You put these above the law?”
Only because I know you’re wrong”
.Then where is the harm? If we are wrong, weshall find this Simon undoubtedly at an airport andhe will tell us himself. But if we are not, we mayfind a very sick man who needs help. Before heharms others. I am no psychiatrist, monsieur, butyou have described a troubled man a oncetroubled man, in any event. "
Matfflon was uncomfortable with the bluntofficial’s logic . . . and also something else he couldnot define. Was it Joel? Was it the clouds in his oldfriend’s eyes, the unconscious verbal slip about ablemished rock in the dirt? Rene looked again atthe clock on the mantel; a thought occurred to him.It was only eight-forty-two in New York.
“Inspector, I’m going to ask you to wait herewhile I go into my study and make a phone call onmy private line. The line, incidentally, is notconnected to the telephone on the table.”
“That was unnecessary, monsieur.”
“Then I apologise.”
Mattilon walked rapidly to a door on theopposite side of the room, opened it and went inside.He crossed to his desk, where he sat down andopened a red-leather telephone index. He flipped thepages to the letter T. scanning the names until hereached Talbot, Lawrence. He had both the officeand the house number; the latter was necessarybecause the courts in Paris were in operation beforethe East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbotwas not there, he would try Nathan Simon, thenBrooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was nec-essary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone.
“I’ll be damned, how are you, Rene? You in NewYork?” “No, Paris.”
“Sounds like you’re down the block.”
“So do you. It’s always startling.”
“It’s also late where you are, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It’s very late, Larry. We may have a problem,that’s why I’m calling.”
“A problem? I didn’t even know we had anybusiness going. What is it?”
“Your missionary work.”
“Our what?”
“Bertholdier. His friends.”
“W7lo?”
“Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”
“Who is he? I’ve heard the name but I can’t placehim.” “You can’t . . . place him?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been with Joel. I arranged the meeting.”
“Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?”
“You weren’t aware of it?”
“Last time I spoke with him was two days ago inGeneva after that awful business with Halliday. Hetold me he was all right, but he wasn’t. He wasshaken up.”
“Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not inParis on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, isthat what you’re saying?”
Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. “No,he’s not,” said the senior partner softly. “Did he sayhe was?”
“Perhaps I just assumed it.”
Again Talbot paused. “I don’t think you’d dothat. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me.”
“That’s part of the problem, Larry. I don’t knowwhere he is. He said he was taking the five o’clockplane for London, but he didn’t. He checked out ofthe George Cinq quite a bit later under very oddcircumstances.”
"What do you mean?”
His hotel registration was altered, changed toanother name a name I suggested, incidentally, ashe didn’t wish to use his own at lunch. Then heinsisted on leaving by way of some basementdelivery entrance.”
“That’s strange.”
“I’m afraid it’s the least of the oddities. They sayhe assaulted a man. He may have killed him.”
"lesus!”
“I don't believe it, of course,” said Mattilonquickly. ”He wouldn’t, he couldn’t ,
“I hope not.”
"Certainly you don’t think “
"I don’t know what to think,” interruptedTalbot. When he was in Ceneva and we talked, Iasked him if there was any connection betweenllalliday’s death and what he was doing. He saidthere wasn’t, but he was so remote, so distant; hisvoice sounded hollow.”
"What he’s doing . . . ? What is he doing?”
"I don’t know. I’m not even sure I can find out,but I’ll do my damnedest. I tell you, I’m worried.Something’s happened to him. His voice was like anecho chamber, do you know what I mean?’,
Byes, I do,” said Mattilon quietly. I heard him, I saw him. I’m worried too.”
"Find him, Rene. Do whatever you can. Give methe word and I’ll drop everything and By over. He’shurting somewhere, somehow.”
“I’ll do what I can.’,
Mattilon walked out of his study and faced thetwo men from the police.
His name is Converse, Joel Converse,” he began.
