The Venetian Affair

by Helen Macinnes

  “Wouldn’t this be quicker?” she asked, holding out the lighter. He will begin to realise I dampened those matches, she thought anxiously.

  “It’s all right,” he told her sharply, and the match, miraculously, flared and caught. The envelope curled slowly into black tissue. Once the address was destroyed, he dropped it into the fireplace and ground it into dust with his foot. “Where’s the original?” he asked, excessively efficient now, avoiding her eyes. Quickly, he skirted the heavy armchairs and reached the writing table, pushed her handbag aside and picked up the sealed envelope. He pointed to the seven copies. “Better get them into envelopes, too,” he said as he crossed over to a wall of bookcases.

  She came back to her chair, and as she sat down again she felt her legs tremble for a brief moment. She dropped her handbag back on the floor and began folding the copies. She didn’t look at Lenoir. She could hear him swinging open three bogus shelves to reach the wall-safe behind them. It was part of the Ca’ Longhi furnishings, to match the heavy inch-wide bars on the downstairs windows and the huge bolts on the door. The Longhi family must have been almost as security-minded as Fernand, she thought. That was why he had chosen to rent this hideous place. No garden, or terrace; just thick walls rising at the junction of two canals, one big, one small. The main entrance was on the dreary little canal, with slimy steps to reach the massive, nail-studded door. And at the back of the huge house, two more doors equally sturdy: one leading into a street so narrow and shadowed that even Fernand had joked about an assassin’s lane; the other opening into a small square with flagstones uneven and tilting and the surrounding houses so covered with cracked and stripped plaster that they seemed to be sinking, too. And let’s not forget the washing, she reminded herself, strung out from windows: all our neighbours’ nightshirts and underpants. Venice... She began sealing the letters, angrily. She felt cheated. Venice could be so many things, and she had been given its worst for her last few days.

  “I know what happened to the Longhi family,” she said, sealing the fourth envelope. “They all died of galloping consumption. I’m chilled to the bone. What about setting the dining-room on fire to get some warmth into these walls?”

  Lenoir was smiling as he turned away from the safe and swung the bookshelves back into place. Quickly, the smile vanished. Coldly, he said, “The Longhi clan? Bourgeois capitalists adopting the trappings of feudalism. Twice damned, my dear Sandra. Their death was merely a matter of historical inevitability: the self-elimination of the obsolete.”

  I know who has just come in, she told herself. She forced herself to glance up casually. Robert Wahl stood just inside the door. Everything he does, she thought angrily, is for an effect. Can’t he enter a room normally? We are supposed to be his friends. Friends? No, we are his comrades. His behaviour is correct. For comrades. Eternal distrust, hidden faces, smothered voices. Comrades. How bitter I have become, she thought as she watched the man who had made her bitter. She wished, suddenly, she were eight years younger, filled with hope and belief. There had been rapture and excitement eight years ago, lifting, sustaining... The worst thing I ever did was to leave America: I would still have been a good Communist if I had stayed there, happily drugged with my hopes and beliefs that were never put to the real test. But here in Europe, I was promoted. I met the elite group, the grey eminence behind the commissar’s chair. And hopes have been replaced by fears. Beliefs are tortured ghosts haunting every waking hour, driving me back. Back to a new beginning? Shall I find it in America? Probably not. It will be enough if I can stop fearing.

  Robert Wahl said nothing. He walked over to the desk, picked up one of the unsealed copies, read it—Fernand dancing attendance, explaining that the original was locked safely away, all under control, everything according to plan. Oh shut up, Fernand, just tell him and stop excusing yourself! And she looked at Wahl and she was pleading, silently, “Give me back those eight years.” Aloud, she said, “Good evening, Comrade Wahl.”

  “So punctilious?” he asked. “And very busy, I see.” His eyes noted everything, even the little heap of jewellery on the table. “You do act your part, Sandra. A most efficient secretary.”

  “I hope so,” she said, with marked modesty.

  He let the copy fall, drift back onto the table. “When you have finished, please come into the next room,” he told her. The smile was as meaningless as his “please”.

  She nodded, and went on with her work. The two men left, Fernand casting a look over his shoulder that told her quite plainly, “And no more jokes!”

