Beggarman, Thief

by Irwin Shaw

  “How about tomorrow night?” Nadine persisted.

  “I’ll probably be in Cannes tomorrow night,” Wesley said. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Are you coming back from Cannes after the festival?” Nadine asked.

  “That depends,” Wesley said.

  “She just broke up with her boyfriend,” said Nadine. “You’d be just the thing to cheer her up.”

  “I’m not much good at cheering people up,” Wesley said. “Ask Bunny.”

  “He’s a serious boy,” Bunny said. “He can stand some cheering up himself.”

  “If we come to Cannes,” Nadine said, “can you get us tickets to see your film?”

  “I guess so. I’ll let Bunny know where I’m staying.” Christ, Wesley thought, that’s all I need, two French girls hanging around my neck just as I bump into that sonofabitch Danovic.

  “You won’t forget now?” Nadine said, as she prepared to go back to her boutique.

  “I won’t forget,” Wesley lied.

  Nadine kissed Bunny, and they both watched her walk swiftly down the quay, a curvy small girl with a swinging walk.

  “What do you think of her?” Bunny asked. He had not asked before.

  “She’s pretty as can be,” Wesley said.

  “Do you think she’s too flighty to make a good wife?” Bunny asked anxiously.

  “I think she’s fine, Bunny,” Wesley said. He didn’t want to be responsible in any way for a decision as grave as marriage for Bunny. “I hardly know her.”

  “I tell you something,” Bunny said, “with your looks and what you learned from your father and now, with being a movie actor and all, I bet you know a hundred times more than I do about women. That’s never been my strong point and I don’t want to kid myself about that.” He hesitated. “Did you get the impression she was flirting with you or anything like that?”

  “Come on, Bunny.” Wesley was honestly shocked.

  “I wouldn’t want to get hooked up with any woman who made passes at my friends,” Bunny said.

  “Rest easy, mate,” Wesley said. “There wasn’t the flicker of an eyelash.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Bunny said. “Now—about you—”

  “What about me?”

  “I got the feeling you didn’t come down to the Cote d’Azur just to see your old shipmate or to go to any goddamn movie.…”

  “You’re imagining things. I just …”

  “I’m not imagining anything,” Bunny said. “I have feelings about you. When you’re on the level. When you’re hiding something. You’re hiding something right now. I keep watching you when you don’t know I’m looking and I don’t like what I see, Wesley.”

  “Crap,” Wesley said roughly. “Stop being an old lady.”

  “I know one thing,” Bunny said. “Your father would hate to see you get into trouble—bad trouble—especially if it’s because of that Danovic fellow. Are you listening to me, Wesley?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He loved you and the thing he wanted most was for you to have a good life. And that goes almost ditto for me. I don’t want to have to visit you in prison or in a hospital or in a morgue.”

  “Don’t make me feel sorry I came to see you, Bunny,” Wesley said quietly.

  “I don’t care if you never see me again,” Bunny said, “if I can hammer some sense into your head. You’ve got a great life ahead of you—don’t ruin it. Your father’s dead and that’s that. Respect his memory, is all I’m asking from you.”

  “I’ve got to get back to my hotel,” Wesley said; “I’m expecting a call.”

  Bunny was standing at the stern of the Chris-Craft staring coldly at Wesley as Wesley mounted the one-cylinder bicyclette he had rented and chugged off toward his hotel.

  « »

  When Wesley reached the hotel, he saw the open Peugeot standing in the parking lot. He hurried into the hotel. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the bar,” the concierge told him as he gave Wesley his key.

  Billy was sitting alone in the empty bar, sipping at a beer and staring out at the inlet of the bay on which the hotel was built. He looked small and disconsolate, slumped in his chair. His clothes were rumpled and he hadn’t bothered to comb his hair, which had been whipped by the wind on his journey. The long trip to Paris and back in the open car had made his normally dark complexion two or three shades darker. He looks like a shifty little Arab, Wesley thought as he went up to him. Billy stood up as Wesley approached, and they shook hands.