* * *
“His name is Converse, first nameJoel,” said theyounger, taller man from the Surete, speaking intothe mouthpiece of a pay phone on the BoulevardRaspail, as the rain pounded the booth. “He’semployed by a law firm in New York: Talbot, Brooksand Simon; the address is on Fifth Avenue. The as-sumed name, Simon, however, was apparently aconvenience, and not related to the firm.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whatever this Converse is involved with hasnothing to do with his employers. Mattilon reachedone of the partners in New York and it was madeclear to him. Also both men are concerned, worried;they wish to be kept informed. If Converse is found,Mattilon insists on immediate access to him as theattorney of record. He may be holding back, but inmy judgment he’s genuinely bewildered. In shock,might be more accurate. He knows nothing ofconsequence. I could tell if he did.”
“Nevertheless, he is holding back. The nameSimon was used for my benefit so I would not learnthe identity of this Converse. Mattilon knows that; hewas there and they are friends and he brought himto Luboque.”
“Then he was manipulated, General. He did notmention
you.”
“He might if he’s questioned further. I cannot beinvolved in any way.”
“Of course not,” agreed the man from the SCretewith quiet emphasis.
“Your superior, what’s his name? The oneassigned to the incident.”
“Prudhomme. Inspector First Grade Prudhomme.”
“Is he frank with you?”
“Yes. He thinks I’m something of a mechanicalex-soldier whose instincts may outdistance hisintellect, but he sees that I’m willing. He talks tome.”
“You’ll be kept with him for a while. Should hedecide to go back and see Mattilon, let me knowimmediately. Paris may lose a respected attorney. Myname must not surface.”
“He would go back to Mattilon only if Conversewas found. And if word came to the Surete as to hiswhereabouts, I’d reach you instantly.”
“There could be another reason, Colonel. Onethat might provoke a persistent man intoreexamining his progress or lack of it in spite oforders to the contrary.”
" Orders to the contrary, sir?”
“They will be issued. This Converse is solely ourconcern now. All we needed was a name. We knowwhere he’s heading. We’ll find him.”
“I don’t understand, General.”
“News has come from the hospital. Ourchauffeur has taken a turn for the better.”
“Good news, indeed.”
“I wish it were. The sacrifice of a single soldieris abhorrent to any field commander, but thebroader tactics must be kept in view, they must beserved. Do you agree?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Our chauffeur must not recover. The largerstrategy Colonel.”
“If he dies, the efforts to find Converse will beintensified. And you’re right, Prudhomme willreexamine everything, including the lawyer,Mattilon.”
“Orders to the contrary will be issued. But watchhim.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now we need your expertise, Colonel. Thetalents you developed so proficiently while in theservice of the Legion before we brought you back toa more civilized life.”
“My gratitude isn’t
shallow. Whatever I can do.”
“Can you get inside the Hospital of Saint Jeromewith as little notice as possible?”
“With no notice. There are fire escapes on allsides of the building and it’s a dark night, heavywith rain. Even the police stay in doorways. It’schild’s play.”
“But man’s work. It has to be done.”
“I don’t question such decisions.”
“A blockage in the windpipe, a convulsion in thethroat.”
“Pressure applied through cloth, sir. Graduallyand with no marks, a patient’s self-inducedtrauma…. But I would be derelict if I didn’t repeatwhat I said, General. There’ll be a search of Paris,then a large-scale manhunt. The killer will bepresumed to be a rich American, an inviting targetfor the Surete.”
“There’ll be no search, no manhunt. Not yet. Ifit is to be it will come later, and if it does, aconvicted corpse will be trapped in the net…. Gointo the field, my young friend. The chauffeur,Colonel; the broader strategy must be served.”
“He’s dead,” said the man in the telephonebooth, and hung up.
Erich Leifhelm . . . born March 15, 1912, in Mu-nich to Dr. Heinrich Leifhelm and his mistress,Marta Stoessel. Although the stigma of his illegiti-macy precluded a normal childhood in theupper-middle-class, morality-conscious Cermany ofthose years, it was the single most important factor inhis later preeminence in the National Socialistmovement. At birth he was denied the name of Leif-helm; until 1931 he was known as Erich Stoessel.
