Harlequin

by Morris West

  ‘You’re not a Swiss, are you, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘No. Australian. I have a business visa, so you have my personal details on file.’

  ‘Yes, we do. What is your position with Harlequin et Cie?’

  ‘I am a working director.’

  ‘He is also my most valued colleague and a long-time friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harlequin. Now to save time: we are aware of your problems, Mr Harlequin; that is to say, we have seen the report on your computer operations. We know that you have hired Lichtman Wells to investigate them. They may or may not come under our scrutiny in other connections.’

  ‘You may not be aware, Mr Lyndon, that the Swiss police have been fully informed and are working on the case. The operator who was implicated in New York, Miss Ella Deane, is dead. Our legal advisers tell us that we have no further recourse in this jurisdiction – unless and until other information is forthcoming from our investigators.’

  ‘That’s useful. Since you appointed them, I take it you were not satisfied with the report from Creative Systems?’

  ‘I did not say that, Mr Lyndon. The report conformed to the contract, which was to check the security system and point out any anomalies in the working of the programme.’

  ‘Quite. But fraud was committed in all your branches, and so far you have identified only one operator.’

  ‘Investigators are still working in other branches.’

  ‘Are you satisfied that Creative Systems was not involved in the fraud?’

  ‘It’s difficult to answer that question without creating a false impression. There are two points to be made. First, the report exonerates all employees of Creative Systems, but offers no evidence in support. Second, there is the curious coincidence that a take-over bid was made as soon as the report was presented.’

  ‘That could, of course, be a piece of business opportunism – not over-ethical, but at the same time not criminal.’

  ‘It could.’

  ‘I take it that you, Mr Desmond, have acted in this matter as delegate of Mr Harlequin?’

  ‘Insofar as I have acted, yes.’

  ‘When, for example, you discussed the report with Miss Valerie Hallstrom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you met her on two other occasions?’

  ‘No. One meeting was accidental. The other was a social occasion.’

  ‘After which she was murdered. On that, of course, we have the police record. Mr Desmond, did you ask Miss Hallstrom to amplify or comment on the security report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she do so?’

  ‘She explained its meaning. I invited her to draw conclusions from it. She refused on the grounds that she had no brief to do so.’

  ‘Did you press her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you request or induce her to offer any information about Creative Systems?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she suggest that she might be prepared to offer it, under any conditions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you seek a social meeting with her?’

  ‘I’m a bachelor. She is – was – an attractive woman.’

  ‘I think,’ said Harlequin, mildly, ‘it might save Mr Lyndon some time if we inform him what happened this morning.’

  ‘Please, Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘Well, this morning, Mr Desmond found in his mail-box a manila envelope, unstamped, with no return address. The envelope contained a black notebook and a printed slip with the words, “Compliments of Valerie Hallstrom”. The notebook contains the names of a number of companies, ours among them, and a list of their computer codes. Mr Desmond called me. We met here with Mr Wells and together we handed the notebook to the police. We assumed they would pass it on to the FBI. Your questions to Mr Desmond indicate that, so far, they have not done so.’

  ‘Indeed not, Mr Harlequin.’ Mr Philip Lyndon was visibly shaken. ‘This – this is something quite new to me. You’re quite sure about the contents of the book?’

  ‘I am. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get you the police receipt and a photostat of the entries. I suggested to Mr Wells that he should perhaps communicate with the companies named in case their security, too, had been breached…’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s very irregular.’

  ‘Irregular!’ Harlequin stopped dead in his tracks. ‘How irregular, Mr Lyndon?’

  ‘Computer codes are confidential information.’

  ‘I thought they were, too, Mr Lyndon. A mistake that cost my bank fifteen million dollars… That’s the receipt. That’s the photostat.’

  ‘I’ll have to keep this.’

  ‘No, Mr Lyndon. It is my property in law. You ask, politely, whether I will permit you to keep it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. May I keep it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lyndon, you may. But you will, of course, give me a receipt for it.’

