Agent in Place

by Helen Macinnes

  “A matter of terminology. You can call boiled cabbage a pourri of roses, but it still smells and tastes like cabbage. There’s too much rhetoric, too little thought nowadays—much of our own fault: we keep accepting words and ignoring acts.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Which makes me a very bad buy indeed. And, it hurts me to say, not just to the other side,” he reminded her.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Once, I thought you were—were—”

  “An anachronism? A bit of a fake? Like that antiqued panelling, cheap pine pretending to be weathered oak?”

  “Not a fake,” she said quickly. “Never that. I just thought you were wrong, all wrong—a waste of a good brain.”

  “I’m a pretty good wine-taster. Doesn’t that justify my existence?”

  “Oh, Tony!” She almost smiled, checked herself and frowned. Tears were not far away.

  In alarm, Tony said, “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t. It’s just me... I feel—I feel terrible. About Chuck. I always found something to criticise in him—oh, not openly. But I had a lot of hard thoughts, especially when Tom kept excusing—” She shook her head. “Chuck didn’t like me very much either. I wish now it hadn’t been that way. And I’ll always keep thinking that I—”

  “No, you won’t keep thinking about that,” he told her. “Everyone feels guilt when sudden death comes to someone close to them. There’s always remorse as well as regret. The last tribute. But no brooding, Dorothea: you aren’t the morbid type. And how much would that help Tom? What guilt is he feeling right now, do you think?” He rose from the table. “Restrain Tom, will you? Don’t let him do anything on impulse. That’s usually disastrous.” He raised her hand and kissed it. Just as abruptly, he left.

  He took the exit through the living-room’s French windows. The terrace was in darkness. Tom called to him. “Hey—wait there, Tony! I’ll run you down to Menton.” Voice normal, friendly. Tony halted in relief. Tom’s arm went round his shoulders. “Why don’t you stay and have some supper?”

  “Wish I could. But I have promises to keep. Besides, I’m bulging with sandwiches and coffee. You could use some yourself.”

  “Let me give you a lift.”

  “Thanks, Tom. But the taxi will arrive any minute now. I’m meeting it at the gate.” Tony began walking towards the driveway with Tom at his side, relaxed and friendly.

  “No direct connection with this house?” Tom asked, making the right assumption.

  He has recovered, Tony thought: he’s using his brains instead of his emotions. “Better not, don’t you think?”

  “Anyone been following you?”

  “Hope not.”

  “How many of them are there, I wonder?”

  He has recovered too damn well, thought Tony.

  Tom went on, “Who arranged the accident? Not Rick Nealey. He must have had help.”

  “They’re around. And all the more reason for you to watch your step, old boy. Keep Dorothea safe, will you?” He grasped Tom’s hand. “Take care. Both of you.”

  “I’ll walk you to the gate.”

  “Not even that,” said Tony. A final handshake, a grip that reassured both of them, and Tony was off.

  Where is he bound for? Tom wondered as he turned back to the house. Promises to keep. Business or pleasure? No, not pleasure: not tonight. Business that dealt with Nealey? That was Tony’s main preoccupation now. We have a possible lead. His words. Was that what he was searching out? A possible lead...

  Tom burst into the kitchen. “Look, Thea,” he said, “I think I’ll go down to Menton right away. Get it over with.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t feel like eating. I may as well learn what the police have to say.” He put his arms around her, kissed her anxious face. “Lock up after me. Thoroughly. And go upstairs. It’s cosier there. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said in some surprise.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Must you, at all? Tonight?”

  “Yes.” He left as quickly as he had entered.

  Obediently she locked the kitchen door, the front entrance, and the French windows. In the study she searched for a book to take to bed. Nothing in English, all in French. The television was black-and-white, a discussion from Paris with solemn novelists disagreeing at great length. French intellectuals talked in paragraphs, not in sentences. She picked up Time and Newsweek, switched off most of the lights, leaving just enough to welcome Tom back.

  Then, with a last look at the lonely rooms, at the empty terrace, she broke into tears. I wish I were home, I wish I were home.

