He patted his face dry with a rough towel and, slipping into his robe, went down the stairs. The concierge was behind her desk as he picked up the telephone. She tried to pretend she was not listening but he knew she was.
"Alio?"
"Monsieur Campion?" asked a bright fresh female voice. "Oui."
"Hold on a moment, the Baron de Coyne is calling."
The baron's voice came on before Marcel had an opportunity to be surprised. "Are you the Campion employed at the Corteguayan consulate?"
"Yes, your excellency." Marcel's voice was very respectful. "But I no longer work there. The consulate is closed."
"I know that. But a new consul has just arrived. I think you should return." The baron's voice was clipped.
"But, your excellency, the previous consul still owes me three months' back salary!"
The baron was obviously not used to having his suggestions questioned. "Return to work. I shall guarantee your salary."
He rang off, leaving Marcel staring at the dead telephone. Slowly he put it down. The concierge came toward him smiling. "Monsieur is going back to work?"
Marcel stared at her. She knew as well as he; she had heard every word. He started for the staircase, still puzzled. The Baron de Coyne was one of the richest men in all France. Why should he be interested in a tiny country like Corteguay? Most people didn't even know where it was.
The telephone shrilled again and the concierge answered. She held the receiver out toward Marcel. "For you."
"Alio?"
"Campion," said the now almost familiar clipped voice, "I want you to go there immediately!"
Marcel glanced at his watch as he turned into the Rue Pelier and started up the hill. Eleven o'clock. That should be fast enough. Even for the baron.
The grocer sweeping the sidewalk in front of his stall greeted him. "Bonjour, Marcel," he called jovially, "what are you doing back in the neighborhood?"
"Bonjour. I am going to the consulate."
"Going back to work?" The grocer looked at him shrewdly. "Has that merde Ramirez returned? He still owes me more than seven thousand francs."
"Three thousand francs," Marcel repeated automatically. He remembered things like that.
"Three thousand, seven thousand, what's the difference? Ramirez is gone, and so is my money." The grocer leaned on the broom. "What's up?" he asked confidentially. "You can tell me."
"I don't know," Marcel answered honestly. "I just heard that a new consul had arrived. I thought I might get my old job back."
The grocer was thoughtful. "Perhaps my money is not gone after all." He looked at Marcel. "There's fifty percent in it for you if you collect for me. Fifteen hundred francs."
"Thirty-five hundred," Marcel replied automatically.
The grocer stared at him for a moment, then a broad smile cracked his face. Playfully he punched Marcel on the arm. "Ah, Marcel, Marcel. I always said they would have to get up early in the morning to beat you. Thirty-five hundred francs it is!"
Marcel continued on up the hill. He could see the consulate now. On an impulse he crossed the street before he came abreast of it. The first thing he noticed was that the gate hung open, and even from across the street he could see that the lock had been smashed. He nodded to himself. They probably had to break it to get in. He wondered what the landlord would have to say about that.
The second thing he noticed was the boy in the front garden cutting the weeds. Though it was cool he had already stripped to his undershirt, and the fine muscles in his arms rippled as he swung the broad flat blade. There was a look of grim concentration on his face.
Marcel stared at the blade in the boy's hand. He had never seen anything like it before. Then he remembered that he had, in some picture that Ramirez had shown him. It was a machete. Marcel shivered. The savages used them as weapons.
His eyes turned back to the boy's face. He couldn't be French, that much was obvious. Not the expert way he handled the machete. Whoever he was he had come with the new consul. Suddenly the boy looked up and caught him staring.
The eyes were dark and challenging. Slowly the boy straightened up. The machete was still held lightly in his hand but now Marcel felt as if it were aimed right at his throat. The boy's lips tightened savagely, revealing even white teeth.
Involuntarily Marcel shivered again. Then, without even understanding why, he turned and started back down the street. He was willing to swear that he felt the boy's eyes boring into his back until he had turned the corner.
