Tom slipped the letter back into his pocket, and loosened his hold on her waist. “I’d better cable Brad at once—let him know we did get the letter. He’s probably been worrying for the past week why he had no answer from us.” Tom thought over that, and impatience returned. “Why the devil didn’t he call and ask if his letter had reached us? That wouldn’t have broken security.”
“And risk having his ears pinned back for interfering?” More nervous than she let herself appear, she glanced at Tom. “I’m just following your advice, my love. I’ve stopped circling.”
“Does Brad think I’m so damned touchy as all that? And you know me better than to even think I’d—” He checked his rising temper. “I’m sorry, Thea. Sorry.” He took her in his arms, felt her stiff spine begin to relax. “I know, I know. I’ve had my moods recently. They’re over. All over. Believe me. I can’t afford them now. I’ve got more to worry about than myself.” He kissed her, hugged her close, kissed her again. Now her body felt soft and warm, supple against his.
She said, “I’ve been difficult too. I—”
He silenced her with another kiss before he let her go. “I’d better start sending that cable. Or perhaps I’ll risk a telephone call.”
“It’s seven in the morning in New York.”
“All the better. I’ll get him before he leaves for the office.” Tom halted half-way across the kitchen. “Who is Katie Collier?”
“Oh, that’s the girl who nearly got blown up with her friends when their bomb-factory exploded.”
December headlines, he remembered then. “But what has that got to do with Chuck?”
Dorothea could only shake her head.
“And what’s this flap about Holzheimer? There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be in touch with the police—he’s a reporter. And a good one.”
Dorothea was less generous. The man who started all our troubles, she thought. She said, “Couldn’t he at least have told you where he got that copy of the memorandum? After all, you’re fourth estate, too.”
“I didn’t ask him. Because I knew. Because I didn’t want to hear.” He began walking to the pantry door, stopped there, said, “He got the memorandum from Chuck.”
At last, she thought, at last he has actually said it out loud. She heard his footsteps go briskly past the bar towards the telephone. Relief surged over her. His mood had indeed changed. Permanently? Certainly for this afternoon, making Tony welcome—like old times. And thank God for that.
She began pulling leaves of lettuce into small pieces for a Salade Niçoise. Radishes to be sliced. Chop up some of that red thing that looked like a blood-soaked cabbage. (She never ate it, was that why she could never remember its name?) Anchovies. Small black olives. Pieces of tuna. Croutons, garlic flavoured. Hard-boiled eggs—“Damn and blast,” she said aloud. She had totally forgotten them this morning. Okay, okay. Almost Salade Niçoise but not quite. Blame it on a telephone call from Chuck.
But at least he had telephoned. Give him credit for that first gesture. He had sounded normal enough. Perhaps Brad had exaggerated the trouble around him. And yet, if the situation wasn’t as bad as Brad had seen it, why had Tony changed his own plans so suddenly when she mentioned Chuck’s call from Nice? Yes, that was when Tony had dropped all interest in the busy street outside the market, even in the pretty girl (well worth admiring, conceded Dorothea) who was passing by with her long wide skirt swinging over dark red boots, and had shifted his entire attention to Dorothea.
“Chuck?” Tony had asked. “In Nice?”
“He must be in Menton right now. Rick Nealey met him at the airport.”
Tony whistled softly; an eyebrow went up.
“I agree. A little unexpected, isn’t it?”
“Frankly, I’d have bet on a letter. That’s always easier than direct confrontation. Is he staying long?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He’s at Shandon Villa, and there won’t be much room for him when it starts filling up next week.”
“Why stay at Shandon at all?”
“Oh—some business, he said. But he does want to see Tom. At least he invited himself for a drink this evening.”
“Shandon... I’d have thought Tom would have advised him against that.”
“But why?”
He stared at her for a moment, openly puzzled. “Let’s walk a little—to your car? You lead the way and I’ll carry this.” He took the basket over one arm and began steering her through the mid-day crowd. “Now tell me what Brad had to say last week-end—didn’t Tom believe him?”
“Brad never got here. Mona fell ill. He hopes to see us next week-end.”
Tony’s lips tightened. He walked in silence for several paces. “When do you expect Chuck for that drink?”
“At six.”
“I’d like to have a word with Tom before then.”
“Come up and have lunch.”
“Wish I could, but I’ve some heavy telephoning to do.” He plunged into a quick explanation about the boat, engine failure, two of his sailing chums now working on it down at the harbour and waiting for his return with some supplies.
“You have a busy day ahead of you. Come and have lunch tomorrow. Bring your friends too.”
“How about five this evening?” Tony asked. “All right with you?”
“Can you manage it without too much trouble?”
“I’ll make sure I manage it.”
“And stay to dinner?”
“Better not. I’ll disappear before Chuck arrives. Strangers, keep out. Isn’t that what Tom would say? How is he, how’s the book, how are you?”
“Worried,” she said frankly. “Your news for Tom—unpleasant, isn’t it?”
