by Morris West
Harlequin took the view that she should know everything, I claimed privilege, because I had put my head on the block and Aaron Bogdanovich would chop it off at the fall of a cambric handkerchief. Julie claimed, reasonably enough, that it was hard to sleep with a man if you couldn’t talk to him; that if there were risks to share, she had to understand them; that if a secretary could be trusted, why not a wife? I urged the argument that chilled me quicker than any: the more you knew, the more vulnerable you were; and I had scars to prove we weren’t playing pat-a-cake. To which Julie, with rare restraint, replied that we were a small group of friends standing against a hostile world. If confidence were not shared, the group could not hold together. I capitulated then and Harlequin told her the whole story. She was shocked to see how deeply we were committed, how close we stood to the jungle fringe. She was shamed by her own thoughtlessness, angry that we had left her so long in ignorance. She refused ever again to be protected and cosseted.
Harlequin was happier, then. He could reason openly in family conclave. He could admit his needs, instead of hiding them behind a mask of smiles and politeness. Even the look of him was different. His talk was more vivid; his gestures less restrained. He was, in a way, simpler, albeit more singular, like a monk who had suddenly found the key to his own heart.
We dined on spaghetti and wine at Bertolo’s. The spaghetti was Juliette’s idea. She thought – save the mark! – that it would make easier chewing for me than beefsteak. We called for old and sentimental songs from the accordion player. We held hands and sang. We drank death and damnation to the ungodly, while Harlequin intoned curses in as many tongues as he could remember, lest Basil Yanko slip through unscathed. We were like people in the plague-time, huddled round the fire and the bottle, chanting to chase the evil away from our doorstep. But the evil was there and we all knew it: the infection of violence and terror. The moment we stepped outside the charmed circle, we would fall prey to it again.
As we walked back, arm in arm, to the Salvador, the strains of the day caught up with me and I felt suddenly weak and nauseous. I rested a while in Harlequin’s suite, but felt no better. Suzanne announced that she would take me home in a taxi and stay the night in my apartment. I protested, but was firmly over-ruled. Half an hour later, I was propped up in bed and dosed with sedatives, while Suzanne and Takeshi made tea in the kitchen. It couldn’t happen; I knew it wouldn’t; but I wondered, drowsily, what it would be like to have a woman round the place every day.
In the morning, much too early, I had a surprise visit from Aaron Bogdanovich. Takeshi ushered him into my room, where he sat, perched on the end of the bed, with a cup of coffee in his hand, and put me to the question. ‘You didn’t call me last night. Why?’
‘I was sick. Harlequin’s secretary brought me home. She’s in the guest room.’
‘If I ask you to call, you will call. My system depends on orderly reporting. What happened yesterday?’
I told him, verse by verse.
He weighed and approved it. ‘Good! I wondered how Harlequin would perform. What happens next?’
‘We wait on answers from shareholders. We put funds together in New York to buy out the waverers. What’s your news?’
‘We know who killed Valerie Hallstrom. His name’s Tony Tesoriero and he’s in Miami. We’ll be talking to him soon.’
‘How did you find him?’
‘Wrong question, Mr Desmond.’
‘Sorry. I’m not very bright at this hour.’
‘Saul Wells passed me the word on Ella Deane. She made three large cash deposits in November, December and January. During this period she was friendly with Frank Lemnitz.’
‘Time to talk to that gentleman, I should think.’
‘We tried last night. He didn’t go home. He didn’t report for work this morning.’
‘He was probably fired after Yanko’s meeting with us.’
‘In fact, he left for London on the midnight special. Friends of mine will meet him there.’
‘Unless he goes hedgehopping round Europe.’
‘His ticket was economy one-way to London. Now, Mr Desmond, how are your nerves?’
‘Frayed. Why?’
‘This morning, in your mail-box, you will find a plain manila envelope addressed to you. Inside, you will find Valerie Hallstrom’s notebook and a printed slip which says, “Compliments of Valerie Hallstrom”. You will immediately call Mr Harlequin and your investigator, Saul Wells. Mr Wells will call the police on your behalf. You will turn the book over to them. Mr Harlequin will telephone Mr Yanko and tell him the news.’