  * * *

  Down by the gate, headlights swooped into the driveway and stopped, their beam casting a wide arc around the flower-beds as the taxi turned to face the road again. One moment more, and it began moving out.

  Tom was already in the Fiat, its engine running. Smoothly he started downhill. He knew what Tony would say. Or perhaps he would be so tightlipped with anger that the words would choke in his throat. But this, thought Tom, is when I must take some action of my own. I will not be stuck on that terrace, knowing little, doing less.

  Once past the gate, he abandoned caution until he picked up the rear lights of the taxi. Then he kept an even speed at a safe distance. From the front road along Menton’s west bay, the taxi made a left turn and cut up into town. Not far. It dropped Tony just short of the English Church, at the corner of the square—if that’s what you could call it: really an open stretch of central flower-beds bordered by two avenues, a pleasant prospect for the Casino’s entrance.

  Tom found a spot to park, and took it. What now? His first impulses were draining low; he felt both foolish and uncertain. But he got out of the car—he wouldn’t have far to walk from here to the Commissariat de Police in any event—and began strolling towards the church.

  Menton, in the off season, was an empty place by night. There were few people around at ten minutes of eight, as if everything had closed up tight for dinner. Tony could be easily seen in the well-lit streets. Which means that I can be easily seen too, Tom reminded himself. As a small protection he hunched up his coat-collar—he needed that too, in the cool wind blowing up from the sea—and stared into a shop window. As he risked another look, he saw Tony cross the street, start up some steps, and disappear.

  The Casino? It couldn’t be. Tom followed, his mind incredulous. But yes, it was the Casino. First, there was the shock of disbelief; next, a sense of frustration. Damned if I’m going in there, he told himself, his face grim as he turned the corner at the church, and strode past the taxi-rank, the stretches of flower-beds and palm-trees. So he had come chasing into Menton after Tony, and got nowhere. At the last moment, he had balked. Totally irrational behaviour. But he had been in no mood to step into a world of fun and games. His emotions were too raw, unpredictable. Better get them under control and his mind working again—this was no way to enter a police-station.

  Half-way up the avenue, he halted and looked back at the Casino. Even if he had put his own feelings aside, entered there, what good would he have done? What purpose served? He would have been too noticeable—the Casino trade hadn’t begun as yet. This wasn’t Monte Carlo with all its slot-machines, Las Vegas style, packing in the bus-loads of people from early afternoon until dawn. No, he realised now, I’d have accomplished nothing at all, only caused unnecessary complications. Tony wasn’t here for amusement: Tony was strictly business tonight. And he had no part in it.

  For a moment even now, something of the old urge to know, to help, to do, reawakened in Tom. He hesitated. Cursed his feeling of uselessness. Turned away. Walked on.

  The Commissariat lay a short stretch to his right, somewhere off these avenues. Few people around here: everyone enjoying their bonne petite soupe. The idea of eating still nauseated him—it was something else than hunger that gnawed at his guts. He had judged his direction and distance accurately, at least: the
police-station was just where it should be. It was functioning, too: a visitor was leaving. The figure, clearly seen under the brilliance of the street lights, was familiar. Automatically Tom ducked behind a row of parked automobiles, the new-style barricades of every western city. He hoped he looked part of a logical explanation: a man, with head and shoulders bent, about to unlock his car door. For the figure, young, well-dressed, fair-haired, now hurrying across the broad street, was Rick Nealey.

  Tom kept motionless, attracted no nervous eye. Nealey had reached a black Citroën, new model—and waited for a man to leave an automobile parked just a few yards ahead. The meeting was brief. Sentences were exchanged. That was all. Within three or four minutes the stranger returned to his car and Nealey entered the Citroën.

  Thinking of his Fiat parked snugly several blocks away, Tom damned himself for an idiot: he couldn’t even follow, only watch. He felt vulnerable, though, and testing the door he stood beside, he found it was unlocked. He slid into the front seat, kept his head well down.

  Nealey’s Citroën passed him, travelling westward. Back to Cap Martin? The other car—an Opel, green in colour—passed close to where Tom sat, and then made a left turn down the avenue that led to the Casino area. At least, thought Tom, I could partly describe that stranger in the green Opel, Nice registration: from a distance, he was about my height but heavier, and broad-shouldered; near at hand, his features were strong, his hair dark. And who the hell was he?