  Strange, she thought, as she cleared the table, pulled off her gloves and straightened her sleeves, fastened her jewellery in place again, strange that I seem to make so many bitter jokes nowadays. Because when I lived in America, and had my hopes and beliefs and paid my dues and did what I was told, I never made any jokes at all. That was one of the things Bill used to tease me about: no sense of humour. Perhaps I ought to be grateful to Wahl and Fernand and all those others—in Czechoslovakia, Moscow, East Germany—for one thing at least: developing a sense of humour in me, even if it is sour. She picked up her handbag to find a comb and her powder box. From the drawer of the writing table, she drew out the folded map of Venice she had placed there carefully that morning. She slipped it into her opened handbag, seemingly searching for her lipstick as her fingers inserted the letter deep and safe, into the map’s fold. She coloured her lips with a bold red, closed her handbag (the map looked innocuous), slung it over her forearm nonchalantly. She gathered up the little bundle of seven envelopes with seven copies of Fernand’s masterpiece. I’m ready, she thought as she went toward the connecting door. What have they been discussing, those two? Me, no doubt.

  Yes.

  “I’m going to miss Sandra,” Fernand Lenoir had begun. And regretted his frankness. So he qualified his regret. “She has been useful in many ways. Why don’t you trust her?”

  “Because she cannot be trusted,” Robert Wahl told him shortly, and left it there. The full answer was, “Because anyone who could betray her country, as she has done for fourteen years, could betray us, too.” But he couldn’t give the blunt truth; Lenoir was in the same category—a Frenchman who worked for Soviet Russia. That was something these people never understood: no matter how well they worked, there was always that initial stain of treason, recorded deep in the memories of those who had to work with them. All was grist for the mill; but the mill separated the wheat from the chaff.

  Lenoir felt the silent criticism emanating from the small, sharp eyes. That had been a mistake to ask why she wasn’t trusted, a dangerous error. He, working so closely with her, ought to have been the first to become suspicious. “I only asked to see if your reason coincided with mine.”

  “You don’t trust Comrade Fane either?” Wahl asked smoothly.

  “Recently—well, she is too restless, too cynical. Paris has been bad for her.” He paused, phrasing a tactful denunciation which would not be marked permanently against him, in case Sandra’s rehabilitation in Moscow’s purer air might even set her over him at some future date. “It is an unsettling place for those who do not belong there.” As I do. And he looked at Wahl.

  “Only temporarily unsettling, we hope. The role she played, these last three years, brought her into contact with our enemies. They have been sympathetic, admiring. Her vanity is inflated. Very dangerous. Her judgment is not as detached as it once was. Life has become too soft, too pleasant. Weakening.”

  “Yes, I’ve felt that she was forgetting the realities of the situation. In fact, I had prepared a report on her behaviour, but it’s hardly necessary now.”

  “Why?”

  “Well—your report to Moscow must have covered all my points.”

  “No doubt. Still, I would like to read them. You would see the development of her deterioration more closely than most.”

  “You’ll have that report.” He could write it late tonight. Denunciation must be firm, tempered with sadness over the falling from gra
ce, with hope for quick and complete rehabilitation. That should cover every possibility: past, present, and future.

  “How much have you told her in this last week?”

  “Only the necessary. No more than that.”

  “You placed that letter in the safe yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Its signature is completely adequate?”

  “It is practically authentic.” Lenoir was becoming impatient. “I hope everything else goes as well,” he said pointedly. Not one compliment about the wording of the letter, not one small admission of its excellence.

  “I hope so, too,” Wahl murmured with ironic modesty.

  It was one of the little habits he had adopted in the West. It irritated Lenoir: the tone of voice was wrong, the smile unnecessary. Wahl’s subtleties lay in a different sphere. Lenoir looked at the machine still lying on the table at Wahl’s elbow. “Did you find anything remarkable in the rest of the journey?”

  “Fenner never returned to Langley’s room.”

  “You seem surprised.” And I could have told you that. I listened to a quick run-through of all three recorded wires this morning. The only part worth slowing down to hear was at the beginning of the second wire, an hour of talk between ten and eleven last night. The rest—Lenoir shrugged at the waste of three precisely timed microphones. He allowed himself a touch of sarcasm. “The girl fell asleep. That does happen, you know.”