‘Then, all hell breaks loose. The police and the FBI move in on me.’
‘Right. And you tell them the truth. You found the book in the mail-box. They will both, inevitably, rehearse your brief association with Miss Hallstrom. During these rehearsals – but not too soon – you will remember the one thing you forgot to tell the police – Miss Hallstrom’s fear of Basil Yanko.’
‘And how do I explain my bad memory?’
‘Very simply – a remark like that could cast suspicion on an innocent man. Meantime, we’ll be chatting to our friend, Tony Tesoriero, in Miami. Any information we get will be filtered to the FBI. That should keep everybody busy for a while.’
‘I’d hate ever to fall out with you, Mr Bogdanovich.’
‘I’m sure you won’t, Mr Desmond. By the way, this secretary…’
‘Is an old and dear friend.’
‘Good! It mightn’t do any harm if she saw you opening the mail. Perhaps she could even collect it for you?’
‘Takeshi does that.’
‘Better still. Well, good luck, Mr Desmond… Oh, there’s one thing. At our next meeting, I would like to pick up a hundred thousand.’
‘I’ll have it. When do I call?’
‘This time, I’ll call you. I may be out of town for a couple of days… Good luck I’
I had consented to madness and I knew it; but in a lunatic world, the mad were safer than the sane. They were accustomed to chaos. They expected monstrosity: bombs in the mail-bag, poison in the water, headless children in the street, mass-murder by generals. They knew you were shot in airports, raped in elevators, tortured by professionals who were paid with public money. It was as normal for presidents to lie as for policemen to perjure themselves and telephone companies to sponsor revolutions.
In the context of mass insanity, Aaron Bogdanovich was the most reasonable of men. The cold mathematic by which he worked was the only system viable in a world of conflicting moralities and disreputable laws. If God didn’t exist, or absented himself too long, then Aaron Bogdanovich and his ilk were the logical substitutes. Even in hell, you had to keep order; and terror was the most refined instrument to hand. You didn’t have to use it too often, only to exhibit it by constant threat and occasional bloody example. The only recourse against it was a greater terror still. In the end, mankind had to surrender, if only to live peacefully in the clear light of a frozen wasteland. It was a nightmare logic; but once the premises were accepted, there was no escape from the conclusion.
Then Suzanne came in to see me, and, for a while at least, the nightmare was dissipated. She was calm and caring. We kissed and held hands and remembered, without regret, the passionate yesterdays.
When I asked, lightly, whether she would like to live them again, she smiled and shook her head. ‘No, chéri. Our hearts wouldn’t be in it and we’re not young enough to lie to each other. We both missed the train. We’re standing on the station holding hands. That’s the way I dreamed of us last night.’
‘I was glad you were here. Thanks, Suzy.’
‘For nothing. I was pleased to get away from the hotel. I smile when I see you making lover’s quarrels with Juliette. I forget how I must betray myself every time George walks into the room. Under the same roof, it’s intolerable’
‘You can move in here, if you like.’
‘Thanks, Paul, but no. If you want company, I’ll come any time.’
‘Bless you, woman! Now get out of here and let me dress. There’s a big day ahead of us. I’ll tell you about it at breakfast.’
Fortunately for our designs, Takeshi was a slave to ritual. When he laid the breakfast table, the toast was wrapped like a wedding gift, the butter was rolled, the juice was packed in crushed ice. The mail and the morning paper were brought after the bacon and eggs, and the second cup of coffee. Takeshi slit the envelopes and retrieved the foreign stamps for his nephew in San Francisco. He collected the household bills and paid them from his domestic account. I took the newspaper and my private letters into the lounge, where Takeshi served the third coffee in a fresh cup. After that, he went about his household chores.