“But necessary. Believe me. Someone has got to give him the details, provide some argument-power when he is dealing with Chuck.” He had noted the disbelief in her eyes. “Tom,” he said gently, “is accustomed to dealing with facts. He would want to know the situation. Wouldn’t he?”
“Once—yes.” Her voice was unsteady. “But now—”
“Once and always,” Tony insisted. “He can take it.”
And then Tony made one of his conversational leaps into the charm of southern French towns, red-tiled roofs rippling, light walls and brightly-painted shutters, flowers and palm-trees popping up all over, nineteenth-century hodge-podging with the twentieth, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could have tourist money without the tourists? But why this good bourgeois street, along which they had walked, was named in honour of the naughty president Félix Faure, he would never understand.
By the time they reached the car Dorothea had even begun to smile again. He stowed away the basket, glanced over at the heap of newspapers and magazines lying beside the driver’s seat as he opened the car door for her. He misses nothing, she had thought, not even the way I looked when I spoke about Tom.
Then, as she was about to enter the car, she turned to give him a quick light hug and a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Tony.”
“Not at all. Delighted to carry baskets for pretty girls, any day.”
“I wish I had dark red boots too.”
That had startled him. Briefly. “You are a proper caution, you are. See you at five, love.”
14
“Some heavy telephoning,” Tony had said—a truthful excuse—as he backed away from Dorothea’s lunch invitation... But now, first of all, he had some heavy thinking to do. And quickly.
He watched her grey Fiat safely on its way, and then began walking back to the market district. Slow steps, racing thoughts. Two problems now: Jean Parracini’s safety—the damned fool must be restrained somehow; Chuck Kelso at Shandon Villa. Why couldn’t that self-assured idiot have stayed with his brother? Here on business, was he? What kind of business? Chuck was a young man who surrounded himself with question-marks, Tony thought as he found a small café where he could have a ham-and-crusted-roll sandwich—a difficult feat in a country devoted to table d’hôte menus.
Twenty minutes
later he was out in the streets again, plans made, searching for a safe telephone. (The café’s ’phone had been the free-to-all-ears type.) Streets were almost empty, shops closed, restaurants crowded, in deference to the mid-day ritual of eating. The main post office, large and capacious, usually packed but possibly half-empty at this time of day, was his best bet. Its telephone booths, nicely tucked into one corner of its ground floor, had doors to ensure reasonable privacy. And he had a sufficient supply of the mandatory jetons in his pocket—in France, where coins for public telephones were distrusted, he always made sure of that.
He put in his first call—to Bill and Nicole, up in their hill house in the Garavan district. (Thank God, he thought, that Jean Parracini’s hiding place, on the other side of town from Cap Martin, was so far from Shandon Villa.)
“Keep a better eye on Jean,” he began, wasting no time.
“But he’s safely back. He’s eating dinner now,” Bill said.
“Where?”
“In the kitchen with Bernard—as usual. Everything normal. Don’t sweat.”
“When did he return?”
Bill consulted with Nicole, who took over the receiver. “He arrived only eight minutes after I did,” Nicole said. “I was here by quarter past twelve.”
“That’s odd.” Impossible, in fact.
“Why?”
“When I last saw him, he was tailing Rick Nealey from the market. And that was at five minutes to twelve.”
“Then he couldn’t have followed for very long. Perhaps it was a coincidence—he just seemed to be—”
“It was a tail.” That silenced Nicole. “Who does Parracini think he is? The Invisible Man? He is taking too many chances.” Curious, thought Tony: he hadn’t had time to tail Nealey all the way to Cap Martin—so why had he followed at all? Or hadn’t Nealey returned to Shandon Villa? Stopped a few blocks from the market area? And Jean, curiosity or ego satisfied, had headed home? A puzzle... “Let it go meanwhile. Keep him under wraps this afternoon. Don’t lose sight of him.”
“Even when he’s resting in his own quarters?”
“Where are they?”
“Above the garage, of course.”
“Separated from the house?”
“Yes.”
“Put Bill back on the ’phone—Bill, move Jean over to the main house—put him up in one of your spare rooms. For his own security.”
“He will refuse. He likes his privacy. And the only room available is right next door to Brigitte and Bernard.”
“Who’s in charge, anyway? You and Nicole better start sweating along with me. Now—here’s some other business. I want you to ’phone Shandon Villa, see if Charles Kelso is around. Have a good story ready if he is there to take your call: you’ve just heard that his brother, an old friend, is staying in Menton—can Chuck give you his address? Then I want Nicole to call Shandon—yes, she’s to ’phone too. She will ask for Rick Nealey, try to find out if he’s there. She can be a reporter from Nice, wanting an interview. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes, get your answers.”
“Planning a visit to Shandon?”
He’s too damned smart, Tony thought irritably. He didn’t answer the question, said, “And now hear this. I’m sending out for reinforcements. And I want you to accept their invitation to take you and Jean sailing tomorrow.”
Bill said, “What if he refuses to go with them?”
“They’ll be senior men, they’ll pull rank. Besides, it is a matter of security. He’ll listen. Explain to him that they want to clarify some of his earlier information. What better place than a boat?”
