the black market—did the Consulate have a specialist in that, too? (Laughter on the ’phone.) Yes, he wanted a specialist in French currency regulations, currency control. Oh, not currency control at any particular place, just currency control.
It was only then that Spitzer admitted he didn’t know anyone, personally, at the American Consulate. He could, of course, make inquiries, and let Mr. Fenner know in half an hour? If Mr. Fenner could be more explicit, it would be much easier...
Fenner resisted the reply that he could make inquiries, too. “Does Ballard know anyone at the Consulate?” A name is what I need, he kept telling himself, just a name I can reach directly without having to explain all the way up, from information clerks to secretaries to assistants of assistants. A hundred thousand dollars brought so secretively into France was not exactly his idea of telephone conversation.
“No, only at the Embassy.”
“Who?”
“Well, there’s a press officer named Dade, Stanfield Dade. And there’s—”
“That will do. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”
Stanfield Dade. He remembered the name. He remembered its owner from the days when Dade used to haunt the long corridors at the UN. A tall young man, thin, with glasses and a Haavad Yaad accent? That was eight years ago. Would he remember him? Anyway, remembered or unremembered, Fenner had the name he needed.
Stanfield Dade was eventually tracked to his desk. There was someone with him, for Fenner heard background voices as Dade came onto the ’phone with a sharp “Who is this?” F
enner was terse and urgent. He identified himself, didn’t pause when Dade said in a better mood, “Oh yes. And how are you?” but rushed on with his story. Dade kept saying, “Yes, yes,” with growing impatience, until Fenner reached the final discovery. “Money? in an envelope? Was it much?” Dade was jolted into attention.
“I’d say yes.” It would keep me comfortably alive for at least ten years, Fenner thought wryly, but then I don’t play in the Miami–Vegas circuit.
“Well—” Dade was bemused. He paused. “I was going to suggest that you contact the Consulate, but—” He paused again. “And this envelope was really well hidden?”
“Definitely.”
Dade turned his head away, spoke to someone, muffling the receiver as he began, “It’s very odd, you know—” Soon he was back again with Fenner. “What did this fellow look like?”
Fenner described the brown suit again.
“He arrived at Orly just after eight this morning?”
“That’s right.” What goes on here? Fenner wondered.
“Please hang on.” The line became silent, with Dade’s hand completely smothering the receiver this time. Fenner waited patiently, but gloom and annoyance mounted: this was one hell of a way to spend his first morning in Paris. Then Dade was on the line again. He sounded soothing, like a family doctor who feels his first job is to get the patient calmed down. “Fenner, there’s someone here who may be able to advise you. He knows more about this kind of thing than I do. Half a second—”
A stranger’s voice spoke from Dade’s office; a quiet Midwestern voice, possibly competent. “Mr. Fenner? You have a problem, I hear. I think, as far as you are concerned, it is mostly with the Lost and Found at Orly. And there isn’t much the Consulate could do about any American taking currency out of the US. There are no restrictions on that. How much did you say the amount was, again?” The voice was so innocent.
Fenner half-smiled. He was beginning to feel really assured about the competence of the unemotional voice. “Too much to be carried in dollar bills. A bank transfer would have been simpler.”
“It’s in an envelope?” the voice was slightly incredulous.
“It’s in an envelope.”
“Do you think you could drop over here for a few minutes? Bring everything. Ask for Dade’s office.”
“Yes, I could do that. I’d feel better, though, if I could hire a Brink’s truck to get me across the street.”
There was a short silence. “In that case, I’ll come over and see you in your room. Let’s say around noon?”
“I’ll be here. Whom do I expect?”
“Someone who is five feet eight, hair light, eyes blue; grey suit, brown tie and shoes. The name is Carlson. Okay?”
“Fine.” Fenner grinned. “I’ll keep my door barred and bolted.” He heard Carlson laugh. “And could you have someone contact Orly? I really would like to get my own coat back.”
“We’ll make a try,” Carlson said. “See you!”
A cheerful type, Fenner thought with relief. And careful. He arrived exactly at twelve o’clock, too. His manner matched his voice, but Fenner had a feeling that he had been examined, classified, and catalogued all in the time that Carlson shook hands, walked briskly into the room, said “Let’s get rid of this” as he pushed the breakfast cart into the corridor, and locked the door. He didn’t waste a gesture or a word. He took a chair with its back turned to the windows, so that Fenner faced the light. He might be around forty, Fenner decided, and added a few notes of his own to Carlson’s description of himself. Medium height, but solidly constructed. Fair hair, thinning away from a high brow. Blue eyes, pale, certainly clever, but highly amused at this moment. Clothes not expensive, but quiet and neat; the brown shoes good, expertly polished, no high gloss, just the rich gleam of carefully honed leather.
“Doubtful of me?” Carlson asked. He sat easily in his chair, one ankle over the other knee.
“Just curious. You look more like an ex-Marine than State Department.”
“I’m neither.” Carlson looked at him with disarming frankness. “I’m attached to NATO. Just spending a few weeks in Paris.” He hesitated briefly. “My job is Security.”