  “But does an American give up so easily? Was he aware that they were being recorded? If so, this was an excellent plan to guard their tongues.”

  Lenoir heard the library door open behind him. “Sandra can tell you more about Fenner’s love-making than I can.”

  “Come in!” Wahl said. She had halted at the sneer in Lenoir’s voice. Stupid pig, Wahl thought, he has warned her. Damn all those clever Frenchmen; they can’t resist the right tone of voice at the wrong time. “Come in, Sandra, we need your advice. Sit over there. I am going to play a little recording for you. It was made last night. On a train. Listen!” She nodded, handed the envelopes to Lenoir, took the chair opposite Wahl. He turned on the machine, watching her face. Into the quiet room came the sound of a door opening, a man’s voice (distant, blurred) saying, “See you in five minutes. I’ll get those forms. And a nightcap.” The door rattled shut. Movements and rustle and a sighing yawn.

  Sandra Fane waited patiently, obediently, conscious of Wahl’s eyes. Lenoir was restless. And at last, there was the sound of a door opening, closing. A woman’s voice welcomed the man with, “Darling, how wonderful...”

  Sandra’s eyes widened. Could that be Claire Langley? And the man answering her—yes, that was Bill Fenner. She let an amused smile lift one corner of her mouth, raised her eyebrows slightly. Wahl motioned abruptly for silence, for attention. And he kept watching her. At last, the voices ended. There was nothing but the rhythm and rattle of the hurrying train.

  Lenoir glanced covertly at his watch. It was half-past six. He had two more men to see this evening—the Roman newspaperman, then Mike Ballard. He would have to snatch a bite to eat in between these appointments: Ballard would need careful handling—that unexpected return to Paris yesterday, and the quarrel with Spitzer raised new difficulties. Still, he could be handled. He was the fish that was hooked but had to be played carefully before he could be gaffed and netted. After that, there was the final co-ordination of his story, and the report on Sandra to write. She was losing interest, now, in the steady pounding of train wheels. Wahl was still listening intently. Lenoir wondered at his infinite patience.

  Wahl switched off the machine. “Et cetera, et cetera,” he said lightly. He was pleased. He looked at them both and smiled. “That was the most important part of the whole recording.” And as both of them kept silent, he added, “Because, if their whole conversation had been a performance, if there had been no black nightdress, no attack of sleep—” he paused for emphasis—“that was the time, once Fenner had left her, for the Langley woman to prepare for bed and lock her door. There was a slight rustle, I thought, but it stopped. Not enough to explain any undressing. Possibly, she was turning in her sleep.”

  Lenoir sat corrected. Sandra looked at the emerald on her third finger. So Rosenfeld had sent not only Fenner, but Claire Langley with him. Rosenfeld had taken her seriously, that was certain. She almost sighed in relief. She studied the deep green of her ring: how much would it bring her?

  Wahl said, watching her, “Does your ex-husband sound quite natural?”

  She looked up at him, openly amazed. “Really—” She shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t seen him in eight years. I’m no longer any judge—”

  “But from your memory of him?”

  “He is interested in Claire Langley definitely—for the next few weeks.”

  Lenoir glanced at her sharply. Could she be jealous? There had been a touch of the cat’s claw there.

  “Would he have let you fall asleep?” Wahl insisted.

  Lenoir said, “Sandra is not the type to fall asleep.”

  “I am serious!” Wahl warned them. “Answer me, Sandra.”

  “It would depend on his mood,” she said evasively.

  “Was he impulsive about women?”

  “It’s eight years—look, I haven’t been following his career.”

  “When did he meet this woman?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Not in New York then?”

  “He could have met her there. It has been eight years—”

  “So we’ve heard,” Wahl said sharply. “You knew her in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her politics?”

  Sandra could smile. “Politically immature.”

  “Why did you invite her to your parties?”

  “She came with a friend from the British Embassy.”

  “You had no suspicions about her?”

  “Why should I? She’s one of those ornamental girls without a notion of politics.”