  “Well, Cousin,” Wesley said, “it’s about time.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Billy said querulously, “are you going to start like that?”

  “Let’s go to my room,” Wesley said, looking over at the barman who was peeling lemons at the other side of the room. “We can talk there.”

  “You might let me finish my beer,” Billy said. “And you look as though you could use one yourself.”

  “There’re a lot of things I could use more,” Wesley said. “Drink up.”

  Billy looked around him. “This is a pretty fancy place,” he said. “It must cost a fortune.”

  “I thought I was only going to be here a couple of days,” Wesley said. “I didn’t think I’d have to stay here for the whole season. You finished with your beer?”

  “I suppose so,” Billy said, “but I have to pay.”

  “Put the gentleman’s drink on my bill, please,” Wesley called to the bartender at the other end of the room.

  “Thanks,” Billy said as he followed Wesley out of the bar.

  “It’s the least I could do,” Wesley said sardonically, “for my true-blue cousin.”

  In his room, Wesley turned on Billy. “Have you got it?” he asked harshly.

  “You have to let me explain,” Billy said. “The man who was holding it for me is on the lam. He wasn’t in Paris and his girlfriend said she didn’t know where he is. But she said he would call her and …”

  “When?” Wesley asked. “When is he going to call her?”

  “She couldn’t say. Soon, she thinks.”

  “Soon? The fourth of July? Christmas?”

  “Jesus,” Billy said aggrievedly, “there’s no call for you to talk to me like that. I did my best. It’s not like going into a store and buying a box of candy.”

  “You know what I think, Billy,” Wesley said levelly, “I think you’re lying to me.”

  “Don’t be so goddamn suspicious. I volunteered, didn’t I, for Christ’s sake? Nobody put a gun to my head. All I was doing was trying to help.”

  “Balls,” Wesley said. “You know where that gun is—if there ever was a gun …”

  “There’s a gun,” Billy said. “I swear it.”

  “Then you’re going to tell me where it is. And you’re going to tell me right now.” With a sudden, feline motion, Wesley leaped at Billy and began to choke him. Billy struggled, clawing at the hands around his throat and trying to use his knee to Wesley’s groin. But Wesley outweighed him by forty pounds. Soundlessly, they struggled around the room. Billy slipped and was on the floor, with Wesley kneeling on him, his face calm, his hands pressing maniacally on Billy’s throat. Just before Billy was about to black out, the hands relaxed.

  “You going to tell me or not?” Wesley whispered.

  “Christ,” Billy gasped, “you could have choked me to death.”

  “Highly possible.” Wesley’s hands began to press a little harder.

  “Rudolph …” Billy said brokenly. “He’s in Saint-Paul-de-Vence … the Hôtel Colombe d’Or. Now will you get off my chest?”

  Slowly, Wesley released his grip and stood. He helped Billy up and Billy fell into a chair, feeling his throat with his hands. “You’re too fucking strong for your own good,” he said.

  Wesley stood over him, still threateningly. “How did Uncle Rudolph come into the picture?” he asked. “And no more fairy tales, Billy.”

  “I called him in New York. I thought if anybody could help you, h
e could. I did it for you. You don’t think I did it for myself, do you?”

  “You chickened out,” Wesley said contemptuously. “And you called in Santa Claus. I should have known. What the hell would you expect from a tennis player? Go back to your fancy ladies, you bastard. What a royal fucking runaround.”

  “You go to Siant-Paul-de-Vence, you murdering idiot,” Billy said, “and you try to choke your Uncle Rudolph.”

  “Maybe I’ll try just that,” Wesley said. “And now you get out of my room. And out of town. If I see you around I might be sorry I ever let up on you.”

  “The next time I see you,” Billy said as he stood up, “I’m going to have a knife on me. I warn you.”

  “Thanks,” Wesley said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  At the door, Billy turned. “One last word,” he said, “I’m your friend, no matter what you think.”

  Wesley nodded somberly and Billy opened the door and went out.