  He leafed through the pages, frowning and making little clucking sounds of distress; then, he turned to me. ‘Mr Desmond, can you tell me in detail how the notebook came into your possession?’

  He wanted detail; he got it: my morning habits, Takeshi’s rituals, his nephew’s stamp collection, and for good measure, a repeat performance by Suzanne. Then he asked the big-money question:

  ‘Who sent the book, Mr Desmond?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why was it sent to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you must have thought about it.’

  ‘What’s the time, Mr Lyndon?’

  ‘Just on midday, why?’

  ‘The notebook came to my breakfast table four hours ago. Since then, I’ve been round and round the mulberry bush with Mr Harlequin, with Saul Wells, with the police and now with you. I haven’t had much time to think. Please, consider the facts. What could I do with the book? Sell it? Eat it? It’s material evidence in a murder case. I couldn’t get it out of my hands quick enough.’

  ‘You didn’t buy it, by any chance?’

  ‘From whom, Mr Lyndon?’

  ‘Miss Hallstrom, perhaps.’

  ‘Was she selling secrets?’

  ‘The possibility is being discussed.’

  ‘Why would I buy them?’

  ‘Perhaps to discredit Creative Systems. I read your press statement this morning, gentlemen. You’re unwilling sellers, I believe; but the price is obviously very attractive to some shareholders.’

  ‘Is that a question or a statement?’

  ‘Just a hypothesis, Mr Desmond – to stimulate discussion.’

  ‘There will be no more discussion.’ George Harlequin’s words were bleak and final. He got up, walked to the telephone, called the hotel operator and asked for a personal call to the Swiss Ambassador in Washington.

  Mr Philip Lyndon was a very good interrogator, but his nerve failed him at the last moment. ‘Please, Mr Harlequin! I was out of line. I apologise.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Lyndon.’ Harlequin was adamant. ‘The meeting is closed. You have heard the truth. If you do not recognise it, we cannot help you further. I find your innuendo offensive in the extreme. I have reason to believe it may be inspired. If so, it discredits you as a Government servant… Hullo! Oh, Erich! George Harlequin from New York. A diplomatic matter of some importance. Best we use home-talk.’ He rattled on for five minutes in Switzerdeutsch and then put down the receiver. ‘Paul, we’re going to Washington. I suggest you call your own Embassy while we’re there. Now, Mr Lyndon, let’s be very clear. We are, and will be, happy to give you any facts at our disposal on matters touching your inquiry, which Mr Yanko informed me has to do with high security matters. On the other hand, we will not submit to hectoring interrogation and we shall protect ourselves against it, if necessary, by diplomatic intervention.’

  ‘That is your right, Mr Harlequin.’ Mr Lyndon had recovered his manners and some of his courage. ‘Off the record, I don’t blame you. You used the phrase, “inspired innuendo”. You wouldn�
��t like to amplify that, would you?’

  ‘I’ll define it for you, Mr Lyndon. It’s a form of murder. You stifle a man with cobwebs. Good-day, sir.’

  I had never seen Harlequin so angry. He was white to the gills. His eyes were hard as pebbles. He stormed up and down the room, beating fist into his palm, pouring out a tumble of savage words, while Julie and Suzanne stood, shocked and silent, in the doorway.

  ‘ …I’m revolted. Karl Kruger tells me I should fly to Frankfurt… For what? To plead with men I have enriched… prove to them that I am not a villain or an idiot!… Now we’re to be bullied by bureaucrats and agents, frightened like children by whispers in the dark… No! No! No! I will die in a ditch first… Julie, get us packed. We’re going to Washington. Suzanne, make reservations for us all. We’ll take the train. Get accommodation at…’

  ‘Hold it a moment, George! I make the reservations. That’s the arrangement with Bogdanovich.’

  ‘Then do it, Paul. Now! Suzy, get Herbert Bachmann on the phone. When you’ve done that…’

  ‘George, please!’ Julie planted herself in front of him and laid restraining hands on his shoulders. ‘You’re the bully now. It doesn’t become you, darling. Stop it!’