“No official connection with the Embassy?” Fenner asked, worriedly. He wanted someone who could take responsibility, start things moving.
“Oh, the Embassy has given me a temporary corner in someone else’s office. You could say that I am attached there. Meanwhile. On a special assignment from NATO.” Carlson grinned. “Not specific enough? All right. I go around making sure that everyone has burned the trash in his wastebasket. Just a general errand boy and go-between. Is that better?”
I’ll settle for that, Fenner decided. A lot of going-between may be necessary before the problem of this coat is solved. So he pulled it out of the wardrobe, and handed it over. “I hope you are also a puzzle-solver. Frankly, the only reason I can see for carrying a lot of money in a raincoat would be to hand it over to someone else in a public place, easily and quietly.”
Carlson let that pass. He studied the coat. “When did you first realise this coat wasn’t yours?”
“About twenty of eleven, when I went searching for a cigarette.”
Carlson nodded, as if he found that reasonable, and fished out his pack of cigarettes for Fenner. He tossed it over. “Keep them. PX rates. I can afford to be lordly. And when did you discover the envelope?” Carlson was drawing out the two blank sheets of airmail paper.
“I think they’re a blind,” Fenner suggested. “If anyone was making a quick search, these sheets would distract his attention from the secret pocket—it’s just underneath—”
Carlson looked at him, raised an eyebrow. “When did you say you discovered the envelope?”
“Later. You see, when I found the coat wasn’t mine, I checked with the porter’s desk downstairs. No dice. I thought I’d telephone Orly, and I started searching for some clue to the owner. My watch caught on a thread inside that pocket. I pulled. It held. And—well, I wrenched at it.”
“Forceful.” Carlson examined the opening that had come apart with the wrenched thread. He ran his finger along its edge; his eyes were thoughtful. “That was just about eleven?” he asked casually.
“Five minutes past, to be exact.”
“And you called Stanfield Dade at eleven-twenty-five.”
Fenner couldn’t help admiring the technique. He explained what happened in that gap of time.
“So that’s how you got Stan’s name—from Spitzer?” Carlson was amused. “He was sure you had remembered him. Set him up for the day.” He had taken out the envelope from the concealed pocket, and looked at its ripped flap. “You were getting madder by the minute, I see.” He nodded as if he sympathised thoroughly. “What did you tell Spitzer, by the way?”
“Nothing about the envelope. Or the coat.”
“Congratulations. Spitzer likes to know.” And then, at last, Carlson drew out the ten bills. His eyes opened wide; his face muscles froze.
“I was waiting for that moment,” Fenner said with a wide grin.
“Did it come up to expectations?” Carlson picked up one of the bills. “I’ve heard of them, but these are the first I’ve seen. Queer feeling, isn’t it, to handle a year’s pay in one small piece of paper?”
Fenner pointed his cigarette at the bill’s engraved portrait. “Who was Chase? If Washington is on a one-dollar bill, Lincoln on a five, Hamilton on a ten—you really are slipping down the ladder if your head is only worth ten thousand.”
“Salmon Portland Chase,” Carlson said crisply as he replaced bills and envelope in their hiding place. “Civil War Secretary of the Treasury, and a good one. He had a bankrupt country to prop up.” But he was thinking of something else. “May I use your ’phone?”
He called Dade. “Definitely interesting. And very professional,” he reported. “Yes, I think the Embassy should take charge until we can find out more... No, no, it isn’t Consulate business: our American citizen here i
sn’t in any trouble.” He grinned across the room at Fenner. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the responsibility. After all, the brown suit may tie in with what Rosie told me this morning. You just alert the Treasury boys and Rosie. Do that for me, will you? Tell them I want to see them right away... In your office, why not? Just say we borrowed it. I don’t give a damn where we meet as long as it’s as soon as possible... Sure, tip off the French if that makes you feel better: get Bernard; he doesn’t think all Americans are morons... Fine. Do that now, will you? And save time. Yes, we’ll be with you soon. The quicker we get this little package back onto US territory, the happier I’ll be. I’ve got a feeling it should never have left there.” He glanced over at Fenner, who was staring at the raincoat as if he could strangle it. “By the way, did you get any reply from my call to Orly?” He listened intently. The news did not please him. “In that case, telephone Bernard first of all. We’ll need him.” He ended the call.
“Well?” Fenner demanded.
“No coat at Orly. The man took it with him.”
“He left?”
Carlson nodded. “Nothing is ever made easy for us, is it? I thought we had him nicely wrapped up in bed. But no, he recovered enough to refuse to be sent to any hospital. He rested for almost an hour, and then wandered off, declining all help except for a porter. Last seen following the exit arrows.”
“He’s crazy. He’ll be dead within a week.”
“Perhaps that doesn’t matter so much as his job,” Carlson said softly. He seemed very far away from this green-and-golden room.
“Is it as important as all that?”
Carlson’s frown deepened.
“So he didn’t notice the exchange? Damnation, I was hoping he would.”
Carlson said, “He’s too smart not to notice. But he wouldn’t ditch your coat. He needs it to find out who you are. Once that’s done, he will find out where you are. He wants his own coat back, intact.”
The Venetian Affair Page 4