  When he got downstairs he called Saint-Paul-de-Vence. When Rudolph came to the phone, Billy told him what had happened.

  “Oh, Lord,” Rudolph said. “He’s as bad as that?”

  “Worse,” said Billy. “Demented. You’d better move to another hotel, if you don’t want another choking session in the family.”

  “I’m not moving anywhere,” Rudolph said calmly. “Let him come.”

  “Just don’t see him alone,” Billy said, admiring his uncle’s serenity. “With that boy you need plenty of witnesses.”

  “I’ll see him any way he wants.”

  “Have you come up with anything?”

  “Maybe,” Rudolph said. “We’ll see.”

  “If I can give you some advice,” Billy said, “I’d get rid of the thing before he gets there. Throw it in the sea.”

  “No,” Rudolph said thoughtfully, “I don’t believe I want to do that. It may come in handy. In the not too distant future.”

  “Good luck,” Billy said.

  “I’ll see you next week in Cannes, at the festival,” Rudolph said. “I’ve reserved rooms at the Hôtel Majestic for all of us. I put you in a room with Wesley. Given the circumstances …” He chuckled oddly. “Given the circumstances, I think I’ll put you on another floor.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you, Rudolph,” Billy said sarcastically.

  “Almost everything,” Rudolph said.

  Billy hung up and went over to the concierge’s desk and said, “Please put the call on Mr. Jordache’s bill.”

  Wesley didn’t call that day or the next, but the lawyer from Antibes did.

  “I may have some news,” the lawyer said. “The gentleman I have in mind to apply for the position you spoke to me about the other day is not available for the moment. He happens to be in prison in Fresnes. But he is due to get out in two weeks and he is expected at his home in Marseilles shortly after that. I will be in touch with him and will tell him where he can reach you.”

  “I’ll be at the Hôtel Majestic in Cannes,” Rudolph said.

  “I’m sorry about the delay,” the lawyer said.

  “It can’t be helped,” Rudolph said. “Thank you for your trouble. I’ll be expecting the call.”

  It can’t be helped, Rudolph thought as he hung up. That would be a good title for the story of my life. It can’t be helped.

  CHAPTER 10

  The publicity man at the festival for Gretchen’s movie had put out a story about the woman whose first picture as a director had been chosen as one of the American entries to be shown in Cannes, so there were photographers at the Nice airport when Gretchen’s plane came in. The photographers took pictures of Gretchen getting off the plane and then again as she greeted Billy and Rudolph after going through customs. She was near tears as she kissed Billy and hugged him, hard. “It’s been so long,” she whispered.

  Billy was embarrassed at the show of maternal emotion with the flashbulbs popping off and extricated himself, gently but firmly, from his mother’s embrace. “Mother,” he said, “why don’t we save the reunion scene for later?” He didn’t like the idea of a photograph of himself being clutched in a domestic stranglehold appearing in the papers, publicity or no publicity.

  As Gretchen stepped back Billy saw her lips set in the cold line that was all too familiar to him. “Billy,” she said, her tone formal, “let me introduce you to Mr. Donnelly. He did the sets for our picture.”

  Billy shook hands with the red-bearded young man. “Glad to meet you, sir,” he said. Another one, he thought. She never gives up. He had noticed the possessive, protective way the man had held his mother’s arm as they came through the small crowd grouped around the exit from the customs. He had intended to be warm and responsive at this first meeting after so long, but the sight of his mother, as beautiful as ever in her smart blue traveling suit, being squired ostentatiously off the plane by a man who seemed not much older than himself had disturbed him.

  Then he felt ashamed for allowing himself to be annoyed. After all, his mother was a big grown woman and what she did on her own time and her taste in partners was none of his business. As he walked beside her toward the chauffeured car that had been sent for her, he squeezed her hand affectionately, to make up for the remark about the reunion scene. She looked at him, surprised, then smiled widely. “We’re going to have a great two weeks,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he said. “I can’t wait to see the picture.”