He ducked into the brasserie. "Cognac." He drank it quickly, then ordered a coffee. He felt the warmth of the liquor as he sipped at the coffee. If it weren't for the fact that the Baron de Coyne had personally asked him, he would never consider going back to work there. Not among such savages.
From his table Marcel saw the boy entering the grocery store across the street. Impulsively he called for his check, paid it, and crossed over. Through the open doorway he saw the boy select two loaves of bread, a piece of cheese, and a hunk of sausage. Marcel hesitated a moment, then went inside.
The boy did not look around as he came in; he was too intent on watching the grocer wrap his order.
"Three hundred francs," the grocer said.
The boy looked down at the bills in his hand. Marcel could see that he had only two hundred francs. "You'll have to take something back," he said in halting French.
As the grocer reached for the sausage, Marcel said, "Don't be such a crook. Is this the way you plan to get money from the Corteguayan consulate?"
The boy seemed to understand the reference to the consulate, but the rest of it came too fast for him. He looked at Marcel, then recognized him.
"I don't see what it matters to you, Marcel," the grocer grumbled. But he pushed the sack back across the counter and pocketed the two hundred francs.
"Merci," the boy said and started out of the store.
Marcel followed him onto the sidewalk. "You have to watch them all the time," he said in Spanish. "They'll steal your eyeteeth if they think you're a foreigner."
The boy's eyes were dark and unfathomable. In a way they reminded Marcel of the eyes of a tiger he had once seen in the zoo. The same wild tawny lights glinted there. "You're with the new Corteguayan consul?"
The boy's eyes did not waver. "I am his son. Who are you?"
"Marcel Campion. I used to work at the consulate as secretary and translator."
Dax's expression did not change but Marcel sensed rather than saw the slight movement of his hand. The outline of a knife showed briefly beneath his coat. "Why were you watching me?"
"I thought perhaps the new consul could use my services. If not—" He didn't finish. The knowledge of the hidden knife was making him nervous.
"If not—what?"
"There is the matter of the three months' salary the former consul owes me," Marcel replied quickly.
"Ramirez?"
"Ramirez." Marcel nodded. "He kept promising the money would arrive next week. And then one morning I came to work and the consulate was closed."
The boy thought for a moment. "I think you'd better come and talk to my father."
Marcel glanced at the boy's hand nervously out of the corner of his eye. But the hand was empty. Something of the breath that he had withheld escaped. He relaxed. "I shall be honored."
Together they started up the street.
When they arrived at the consulate the new consul was sitting behind a spindly wooden table in the large empty front room, an angry group of men shouting and gesticulating in front of him.
"Gato Gordo!" the boy shouted, plunging through them toward his father.
A moment later Marcel felt himself flung out of the way as a large fat man hurtled through the doorway. He was spun halfway to the floor before he regained his balance, and when he straightened up he saw that the fat man and the boy faced the crowd together, knives in their hands.
The crowd fell back. A sudden silence came into the room. Marcel saw the pallor of fear
enter their faces, and he realized suddenly how afraid he himself was. For a moment they were all in another world. A world of death and violence. Paris had vanished.
And he knew somehow that this was not the first time the fat man and the boy had faced danger together. There had been many moments like this. He knew from the almost unspoken communication that seemed to flow between them. They reacted with almost one mind.
Finally one of the men spoke. "But all we wanted was our money."
In spite of himself Marcel began to smile. This was a method of refusing payment that they had never experienced before. And very effective too. He wished he could do the same with his own creditors.
The consul rose slowly to his feet. Marcel was surprised. The man was taller than he had seemed while seated. But the face was drawn and weary, a weariness more of the spirit than physical. "If you will wait outside," he said in a tired voice, "I will discuss your bills with each of you. One at a time."
The creditors turned and filed silently past Marcel. When the last of them was gone, he heard the boy's voice. "Close the door, Marcel."
