“Yes, Monsieur Vosiers,” said Pascal cheerfully, and leveled the gun squarely at my head from six feet away.
Vosiers disappeared into the building. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Pascal said to me, “What’s going on, champ?” and while there was friendly concern in his voice, the gun barrel did not waver from its mark. “Whose corns have you stepped on?”
“Shut up, imbecile,” his companion said tiredly to him before I could answer.
Pascal took the hint and kept his mouth closed after that. The other youth lit a cigarette, pasted it to his lower lip, and narrowly watched me through the rising thread of smoke. When the cigarette was reduced to a stub he spat it out and lit another.
Time passed. Night dampness clouded the windshield of the car, and little trickles of water worked their way down the glass. I became aware of country noises around me, a rustling of warm breeze through the cypresses, a fitful croaking of frogs from some swampy patch nearby, an insistent chirping of insects.
I could imagine what was going on in the chateau. Vosiers had presented my case, the jury was now considering its verdict. How much did it weigh in my favor that I was here voluntarily, that I was the dupe of Madame de Villemont and not her willing ally? And wouldn’t it be better at this moment to be hiding out in some dark corner of Paris, rather than waiting helplessly like this to be the victim of a neatly designed accident? No, I decided, it wouldn’t be. At least, not for anyone who thinks that a quick, clean execution is far preferable to being slowly and relentlessly hounded to death.
The door of the chateau opened, but it was not Vosiers coming to bring me the verdict. It was a servant in uniform, bearing a dinner tray. As impassively as if he were waiting on the table inside, he arranged it on the seat beside me, poured me a glass of wine from the bottle on the tray, and to complete the incongruity of the scene, stepped back and remained at attention while I dined, the frogs and insects providing chamber music for us.
The dinner consisted of coq au vin, a half loaf of bread, a cut of cheese, and the wine, and I finished it all off ravenously, wondering if this was the condemned man’s last meal. Still, I felt considerably more spirited by the time the tray had been cleared and removed.
Then Claude de Gonde appeared in the doorway of the building and paused there to light a cigar. When it seemed to be drawing properly, he sauntered up to the car.
“Remain on guard over there,” he told Pascal and his comrade, and they promptly retreated to a position just out of earshot.
De Gonde opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was impossible to guess from his imperturbable expression what the verdict was.
“Monsieur de Gonde—” I said impatiently, but before I got any further he held up a warning hand and said, “No, don’t bother to explain your situation. Monsieur Vosiers has already done that at length.”
“I’m sure he has, monsieur, but there are still a good many questions to ask.”
“And no questions,” de Gonde said with finality. “The one thing I am here to discuss is your disastrous involvement in my family’s affairs.”
“In that case,” I said between my teeth, “please remember that you were the one who hired me to become involved in them.”
“I hired you to attend to my nephew so that he could grow up a sturdy young man instead of a sickly neurotic. After that, it was Madame de Villemont’s folly alone which led to this present crisis. And you can’t deny that you were warned against her by everyone who knew her.”
The righteousness of this staggered me. In all sincerity, this man, a leader of a terrorist gang, saw me as the conspirator and himself as my victim.
“Whether or not I should have taken those warnings,” I said angrily, “doesn’t change the fact that Paul still needs me as much as ever. And God knows I need him, if I’m to clear myself of a murder charge.”
De Gonde slowly shook his head. “You will have nothing more to do with Paul ever again. Absolutely nothing.”
My heart sank. “Monsieur, you must know I’m not guilty of any murder. In all fairness—”
“That’s a foolish word to use in these circumstances,” de Gonde said contemptuously. “No, you and Paul are done with each other. You’ll have to settle for another means of saving your skin.”
“Such as?”
“In a day or two, you’ll be taken to Marseilles and given passage aboard a certain ship leaving for Argentina next week. In Buenos Aires you will be provided with a modest allowance. I don’t see how you can object to this. You are—and I use the word kindly—an idler. You ask little in life but the chance to write books. Now the chance is being given to you.”
“And the chance to become a permanent fugitive from the police?”
“Your plight is not unique, my friend. There are dozens of others in South America sharing it. I’ll make sure you’re welcomed by them with open arms.”
Open arms, I thought, and closed fists with knives in them.
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for me,” I said bluntly. “Why?”
He wasn’t prepared for the question; it threw him off-stride. He darted a quick, hard look at me, the cigar poised in mid-air, then recovered himself.