Joel sat at a table in the open cafe inCopenhagen’s Kastrup Airport, trying to concentrate.It was his second attempt within the past twentyminutes, the first he abandoned when he realised hewas absorbing nothing, seeing only black lettersforming an unending string of vaguely recog"uzablewords relating to a figure in the outer reaches of hismind. He could not focus on that man; there weretoo many interferences, real and imagined. Nor hadhe been able to read on the two-hour flight fromParis, having opted for economy class, hoping to meltin with the greater number of people in the largersection of the aircraft. The concept at least was valid;the seats were so narrow and the plane so fullyoccupied that elbows and forearms were virtuallyimmobile. The conditions prohibited his taking outthe report, both for reasons of space and for fear ofthe proximity to straying eyes.
Heinrich Leifhelm moved his-mistress and theirson to the town of Eichstatt, fifty odd miles north ofMunich, visiting them now and then, and providingan adequate but not overly comfortable standard ofliving. The doctor was apparently torn betweenmaintaining a successful practice with no socialblemishes_in Munich and a disinclination to aban
don the stigmatised and child. According to closeacquaintances of Erich Stoessel-Leifhelm, theseearly years had a profound effect on him. Althoughhe was too young to grasp the full impact of WorldWar I, he was later haunted by the memory of thesmall households subsistence level falling as theelder Leifhelm’s ability to contribute lessened withthe burden of wartime taxes. Too, his father’s visitsserved to heighten the fact that he could not be ac-knowledged as a son and was not entitled to theprivileges accorded two half brothers and a halfsister, strangers he was never to know and whosehome he could not enter. Through the absence ofproper lineage, certified by hypocritical documentsand more hypocritical church blessings, he felt hewas denied what was rightfully his, and so there wasinstilled in him a furious sense of resentment,competitiveness, and a deep-seated anger at existingsocial conditions. By his own admission, his firstconscious longings were to get as much as he couldfor himself both materially and in the form ofrecognition through the strength of his ownabilities, and, by doing so, strike out at the statusquo which had tried to emasculate him. By hismid-teens, Stoessel-Leifhelm was consumed withanger.
Converse stopped reading, suddenly aware ofthe woman across the half-deserted cafe; she wasseated alone at a table, looking at him. Their eyesmet and she turned away, placing her arm on thelow white railing that enclosed the restaurantstudying the thinning, late-night crowds in theterminal, as if waiting for someone. Startled, Joeltried-to analyze the look she had given him. Was itrecogrution? Did she know him? Know his face? Orwas it appraisal? A well-dressed whore cruising theairport in search of a mark, seeking out a lonelybusinessman far away from home? She turned herhead slowly and looked at him again, now obviouslyupset that his eyes were still on her. Then abruptly,in two swiftly defined motions, she glanced at herwatch, tugged at her wide-brimmed hat, and openedher purse. She took out a Krone note, placed it onthe table, got up, and walked rapidly toward the en-trance of the cafe. Beyond the open gate shewalked faster her strides longer, heading for thearch that led to the bag
gage-claim area. Converse watched her in the dullwhite neon light of the terminal, shaking his head,annoyed at his alarm. With his attache case andleather-bound report, the woman had probablythought he was some kind of airport official. Whowas the mark, then?
He was seeing too many shadows, he thought, ashe followed the graceful figure nearing the arch. Toomany shadows that held no surprises, no alarms.There had been a man on the plane from Parissitting several rows in front of him. Twice the manhad gotten up and gone to the toilet, and each timehe came back to his seat he had looked hard atJoel studied him, actually. Those looks had beenenough to prime his adrenaline. Had he been spottedat the De Gaulle Airport? Was the man an employeeof Jacques-Louis Bertholdier? . . . As a man in analley had been Don’t think about that! He hadflicked off an oval of dried blood on his shirt as hehad given himself the command.
“I can always tell a good ale Yank! Never missl”
That had been the antiquated salutation inCopenhagen as both Americans waited for theirluggage.
“Well, I missed once. Some son of a bitch on aplane in Geneva. Sat right next to me. A real guineain a three-piece suit, that’s what he west He spokeEnglish to the stewardess so I figured he was one ofthose rich Cuban spicks from Florida, you know whatI mean?”
An emissary in salesman’s clothes. One of thediplomats.
Geneva. It had started in Geneva.