This was no longer a boy's voice; it was the voice of a warrior accustomed to having his orders obeyed. Silently Marcel closed the door. When he turned back into the room the knives were gone, and the boy was behind the table, next to his father.
"Are you all right, Father?" he asked in a voice full of love and affection. In some way that Marcel did not wholly understand it was almost as if the boy were the father, the father the son.
CHAPTER 3
In the wood-paneled office with the heavy leather furniture, the baron listened attentively from across a massive carved desk. Even with the background of the familiar sounds of the traffic outside coming from the Place Vendome Marcel could not bring himself to believe in the reality of all that had happened in the week since he had gone back to work. But the baron's voice dragged him back from his moment of unreality. "What is the total of the unpaid bills Ramirez left behind?"
"Almost ten million francs," Marcel answered. "Eighty millions of their pesos."
As was his custom the baron automatically converted the sums into dollars and sterling. One hundred sixty thousand dollars. Forty thousand pounds sterling. He shook his head. "And the consul paid all this himself out of his personal funds?"
Marcel nodded. "He felt it was his duty. Ramirez had been his own recommendation and he felt the government was too poor to have an additional drain placed upon it."
"Where did he get the money?"
"Money changers. He paid a premium of twenty percent."
"It was after this that the consul decided to go to Ventimiglia to see if Ramirez would make some sort of restitution?"
Marcel nodded. "But by then it was too late. The five days of working in that dank, unheated house and sleeping on the cold floor with nothing but a thin blanket had taken their toll. Senor Xenos woke that morning with a bad fever. By afternoon I called the doctor and after one look he insisted that the consul go immediately to the hospital. Senor Xenos protested but in the middle of it he fainted. We carried him out to the doctor's car and off to the hospital he went."
The baron shook his head. "A man's honor is at the same time his most valuable asset and his most expensive luxury."
"I can understand the consul," Marcel said quickly. "He is one of the most honorable and idealistic men I have ever met. It is the boy who puzzles me. He is nothing like the father. Where his father is reflective; he is reflexive; where the man is emotional, the boy is controlled. He is like a young jungle animal, completely physical. In the way he moves, thinks, and acts. He has but one loyalty. To his father."
"And they went to Ventimiglia—the boy and the aide?"
Marcel nodded. He remembered when they had come back to the chilly consulate from the hospital. He had looked at the boy as the door closed behind them. Dax's face was an unreadable mask.
"I think I'd better return for credit the tickets to Ventimiglia issued to your father and myself." Marcel said.
"No." Dax's voice was sharp. He glanced at Fat Cat. Marcel suspected an invisible communication had passed between them because Fat Cat was nodding in agreement almost before Dax spoke again. "Get one more ticket. I think the three of us should pay our friend Ramirez a little visit. It is long past due."
Later they had sat on the side of the hill in the fading Riviera sunlight, looking down into the villa. There were three men seated at a table in the patio, a bottle of wine before them. In the quiet country air the faint sounds of their voices had carried to the hillside.
"Which one is Ramirez?"
"The thin wiry one in the middle," Marcel answered.
"Who are the other two?"
"Bodyguards. He is never without them."
Fat Cat cursed. "I know the big one, Sanchez. He was in el President's personal guard." He spat on the ground. "I always thought him a traitor!"
Some women came out into the patio bringing food. Ramirez laughed and slapped one of them on the behind as she passed.
"Who are they?" Dax asked.
Marcel shrugged. "I do not know. Ramirez always had several mistresses."
Dax smiled. Marcel could feel no warmth in it. "At least we know that he does not sleep with his bodyguards." The boy got to his feet. "We must discover which bedroom is his before we go there tonight."
"But how will you get in?" Marcel asked. "The gate will be locked."
Fat Cat chuckled. "That will be no problem; we'll go over the wall."
"But that's burglary," Marcel said, shocked. "We could all be sent to prison."
"And Ramirez stole the money legally?" Dax's voice was dry and filled with contempt.