  It was a long moment before he mastered himself and the effort was painful to see. When he spoke at last, his voice was harsh and strained. ‘If I’m offensive, I’m sorry. You wanted me to fight. I warned you that you mightn’t like the man who lives in my skin. I have to live with him now. You have other choices.’

  Juliette stared at him, pale and stricken; then she burst into tears and ran from the room. Suzanne gave Harlequin a swift, reproachful look and hurried after her. I blazed at him:

  ‘For Christ’s sake, George! That was a brutal thing to say.’

  ‘Was it? In the end, she’ll see it as a kindness. You, too, perhaps, Paul.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell!’

  The Apex Travel Agency was not at all the sort of place where you would expect to book first-class travel to anywhere, let alone luxury suites at Embassy Row. It was a fusty little store in the unredeemed area of Greenwich Village, with thumb-tacked posters and dog-eared brochures, and a gypsy-faced receptionist dressed in sackcloth and beads. However, when I gave my name and mentioned that I was in the flower-business, the place came suddenly to life. The gypsy looked ten years younger. Her smile was a promise of good fortune. Washington was a mess, but she was sure she could fix something: rail bookings would be delivered to the hotel within the hour; a limousine would meet us when we arrived.

  The other arrangements took a little longer to explain. Our contact in Washington would be one Kurt Saperstein, also in the flower business, trading under the name, Bernard’s Blooms. He had, it seemed, a big wire trade; so communications were no problem. As soon as we were settled, I should let him know the numbers of our rooms. There might also be a contact in Embassy Row itself; but Kurt would tell me about that in due course. He would be responsible for passing information to Aaron Bogdanovich. There was one small caution: Washington was a sensitive town; agents were thick as dandelions on the grass; security was tight; it paid to be extra careful. I crossed the gypsy’s palm with credit cards and rode uptown to my apartment.

  Takeshi was glad to see me. He, too, had been visited by Mr Philip Lyndon, who had questioned him about the mail He had heard of the assault; he wanted to know about that, too; but what appeared to interest him most of all were the names and descriptions of my recent visitors. He was angry because Takeshi had kept him standing on the mat instead of inviting him inside for a cosy talk.

  That, of course, was his big mistake. Takeshi has a vast pride in his American citizenship and a very Japanese sensibility about face and dignity. When his sensibility is outraged, he finds it hard to understand simple English and even harder to speak it intelligibly. To remember names and faces becomes an absolute impossibility. So Mr Lyndon had departed less happy and not much wiser. Since I was going away, it seemed wise to send Takeshi on a little vacation at company expense. His nephew must be pining for him. Takeshi agreed that he must be. He packed my bag and his own, and we left the apartment together.

  The journey to Washington was a sombre little pilgrimage. George sat at one end of the car dictating letters to Suzanne. I sat at the other, sipping bourbon and playing gin-rummy with Juliette. She was calm, but pale and remote as a moon-woman. She played the game with professional concentration, discouraging any but the most trivial talk. I was glad to be dispensed from any part in what was now, all too clearly, a family crisis. I was still angry with Harlequin. I resented the presumption that made him treat me like some kind of retainer in his enterprises, a relief cavalier to his wife. I had pledged a fortune to help him. I had placed myself at personal risk. It was no part of the bargain that I should play whipping-boy as well.

  Besides, I was troubled by the sudden crack in his self-control. We were engaged in a complicated and dangerous strategy. We were still only skirmishing; and if his nerve failed him so soon, then we were in grave jeopardy. Even Suzanne, the tolerant, the judicious, was concerned. The smiling, humorous gallant, whom she had loved so long, was now tight-lipped and arrogant, no longer aware of the affection which was lavished on him.

  Juliette reached across the table and laid a cool hand on mine: ‘Your play, Paul.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘Had enough?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, yes.’

  ‘You look very grim.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a summer picnic, girl.’

  ‘Paul, please don’t blame George.’

  I stared at her, dumbfounded. This was another Julie, grave as a nun, passionless and a stranger.