  Thoughtfully Tom crossed the street and entered the Commissariat.

  He was politely received, with just the right touch of official sympathy. They would know more about his brother’s unfortunate death by tomorrow. Yes, it did seem as though it possibly might have been a most regrettable accident, a tragic error on someone’s part, responsibility still to be allocated. Meanwhile, Monsieur Kelso might consider what arrangements he would desire: cremation or burial here, or perhaps he would prefer transport to the United States and interment there? There were local agences who were fully capable of handling such matters. De rien, monsieur. But one thing more: he could now take possession of the suitcase that held his brother’s belongings, including his wallet, cuff-links, engagement-diary with addresses, wrist-watch, travellers’ cheques, keys and key-chain, air-flight reservation for tomorrow to Switzerland, Hotel Post booking in Gstaad—all intact, all carefully listed in triplicate on this official police form of inventory. Be so good as to examine them, and then sign here. Merci, monsieur. A demain.

  “Until tomorrow,” Tom echoed. His voice was flat, unnatural, his movements slow and uncertain. He stood at the doorway, Chuck’s case in his hand, hesitating. Something else, he kept telling himself, something else... “Mr. Nealey was here, wasn’t he? From Shandon Villa.”

  “But yes—the Assistant Director. Naturally, he wanted to hear about the results of our investigation. He had the fear that your brother’s death might have been suicide. But with your brother’s plans for travel tomorrow—” A Gallic shrug indicated suicide was not a likely theory. Then the hint of a tolerant smile covered the next remark: “Perhaps Monsieur Nealey was also afraid of the adverse publicity that Shandon Villa might receive. But he can rely on our discretion. There were two visitors at the villa today, and he was worried about how they might talk. However, he was happy we could provide their names and addresses. He intends to visit them and make a friendly explanation about the necessity for restraint. Shandon Villa, after all, is beginning its meetings next week.”

  Tom asked bitterly, “Did he not want to view the body?”

  A small shocked silence. And then a mild reproof. “Monsieur Nealey wants only to help, in any way he can. He offered to take your brother’s suitcase to your house, spare you the trouble.”

  “But naturally,” said Tom, mastering his French, “that was impossible. My signature was required.”

  “And you yourself were coming here. So Monsieur Nealey left.”

  I bet he did, thought Tom. He knew better than to meet me here tonight. But at least this proved that the police were efficient: they had removed Chuck’s belongings from Shandon before Nealey could examine them, make sure there was nothing to endanger him. What the hell had he expected? Or was it just part of his training that he always must make sure? “Thank you very much,” he told the police sergeant, a round-faced middle-aged man with a drooping moustache and kindly brown eyes. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

  “De rien, monsieur. And we regret—”

  “Yes,” said Tom, and left.

  * * *

  He locked Chuck’s suitcase safely inside the trunk of the Fiat before stepping into the driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition, and then turned it off. For fully ten minutes he sat there, his head bowed, thoughts giving way to grief within the darkness of the car. At last he raised his eyes, looking along the bright street. There were people entering the Casino now. Not many. But enough. He wouldn’t be too noticeable.

  Pocketing the car keys, he got out, and began walking. Remembering the meeting between Nealey and his contact which he had witnessed tonight, Tom sensed urgency. Nealey’s moves had been too quick, too immediate, not to convey a warning. Okay, thought Tom, I’m taking it. He entered the Casino.

  17

  It was almost eight o’clock. The main hall of the Casino was brightly lit and practically empty. Seven people, all told, and employees at that: a woman, behind a glass-enclosed booth at the far end of the hall beside the cinema; a young usherette, arriving for duty; four croupiers—young, tall, lean, dark-suited—paired off at the two adjacent gaming-tables; a fifth man, similar in dress and manner, on duty at the Salle Privée. The dining-room, facing Tony as he took brief inventory—a natural pause after mounting the stairs that led up from the foyer just inside the front entrance to the Casino—was equally lethargic: three tables occupied. And the bar beside him? He turned and entered, dismay rising. Empty too, except for an attendant polishing glasses and a couple of men—one at the bar, the other at a corner table. Two: count them. Tony almost exploded in a laugh.