“We’re using the Sea Breeze? I thought you had engine trouble.”
“Not so much as all that. We’ll be ready by the time the reinforcements fly into Nice tomorrow morning.”
“Serious problems?” Bill was really listening now.
“When weren’t they?”
“Sounds like an alert,” Bill said reflectively.
Tony hung up, checked his watch with the post office clock. He had used up several jetons, and his next call was to Paris. But all he’d have to do, when he did make sure of the right connection, would be to identify himself by his code name (Uncle Arthur) and leave a message with significant phrases for further relay. “Weather deteriorating, heavy winds possible. Advise dual repairs, best available, at dockside by eleven A.M. tomorrow.” They’d know where the Sea Breeze was moored, its exact location in the harbour—all that had been reported on arrival yesterday evening.
And let’s hope, he thought, once the brief talk with Paris was over, that the best they have available for this repair-job will be a couple of men senior enough to keep Jean Parracini in place. Bloody nuisance: protecting an ally could be more difficult, and definitely less rewarding, than tracking down a hidden enemy.
His third call was to Georges, in the room he had rented at the seaside edge of the Old Town. (Excellent position, right across from the harbour, with a view of the Sea Breeze neat in a row of small boats, large boats, old boats, spanking-new boats; short masts, long masts, or none at all.) “Cancel your visit to Bill,” he told Georges. “And Emil is still working on repairs? Fine. Get in touch with him. Everything has to be ready by eleven tomorrow morning. And he is to lay in supplies for five people—better make it enough for three days—perhaps more. Did you rent that Citroën? Oh, a Renault, cream-coloured, two-door. Okay. Pick me up near my hotel at two thirty. And wear a collar and tie—and a jacket. We’re turning respectable.”
Back now to Bill on his hill. Four minutes later than arranged, dammit. Would Bill notice? Of course he did.
“Four minutes late,” he said in mock surprise. “Run into trouble?”
“Napped too long. Forgot to set the alarm clock.”
Bill laughed. “I believe you. Okay, listen to this: Charles Kelso lunched at the villa with the Director and his family, but he seems to have gone out. The girl at the ’phone didn’t know where. Couldn’t care less, if you ask me. There was a lot of banging in the background. I joked about it. Seems there are a lot of workmen still around, trying to get everything finished for next week’s grand opening. And here is Nicole to add her little piece.”
Nicole said, “Rick Nealey hasn’t been around since he delivered Chuck at the villa this morning. He had to dash off to Eze and La Turbie—making arrangements for next week’s guests. He should be back around five or six this evening.”
“Good. Now, how’s Jean our intractable friend? Sulking in his tent like Achilles?”
“He balked at first, but now he’s packing his things to move over to the main house. Regrets his good TV in the chauffeur’s quarters, though. His new room isn’t set up for television.”
“Has he a telephone there?”
“No.”
“But there was a telephone in the old room?” There would have to be one linking the main house and its garage.
“Of course.” Nicole sounded puzzled. “Two, actually.”
“An outside line as well?” Somehow, a disturbing thought.
“It came with the place.”
“And no one thought of having it disconnected.”
“Why should we? He’d avoid using it, wouldn’t he? He’s more security-minded than—” She paused, realising her tactlessness.
“Than I am?” Tony suggested. “Okay, okay. Glad all is under control at your end. One thing you can do for me, Nicole—scout around the harbour near the Petit Port this afternoon. Not the new marina in Garavan—the old one. And mark where the Sea Breeze is berthed. She’s lying just under the big mole—you can stroll right along it, many people do. Got that? About the middle of that row of boats. She’s a cabin sloop, a one-master: porpoise bow, inboard engine.” But although she might look slow, she could make ten knots, and there was space enough for six people, even if slightly cramped.
“D’accord.”
“Put Bill back on.”
Bill spoke at once. “Here.”
“Get Parracini down to the Sea
Breeze tomorrow at eleven A.M. On the dot. Can you manage that?”
“Yes. I’ve already told him that he will have two NATO visitors.”
“His reaction?”
“Just what you’d expect. Thinks their visit here could be dangerous for all.”
“Tell him that’s why you’ve decided, as a security precaution, to make arrangements for him to meet the visitors elsewhere.”
“Will do. But aren’t we going to a lot of extra trouble—”
“Yes.” Indeed we are, thought Tony. “But it’s a safety measure. And keep him happily occupied at the house for the rest of the day.”
“He has already arranged with Bernard and Brigitte to take in a movie tonight. It’s one they all want to see.”
“Where?”
“At the Casino.”
“Where?”
“The movie house is part of the building.”
There was a deep silence.
“I’ll tell him that idea is out,” Bill said. “It won’t make anything easier for tomorrow morning, though.”
“What showing of the movie? Early or late?”
“There’s only one show. This is off season. Eight thiry, I think.”
Tony calculated quickly. “Let him keep his engagement tonight, and have him in a good mood for tomorrow. How did he get away with arranging a visit to the movies, anyway?”
“Said it looked unnatural if he stayed cooped up here all the time like a prisoner. Some people might start wondering.”
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