Marcel did not answer.
Fat Cat leaned his back against a tree and chuckled contentedly. He reached out a hand and affectionately rumpled Dax's hair. "It is like the old days back home, eh, jefecito?"
"It is probably the corner room, the one with the balcony," the boy said.
As he spoke the French doors on the balcony opened and Ramirez came out. He stood there leaning against the railing, his cigarette glowing. He seemed to be looking out at the sea beyond the house. Soon a woman came out and joined him. He threw the cigarette over the side of the balcony, and they heard faintly the woman's laugh. Then Ramirez went back into the house with her. The balcony doors remained open.
"Very hospitable of the traitor," Fat Cat said. "Now we won't have to go searching through the house."
Presently the lights went out, and the house became dark. Fat Cat started to move but Dax's hand stopped him. "Give him ten minutes. By then he will be too busy to hear the sound of a thousand horses."
The boy was first on the top of the stone wall; a moment later Fat Cat was beside him. They turned to help Marcel up. Awkwardly he scrambled up beside them. They dropped silently to the ground inside. He took a deep breath and dropped beside them. His knees buckled with the contact and he sprawled, but quickly got to his feet. Dax and Fat Cat were already running toward the house on silent feet. Quickly he followed.
They went around the side of the building and before Marcel had caught up with them they were already on the roof of the veranda. First up the stone balustrade, then hoisting himself on his belly, Marcel gained the roof. Dax had already gone from there to the balcony.
Fat Cat went up alongside him without a sound, then turned and helped Marcel up. His breath sounded like thunder in his ears. It was a miracle that they could not hear him inside the house.
Dax put his mouth next to Marcel's ear. "Wait here until we signal. If you see anyone, warn us."
Marcel nodded. The sick cold feeling of fear spread in the pit of his belly. He swallowed quickly. Dax had already turned away to join Fat Cat. They flattened themselves on either side of the balcony door, their eyes tightly shut, and for a moment Marcel thought they were praying. Then he realized what they were doing; they were accustoming their eyes to the darkness they would find in Ramirez' room. Almost as one their hands
moved, and Marcel saw the cold steel of their knives. He closed his eyes. Was he going to be sick? Somehow he fought the nausea down.
When he opened his eyes they were both gone, though he had not heard a sound. He listened intently, his heart beating heavily. There was a faint grunt from inside the room, a squeal from the bed, and a bump as if something had fallen to the floor. After that, nothing.
Marcel felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had an impulse to flee, but his terror over what they might do if he did was greater than his fear of what might happen if he didn't.
Dax's voice was a hoarse whisper from the room. "Marcel!"
He paused in horror in the doorway. Ramirez and the woman, both naked, were lying on the floor. "Are they dead?" he asked in a shocked whisper.
"No," Dax answered contemptuously, "the traitor fainted. We had to knock out the woman. Get me something to tie them up with."
"What?"
"Go through the dresser!" Fat Cat hissed. "The woman will have silk stockings."
Frantically Marcel opened the drawers. In a second he found what he was looking for. He turned. Fat Cat was stuffing one of Ramirez' socks into the traitor's mouth. "Let him taste his own stink," he said with satisfaction.
Marcel held out the stockings wordlessly. Quickly and expertly Fat Cat trussed and gagged them. At last he finished and got to his feet. "That ought to hold them for a while." He turned to Dax. "Now what?"
"We wait until the traitor comes to," Dax said quietly, "then we find out where the money is. It won't be far off."
Dax looked at Marcel. "How much was it my father said he stole?"
"Six million francs over the last two years."
Dax looked down at Ramirez again. "Most of it should still be here. He hasn't had time to spend much of it."
Ramirez was the first to recover. He opened his eyes and saw Dax bending over him, a knife at his throat. His eyes widened in horror. For a moment it looked as if he might faint again, then he steadied and stared up at Dax.
The Adventurers Page 16