“Because I owe you a great deal for the good you’ve done Paul,” he said. “Now I’m repaying you for that. Be wise. Accept the payment and don’t tempt fate.”
“But how do you know that once I’m safely away from here—?”
“Ah, so that’s it,” said de Gonde. “But would you really dare reveal your identity to the world and be convicted of murder? Would you deliberately risk the child’s life for any reason at all?”
“That child saw the murder committed, monsieur. He may be able to point out the real murderer. How do you propose to keep him silent about it the rest of his life?”
This hit the mark. De Gonde’s hand, which had been resting on the steering wheel, suddenly clenched into a fist.
“A child regards a scene of violence as play-acting!” he said explosively. “In a little while he forgets it.”
“Does the murderer know that? What if he begins to worry that Paul won’t forget so easily?”
The fist came down hard on the steering wheel.
“Enough!” De Gonde drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressed it to his lips, and replaced it in the pocket, allowing time for his temper to cool. “The fact is, my friend,” he said evenly, “you don’t hold a single winning trick in this game. Even the one little ace you did hold has been trumped. By tomorrow night the entire contents of that arsenal on the rue de Courcelles will be gone from the house, so if you thought you could use your information about it—”
“Monsieur,” I said, “to get several truckloads of arms and machinery past that gate with a suspicious cop standing there—”
“His suspicions will be put to rest by a high police official. Believe me, our organization has powerful friends in that department as well as in every ministry office.”
“Organization? Monsieur Vosiers insisted that the OAS was dead and gone.”
“He put it badly. It is not dead, but has been transformed into something much greater in function and purpose. Our new Organisation d’Élite Internationale is truly international. Its cells may be invisible but they are active throughout the world. The elite of every nation is awakening to the need for a new order.”
“And expect to get it by terrorism and murder?”
“La politique n’a pas d’entrailles,” quoted de Gonde. All signs of temper were gone now. He was his old self again, completely under control.
“No one expects tenderness in politics,” I said. “I’m only saying that your tactics seem not only inhuman, but futile. If they didn’t work in Algeria—”
“Algeria was merely the opening battle of a great war. The battle was lost; the war will be won. There was even a time when I thought you, too, might be enlisted in it, but that was a mistaken judgment. So now make up your mind. Will it be Buenos Aires
or not? Yes or no.”
At least, precious time was being offered me. A week of it before I might have to board that ship at Marseilles.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. Meanwhile, you’ll be given a room in the chateau and made as comfortable as possible.”
“Fair enough. By the way, did Monsieur Vosiers tell you that all my belongings have disappeared from my room back in Paris? Perhaps you know what became of them.”
De Gonde frowned. “I had the impression you yourself ordered them removed. I was there when the truckman came to cart them away, and he said he was acting on your instructions.”
“May I ask Madame de Villemont about it?”
“Why not? The only thing you may not do here, my friend, is try to depart. I won’t mince words. This place is closely guarded, and you wouldn’t get three steps away from it before being shot like a rabbit. Bear in mind that whoever pulls the trigger will do so without the least compunction because you are, in effect, a dangerous criminal fleeing the police. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“I hope you do. For the rest, I’ll see about getting you suitable clothing and the necessaries for your trip abroad.” De Gonde clapped an encouraging hand on my knee. “You’ll enjoy life in South America,” he said. “Let’s make sure nothing prevents you from reaching there safely.”
7
At eight o’clock every morning in the mansion on the rue de Courcelles, there would be a sharp knock on my bedroom door, and whether I answered or not, a maid would then open the door and wheel in a serving cart on which were Paul’s breakfast and my coffee and croissant. Now I was jarred out of a sweaty, terrifying sequence of dreams by that same knock on the door, and I opened my eyes to see Jeanne-Marie make an entrance behind a serving cart.
The sight of her under these conditions was so familiar that for a moment I didn’t remember where I was. Then I became aware of the dusty canopy over the four-poster bed I occupied, the huge room with its peeling walls and sparse minimum of furniture, the dank, musty smell in my nostrils of a country house moldering too long without proper care; and unpleasant enlightenment set in.