The manila envelope was last in the pile of letters. Takeshi noted instantly that there was no stamp and no postmark. I pretended surprise. I weighed it in my hand, remarked that there was no return address and then handed it back to be opened. I made sure he read the enclosure slip and shared my amazement at receiving a missive from a dead woman. Then I asked him to get George Harlequin on the phone and to wait. I told him:
‘George, something very odd has come up. It needs urgent action. Suzy and I will be over in about thirty minutes. No, better we don’t discuss it on the phone. I think it’s a matter for the police. We need Saul Wells there, too…’
Saul Wells talked a hundred words a minute, pacing the floor, puffing smoke, scattering ash and little confetti phrases of advice. ‘You’re two foreign gentlemen. You pay me to know. So, when the fuzz comes, you let me talk… All you can tell is that the book dropped into your mail-box like pennies from heaven. Of course, you know what’s in it. So do I. I’ve made photostats of each page. That’s normal. I’m a security investigator, registered and licensed. I’m also a businessman looking for new accounts. So I contact the other companies noted in that book – highest level, strictest confidence, and with your permission, Mr Harlequin. You’ve been taken. They could be taken, too. They’re grateful. They’re also scared. The minute I’m out the door, they telephone Basil Yanko. He’s worried. Which is what we want him to be… Meantime, the fuzz have the book and the FBI get it, too. The fuzz are concerned with murder. The FBI are worried about national security, international fraud and a lot of big companies breathing down their necks. You, Mr Desmond, get asked two awkward questions. Who could possibly have sent you the book – and why? They’ll dress those questions up twenty different ways and keep coming back to them. The answer’s still the same: You don’t know.’
‘Then I’m lying.’
‘Did you see the book delivered?’
‘No.’
‘Can you read minds?’
‘No.’
‘So how are you lying? Don’t get to feeling guilty, friend. That’s fatal. You haven’t killed anyone. You haven’t stolen anything. You’re a foreign banker who’s hired local help and wants to conform strictly to the law… Now, Mr Harlequin. You told Yanko you had a dossier on him. Get it copied now. If the Feds ask for the original, you’ll have to turn it over – that’s assuming Yanko has told them it exists.’
‘Would he be foolish enough for that?’
‘Not foolish, Mr Harlequin. Shrewd maybe. He handles sensitive contracts. He’s been screened a hundred times. When you work for the government, you don’t have to be clean – so long as you make honest confessions when they ask for them. You’re shocked? My dear sir, if you hire a man to design a missile system, you buy his talents and bury his sins. So long as you’ve got them on file, you’re both safe. Now, you’re going to have some awkward questions, too. For instance, do you suspect Yanko of complicity in the frauds? Do you see any connection between the frauds and the death of Miss Hallstrom?’
‘I am worried by the coincidence of his offer to buy me out.’
‘Good. That’s the line. The fact that you’ve called in the Swiss police helps, too.’
‘There’s one other point, Mr Wells. I told Yanko my investigation had established a connection between Bernie Koonig and Frank Lemnitz. Mr Desmond’s injuries are still rather evident. The question is bound to come up.’
‘It’s covered, Mr Harlequin. You have a written contract with Lichtman Wells. Can you produce any contract with another investigator?’
‘No.’
‘So relax.’
‘I feel, Mr Wells, as if I were living on another planet.’
‘No, Mr Harlequin,’ said Saul Wells, happily. ‘It’s the same old earth. You just haven’t been around enough. Now, take a deep breath. I’m going to call the fuzz. Then we’ll take ten before you call Mr Yanko. I can’t wait to see his face when he arrives.’
In the event, he was denied the pleasure. Mr Basil Yanko was not available. He had left last night for Europe. His secretary could not tell us when he might return. The police were grateful, but vague. They listened in silence to Saul Wells’ voluble explanations. They asked me to confirm them. They made notes. They examined the envelope, took possession of the notebook, signed a receipt for it, thanked us for our help and departed.
Saul Wells was puzzled and unhappy. ‘…We hand them dynamite and they treat it like a can of baked beans. Yanko’s up to his neck in grief and he takes off for Europe. Something smells. I don’t like it.’
Harlequin refused to be perturbed. ‘This is theatre, Mr Wells. Silence is more frightening than speech. If we are meant to be dubious and fearful, we must not consent to it. The testimony we have offered so far proves itself at every point. Please, let’s be calm.’
Then the telephone rang. I answered it.
Karl Kruger was on the line from Hamburg. ‘Hullo, young Paul! How goes it?’