  He halted just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust from the hall’s brilliance to this small room’s imitation moonlight glow. Très chic, très moderne, but mostly disconcerting: it had taken him half a minute at least to see that Georges was the man seated at the bar. And shall we remain aloof, keeping that promised eye on each other, for the benefit of one stranger and a bartender?

  The subdued lighting was evenly spread, giving twenty-twenty vision a chance to reassert itself. Tony could soon recognise the man who sat at the corner table and faced the room. He might now be wearing a grey lounge suit instead of this afternoon’s work-clothes, but he still had the same fair hair, sharp features, and slightly popeyed look of the electrician, climbing up through the gardens of Shandon Villa at Boris Gorsky’s heels. And, thought Tony, he has recognised me. Probably Georges as well.

  “Hello there!” he said as he joined the young Frenchman at the bar. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. Had a hard time parking the car.”

  Georges turned his head to stare in amazement, perhaps in disbelief.

  Unperturbed, Tony ordered a Tio Pepe. “Do you want to perch, or shall we lounge? More comfortable over here.” He led the way to one of the low tables flanked by four squat armchairs. It provided, as he had hoped, an excellent view of both the bar’s doorway and, beyond that, part of the main hall—the most important part as far as Tony was concerned. It lay at the head of the stairs leading from the foyer: arrivals and departures easily noted. “Much better,” Tony pronounced, flopping into the chair that faced the bar’s entrance—and indicated, with an almost imperceptible nod, the chair close to his left elbow. From there Georges could watch the man in the far corner as well as observe the doorway by a turn of his head. Just as necessary, they could talk at close quarters and yet look natural, no table between them. “Now let’s relax and have a couple of drinks before we move in for dinner. There’s nothing like sightseeing to exhaust a man. Any
ideas for tomorrow? But some place, I beg of you, where we don’t have to walk and climb.” He rattled on until his sherry arrived, but his voice was dropping gradually until it would reach a level that neither the barman nor Popeye could hear.

  Georges caught on to Tony’s stratagem quickly enough. But he still hadn’t recovered from his first shock. “You’re crazy, Tony,” was his low-voiced comment. “Here we are, like two sore thumbs, as noticeable as hell.”

  “We’d be more noticeable if we were sitting apart. Have a look at that man in the corner. He probably saw you passing through the Shandon pool area.”

  “He and Gorsky—they were together?” Georges asked softly.

  “Very much together.”

  Georges’s eyes were grave, his lips tight. Gorsky was a name he knew only too well. The man himself he had seen only once. But there was enough in the Gorsky file to make that face memorable.

  “Let’s laugh it up a little, shall we? Heard any good stories recently?” That’s better, thought Tony as Georges produced a convincing smile. “What did you find down at the beach? Can a boat dock safely there?”

  “A rowboat. Not much more. There’s only a small jetty. The water is shallow at the shore-edge.” As he talked, Georges’s eyes had followed a couple coming into the bar—a nice chance to look at the man in the corner. It was a quick but thorough study. “Rocks on either side of the beach. Property boundary, as it were. The beach itself is stony, a romantic but uncomfortable place to swim. The jetty is in shallow water—no good for diving.”

  So, thought Tony, anything larger than a rowboat would have to lie offshore; and anyone—if Shandon was his target—would use a dinghy to get to the beach. But would Parracini really take all that trouble to get at Shandon? And he couldn’t be too much of a sailor; he had been landlocked all his life. Nor did he have enough cash to let him hire a boat and a crew to manage it. And, Tony concluded, I just don’t see Parracini rowing all the way around Cap Martin to reach his objective. So he’ll have to reach Shandon by car, and that isn’t such a simple operation either: too many restrictions on free access. Perhaps he’ll give up his whole idea; or perhaps I was wrong—he never had it. Just an unnecessary fear on my part. And yet, his hatred for Shandon must be real enough: he has a large score to even out with Nealey. “Did you reach Brad Gillon in New York?”