  “You once gave that same appearance, my dear Sandra, when you first lived in New York.” He studied her with cold eyes. “So she accepted your story in Paris. How?”

  “She asked the same polite questions that everyone asked, and I gave her the same sincere, sad answer. It was all part of my return to the West.”

  “Did you ever think, or feel, that she could be possibly working for American Intelligence?”

  “Langley?” Sandra looked amused. “She is totally brainless. Of course, that might be a recommendation for the CIA to pick her.”

  Lenoir was smiling. “Not altogether brainless. She holds an important job as a designer. Spitzer sent me a report—”

  “That’s merely being artistic,” Sandra cut in. “Since when did either of you credit artists with brain power?”

  “True,” Wahl said, “but what did Spitzer report?”

  “Her firm is completely legitimate. She heads its European branch, lives in Paris. Spitzer tells me that Fenner stayed at her flat on Friday night.”

  “Does she have many visitors? And who?”

  “There hasn’t been time to check on the details of her life in Paris. Spitzer reports she is a widow. Her husband was killed in Saigon. In 1953.”

  “Langley.” Wahl was searching his memory. “James Langley. Yes, I remember.” What he remembered did not please him. “There was an investigation, a very close investigation.” Too close, he thought. That newspaper report with his name boldly printed... What was the name of the CIA man who had leaked Kalganov to the press? Rennie. Frank Rennie, a so-called business-man. He had known Langley’s widow. Yes, they had become friends... “So,” he said pleasantly, aware that Sandra and Lenoir were watching him curiously, “you found nothing that puzzled you in that train conversation?”

  Sandra said, “The only puzzle was that you should have been interested in those two.”

  “Indeed.” He half-smiled. To Lenoir, he said, “And Fenner?”

  “We’ve checked his movements since he arrived
in Paris. There are explanations and reasons for all of them. Still, he could be a very clever operator. The girl is harmless, I think. But he may be dangerous.”

  Sandra Fane was aware of Wahl’s eyes on her face. Were his ears as quick? Had he heard the missed beat in her heart? “Bill Fenner?” She began to laugh. “Bill as an agent of the CIA?”

  “Or Military Intelligence. Carlson was seen at his hotel.”

  “With him?” she asked in alarm.

  “They both left the Crillon on Friday evening about the same time.”

  “Together?” Sandra’s heart missed a second beat. Stupid, stupid fools.

  Wahl did not answer that.

  “Not exactly,” Lenoir said. “We can’t be sure though. That is the trouble with Fenner. We can’t be sure of anything about him. Did he intercept the money? Or was the exchanged coat a completely innocent mistake? I’m inclined to think it wasn’t—”

  “Perhaps you are inclined to read too much into his actions,” Wahl said coldly. “There is no room in our work for emotions.” He looked angrily at Sandra Fane. Had she thought she would safeguard herself by making Lenoir fall in love with her? Yes, it was time for her to be disciplined. Did she guess what he was thinking? For she had turned pale. She was sitting too still.

  Sandra recovered herself. “What’s this—about the coat and the money?” She asked Lenoir. “Do you mean Fenner was there when the money disappeared at Orly?”

  “It was his coat that was exchanged with Goldsmith’s.”

  She stared at him. And I had to choose Fenner as my contact in Venice, she thought: I had to suggest his name to Rosenfeld. This time, she couldn’t control her laughter. This time, it was real. It pealed on, and on, uncontrolled, uncontrollable.

  Wahl raised his voice. “Stop that! Stop it!” Was the idea of Fenner as an Intelligence agent so absurd? “This is no time for hysteria,” he said acidly, well aware that Lenoir was as startled by her outburst as he had been. She was not a woman who behaved like this normally. Yet the laughter was normal in the sense that it was natural, unpretended. She had not been acting; of that, he was sure. He rose and crossed quickly to where she sat. She got control of herself. She opened her handbag and searched for her handkerchief to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes. Her fingers touched the map, and the thought of its contents—of her careful plans and calculated risk, of Rosenfeld seeking out Fenner at her suggestion, Fenner the natural suspect for the master of suspicion now standing over her—set her laughing once more. Wahl struck a smart blow at her cheek. There was a sudden silence, ended by the snap of her handbag as she closed it.