‘We’re fighting, Karl. And we’re holding.’
‘There, maybe. Here, you’re slipping fast. That’s why I called. I’ve been asked to put together an underwriting group for a municipal bond issue in the Bundesrepublik. Not big, but important, you understand. I put Harlequin’s name on the list. They struck it off.’
‘Any reasons?’
‘Who gives reasons? You know the trade, Paul. How’s the boy behaving?’
‘Beautifully.’
‘I hear he’s taking up options at a hundred a share. That makes him an idiot. Where is he?’
‘He’s here. Would you like to talk to him?’
‘In a minute. There’s a meeting in Frankfurt tomorrow. Yanko called it. Some of your shareholders will be there.’
‘Minority votes – and Harlequin has first option to buy. You have second. What can they do?’
‘They can shout stinking fish and foul up the market; that’s what. Harlequin should know. He should be there. Tell him that.’
‘Tell him yourself. I’ll put him on the line… George, it’s Karl Kruger.’
He took the receiver from my hand and launched into a long and animated discussion in German, while Saul Wells led me into the anteroom and read me a plaintive lecture.
‘…Hear me, Mr Desmond! I know this town. I know the police and the FBI and how they work. In the press, we’ve had half a column, then nothing. What did we get from the fuzz? Thank you for the information, routine questions, sweet damn-all! From now on watch your phones and don’t talk in front of the help. I’ll have a man in each day to check this apartment and yours for bugs. If you want to be private, walk in the park or go to the bookshop.’
‘Fine, Saul, we’ll take your advice. But hell! We’re not criminals!’
‘No. But you’re now in possession of very potent information. You don’t know all the companies listed in that little book. I do. It’s my business. At least five of them are high security outfits, working on defence projects. So you can be blood brother to the President; but you’ll still get a bug on your phone. You’re both aliens; and we’re scared of aliens, Mr Desmond. We’d rather protect a home-grown whore like Yanko than a pair of foreign virgins… You don’t know how easy it is to smear someone. Do you ever handle Iron Curtain trade? Have you ever been to China? Have you ever had any c
onnection with agents of a foreign power? And how will you both print out from Yanko’s data bank? It doesn’t have to be fact, you know. It’s opinion, too; but once it’s on the card, it’s gospel. Excuse me – but it only takes one word to turn the Virgin Mary into Mary Magdalene. Mr Harlequin may not understand that; and…’
‘I understand, Mr Wells.’ George Harlequin stood flushed and indignant in the doorway. ‘We are to be cowed into surrender.’
‘No offence, Mr Harlequin. You pay me to deliver a true bill. I’m trying to do that.’
‘I know it, Mr Wells. I prize it. I’m not angry with you; I’m affronted by this whole sordid affair – this meeting in Frankfurt, this subornation of colleagues. I’ll be damned in hell before I play ghost-games with Basil Yanko. How many photostats do we have of Valerie Hallstrom’s notebook?’
‘You’ve got one. I’ve got three.’
‘Give me one more.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Mr Wells, I am a very reputable Swiss. I am going to pay a call on my Ambassador in Washington. I think we’ll all go, Paul. The change will do us good. I have your number, Mr Wells. I’ll let you know where to contact me.’
‘One small word, Mr Harlequin. Basil Yanko’s got a lot of friends in Washington.’
‘I know. But we have a list of his enemies.’
‘Test ’em before you tell ’em the time of day. Washington’s got a funny climate. Some people don’t weather it very well. I wish you luck!’
He was hardly gone ten minutes when there was a call from the bell-captain: a gentleman wished to speak with Mr Harlequin. Suzanne went down to meet him and inquire his business. A few minutes later, she presented him in person: Mr Philip Lyndon of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was young, bronzed, beautifully turned out and, at the beginning, his manners were impeccable. He was delighted to find me there as well. It would save time and repetition. First, he would like to establish that this was a confidential discussion, on both sides. It had to do with Creative Systems Incorporated, with whom Harlequin et Cie had connections as underwriters, shareholders, bankers and clients. It was understood that Creative Systems were bidding for control of Harlequin et Cie. Mr Harlequin was President and major shareholder, right? And Mr Desmond here…