  “The omens are good,” she said. “The people who’ve seen it so far seem to like it a great deal.”

  “A lot more than a great deal,” Rudolph said. “People’re raving about it. I’ve already been offered a hundred percent profit on my share of it and I’ve turned it down.”

  “Faithful brother,” Gretchen said lightly. “He puts his money where his heart is.” Then she frowned. “Rudy,” she said, “you don’t look well. You look as though you haven’t slept in weeks. What’s the matter?”

  Rudolph laughed uneasily. “Nothing. Maybe I’ve been staying up too late at the casino.”

  “Have you been winning?”

  “As always,” Rudolph said.

  As the porter and the chauffeur were putting the bags in the car, Gretchen said, “I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Why?” Rudolph asked.

  “I’d hoped that Wesley would come to meet me, too.”

  Rudolph and Billy exchanged glances.

  “Isn’t he staying at the hotel with us?” Gretchen asked.

  “No,” said Rudolph.

  “He’s in Cannes, isn’t he? After the picture’s shown, he’s going to be mobbed by the papers and TV people for interviews. He’s got to behave like an actor even if he doesn’t think he is one.”

  “Gretchen,” Rudolph said softly, “we don’t know where he is. He was in Saint-Tropez the last we knew, but he’s disappeared.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Not that we know of,” Rudolph lied. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  “He’d better,” Gretchen said, as she and Donnelly got into the car. “Or I’ll send out a missing persons alarm.”

  With all the baggage there was no room in the car for Rudolph. He and Billy went toward where the Peugeot was parked. “We’d better cook up some kind of story for her about Wesley,” Rudolph said as they got into the Peugeot.

  “You cook up the story this time,” Billy said, as they drove out of the parking lot. “The last story I cooked up nearly got me killed.”

  “Maybe when he sees Gretchen’s picture in the papers, he’ll come around,” Rudolph said. “He grew very fond of her while they were shooting.”

  “I know. He told me so. Still, I wouldn’t be too hopeful. What he’s really fond of these days is finding a certain Yugoslav.” He turned his head and peered curiously at Rudolph. “Anything new on your front?”

  “I won’t know for a few days yet.”

  “You still don’t want to tell me what it might be?”

  “No,” Rudo
lph said decisively. “And don’t pry.”

  Billy devoted himself to his driving for a minute or so. He had had the car washed and he had dressed in clean, neat clothes for his mother’s arrival. He was sorry that Wesley’s absence had cast a shadow over the occasion. “I hope,” he said, “that wherever he is or whatever he does, he doesn’t spoil my mother’s big moment. She seemed in great spirits at the airport.”

  “Except when you made that snide crack about the reunion,” Rudolph said sourly.

  “Force of habit.”

  “Well, break the habit.”

  “I’ll try,” Billy said. “Anyway, for your information, I made up for it on the way to the car.”

  “You think she’s tough,” Rudolph said. “Well, let me tell you something—she isn’t. Certainly not about you.”

  “I’ll try, I said.” Billy smiled. “She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?”

  “Very.”

  Again, Billy turned his head to peer at Rudolph. “What’s there between her and that Donnelly fellow?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” Rudolph said curtly. “They worked well together and he’s now a business associate of mine, too. Don’t pry into that, either.”

  “I was just asking,” Billy said. “A son’s natural concern for his mother’s welfare. What sort of guy is he?”

  “One of the best,” Rudolph said. “Talented, ambitious, honest, with a drinking problem.”

  “She ought to be used to that,” Billy said, “after her life with my father. The drinking part, I mean.”

  “She invited your father to come over, too,” Rudolph said. “He said he had a new job and couldn’t leave Chicago. Maybe he’s taking hold of himself at last.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Billy. “Well, he’s done at least one useful thing for his son.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He turned me off drink.” Billy chuckled. “Say—I have an idea. Not about my father or my mother—about Wesley.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know, the police pick up those forms you have to fill in when you check into a hotel …”

  “Yes.”