Too many shadows. No surprises, no alarms. Thewoman went through the arch and Joel pulled hiseyes away, forcing his attention back to the report onErich Leifhelm. Then a slight, sudden movementcaught the corner of his eye; he looked back at thewoman. A man had stepped out of an unseen recess;his hand had touched her elbow. They exchangedwords briefly, swiftly, and parted as abruptly as theyhad met, the man continuing into the terminal as thewoman disappeared. Did the man glance over in hisdirection? Converse watched closely; had that manlooked at him? It was impossible to tell; his head wasturning in all directions, looking at or for something.Then, as if he had found it, the man hurried towarda bank of airline counters. He approached the JapanAir Lines desk, and taking out his wallet, he beganspeaking to an Oriental clerk.
No surprises, no alarms. A harried traveler hadasked di
rections; the interferences were more imaginedthan real. Yet even here his lawyer’s mentalityintervened. Interferences were real whether basedin reality or not. Oh, Christ! Leave it alonelConcentratel
At the age of seventeen, ErichStoessel-Leifhelm had completed his studies at theEichstatt II Gymnasium, excelling bothacademically and on the playing field, where he wasknown as an aggressive competitor. It was a time ofuniversal financial chaos, the American stockmarket crash of "29 further aggravating thedesperate economy of the Weimar Republic, andfew but the most well-connected students went onto universities. In a move he later described tofriends as one of youthful fury, Stoessel-Leifhelmtraveled to Munich to confront his father and de-mand assistance. What he found was a shock, butit turned out to be a profound opportunity,strangely arrived at. The doctor’s staid, placid lifewas in shambles. His marriage, from the beginningunpleasant and humiliating, had caused him todrink heavily with increasing frequency until theinevitable errors of judgment occurred. He wascensured by the medical community (with a highproportion of Jews therein), charged withincompetence and barred from the KarlstorHospital. His practice was in ruins, his wi
fe hadordered him out of the house, an order expeditedby an old but still powerful father-in-law, also adoctor and member of the hospital’s board of direc-tors. When Stoessel-Leifhelm found his father, hewas living in a cheap apartment house in the poorersection of the city picking up pfennigs by dispensingprescriptions (drugs) and deutsche marks by per-forming abortions.
In what apparently (again according to friendsfrom the time) was a watershed of pent-upemotions, the elder LeifLelm embraced hisillegitimate son and told him the story of histortured life with a disagreeable wife and tyrannicalin-laws. It was the classic syndrome of an ambitiousman of minimal talents and maximum connections.But withal, the doctor claimed he had neverabandoned his beloved mistress and their son. Andduring this prolonged and
undoubtedly drunken confession, he revealed afact Stoessel-Leifhelm had never known. Hisfather’s wife was Jewish. It was all the teenagerhad to hear.
The disfranchised boy became the father to theruined man.
There was an announcement in Danish over theairport’s loudspeakers and Joel looked at his watch.It came again, now in German. He listened intentlyfor the words, he could barely distinguish them, butthey were there. “HamburgKoln-Bonn.” It was thefirst boarding call for the last flight of the night tothe capital of West Germany by way of Hamburg.The flying time was less than two hours, the layoverin Hamburg justified for those executives whowanted to be at their desks by the start of thebusiness day. Converse had checked his suitcasethrough to Bonn, making a mental note as he did soto replace the heavy black leather bag with acarry-on. He was no expert in such matters, butcommon sense told him that the delays required bywaiting for one’s luggage in the open for anyone tosee was no way to travel swiftly or to avoid eyesthat might be searching for him. He put Erich Leif-helm’s dossier in his attache case, closed it and spunthe brass combination disks. He then got up fromthe table, walked out of the cafe and across theterminal toward the Lufthansa gate.
Sweat matted his hairline; the tattoo inside hischest accelerated until it sounded like a hammeringfugue for kettledrums. He knew the man sitting nextto him, but from where or from what period in hislife he had no idea. The craggy, lined face, the deepridges that creased the suntanned flesh the intenseblue-grey eyes beneath the thick, wild brows andbrown hair streaked with white he knew him, butno name came, no clue to the man’s identity.
The Aquaintaine Progession Page 14