  She talked on quietly. ‘This is hard to understand; but I want you to try. It’s hard for me, too. But today I’ve had to accept it. We’ve all, always, taken George at face value. He’s so good at everything, we’ve never asked what made him good; I, least of all. You heard what I told him at the hospital: everything was a gift; he hadn’t earned any of it. Well, it isn’t true… When he does something, it has to be perfect; so perfect that it looks effortless and we forget he’s made the effort. Riding, sailing, languages, everything has been the same. I’ve just begun to remember things. Long before he went to China, he would spend night after night practising the ideograms, chanting the sing-song speech, like an opera-singer doing scales. I’ve seen him on the lake, single-handed, in a high wind, strapped in a trapeze, doing circuit after circuit, in an over-sailed shell. When you see him at the gallops, you forget he knows the stud-book by heart. For too long now, I’ve taken it all for granted; and, when I’ve struck at him, I’ve never seen how deep a wound I made… He’s doing the same thing now; and it’s terrible to see. But he did warn us. He said: “I could be the greatest pirate of them all and smile when I wiped the blood off the cutlass.” He’s practising for that, too. He’s pushing us away, because the love we have for him is a handicap. He’s hardening himself to be the very thing he was afraid of becoming. He told us the truth. We were just too blind to see it…’

  It was the longest speech I had ever heard her make, and the saddest to hear. It was a confession of personal failure and a premonition of disaster more terrible by far than the loss of a money-man’s empire. It expressed a loneliness beyond our experience: the solitude of the exorcist who in casting out devils knows that he, himself, may be possessed.

  ‘…So, you see, Paul, you mustn’t let him go. Whatever he says, whatever he does, you must hold him to you. You love him; but you haven’t lost him yet. I love him, too; but he’s far away from me now, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get him back. Maybe the baby will help in the end. I don’t know. Perhaps even Suzanne… No, don’t shake your head. I’ve always known she was in love with him. I’ve never understood why he didn’t see it.’

  ‘He was in love with you, Julie. He is still.’

  ‘Paul, you don’t understand!’ She was desperate now. Her hand was a vice on
my wrist. ‘He’s rejecting love. He’s trying to cut it out of himself; because he’s stepped into this new world where there is no love at all, only greed and jealousy and terror. You’re another kind of man, Paul, my dear. You wear life like an old suit – spots and all. George can’t do that. He’s never done it. It’s heaven or hell for him, with nothing in between… I know you love me, Paul. I’m begging you. Stay with him!’

  I was still searching for words to say when the conductor was at our side, announcing our imminent arrival at Union Station.

  5

  In Washington, I found that the gypsy woman had been kind to me. Harlequin and Juliette were located in a large suite on the fifth floor, where they could entertain a regiment if they wanted. For Suzanne and myself, there were two bedrooms with a shared lounge on the floor below. The geography was important. We were insulated from domestic friction. Suzanne had a place to work. We could be private or companionable, as the mood took us. There were chocolates and fruit from the management and, for me, an exotic arrangement from Bernard’s Blooms. The note said, ‘Welcome to Washington. Greetings from Aaron.’ I had just finished unpacking, when the telephone rang with another greeting:

  ‘Mr Desmond? This is Arnold, deputy bell-captain. I called to see if you had the flowers and the message.’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘That was all, sir. We do a lot of business with Bernard. We like to keep his clients happy. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me personally. Have a pleasant stay.’

  I hoped I would, but I was inclined to doubt it. A moment later, Suzanne came in, flushed and irritable. She was tired from the journey and Harlequin wanted all his correspondence typed and ready for signature before he left for the Embassy at ten in the morning. She didn’t mind the work, but why did he have to be so distant about it. He’d never been like this before and it wasn’t as if there were any need for it. I sat her down and fed her Scotch and sympathy. Then, casual as be-damned, she told me that Harlequin was preparing to dump on the market all the bank’s holdings in Creative Systems and its affiliates. The only considerations holding him back were the interests of his clients and the fact that I, too, held a sizeable parcel of stock.