Jeanne-Marie pushed open window shutters, flooding the room with sunlight. Then she went to the dresser and, with a worried expression, leaned forward to study her face in the mirror over it. In her chic uniform, a tiny white cap pinned high on her extravagant coiffure, she made a very pretty anachronism in this room which might have been the donjon keep of a medieval castle.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
She looked startled, then stuck out her tongue at my reflection in the mirror.
“Good morning, lover,” she said, “and aren’t you in a sweet mood. One day away from Madame and you’re all on edge, I see.”
She took her time at the mirror before bringing me the breakfast tray. On it, besides the usual coffee and croissant, was a razor and shaving soap, a toothbrush, and a pack of cigarettes.
“The bathroom is right next door,” Jeanne-Marie said, “and since you’re first up, you won’t get caught in the traffic.” She helped herself to a cigarette from the pack and lit it. “As for what I’m doing here, I’ll have you know I made the trip by request. You may not believe it, big boy, but there are some men who don’t think your boss is the only female in sight.”
“Like Monsieur Edmond?”
Jeanne-Marie sat herself on the foot of the bed and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. “Well, what’s wrong with that? He’s all there, I can tell you. A real man despite that fat belly. And last night—!” She rolled her eyes wickedly.
“No!” I said. “You don’t mean right here under Madame Matilde’s nose?”
I couldn’t have cared less what went on between this wench and Vosiers, but it struck me that I had to play it cool, had to win whatever allies I could before time ran out on me.
Jeanne-Marie nodded solemnly, but was obviously bursting with some priceless secret.
“Right under her pointy little nose,” she assured me.
“Formidable!” I said with admiration through a mouthful of croissant. “But take care, baby. If Madame ever catches you two at that game, she’ll hand you your head on a platter.”
Jeanne-Marie seemed to find this excruciatingly funny. She choked with laughter.
“But she did catch us at it last night!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I swear she did. My fat little rooster forgot to lock the door behind him when he came to visit, and suddenly there was Madame standing right in my doorway taking in everything with her eyes popping out of her head. Oh, she was in a fine state, all right. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“Monsieur Edmond didn’t even turn a hair. He just looked at her as cool as you please, and she ran off without saying a word.”
“She’ll have plenty of words for you when she gets you alone,” I warned.
Jeanne-Marie dismissed this with a lofty wave of the hand. “Not after Monsieur Edmond settles with her today. Naturally, Madame Cesira would never let them get divorced, but he’s done sharing the same bed with sweet Matilde. He’s planning to tell her that this morning. Once he does, she’ll know her place.” Jeanne-Marie sniffed contemptuously. “Couldn’t even have a child for him, a man who’d give his soul for a houseful of kids. That’s how much use she is.”
“Well,” I said, “in that case, no one can blame you for trying to cheer him up a little.”
Jeanne-Marie warmed to this sympathy. “Yes, I guess you know how it is, don’t you? Have you had a chance to see your lady friend since you got here?”
“No, but sometimes today—”
“Tonight, you mean, what with that gang of lawyers she’ll be attending to all day.”
“That’s right,” I said, as if this weren’t news. “The lawyers come first. Meanwhile, would you do me one small favor?”
Jeanne-Marie lazily got to her feet. She swept the toiletries on my tray to the bed and picked up the tray. “I might.”
“Well, there’s a certain little Véronique back in Paris—she lives on the rue de Babylonne—and I’d like to get her out of my hair. Next time you go into Dijon, if you wrote her a picture postcard saying her friend Reno is having a fine time on vacation, and you signed it with Madame de Villemont’s name—”
From the way Jeanne-Marie looked at me I knew I had been heading down a blind alley.
“Only a postcard?” she asked sweetly. “But why not a whole letter telling her why you’re here and what she ought to do about it?”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“Yes, my little lamb,” said Jeanne-Marie. She motioned with her thumb at the door. “And so does that type in the hall outside and all his ugly friends around here with their hands on their guns. If you’re smart, you won’t ask them for such favors either, or you might become a very dead lamb.”
After she was gone, giving me a broad wink as she closed the door to show me she bore me no hard feelings despite my gaffe, I tried to think what other possible allies I might find in this place. I could think of none. When de Gonde had ushered me into the chateau the night before, it was like being conducted into limbo. The foxy little Comte de Laennac and his mummified, fortunetelling wife were playing bridge with the Vosierś, and not one of them answered my greeting or even looked up at me. It was the same with Madame Gabrielle, who sat in an armchair busy with her embroidery. It was a servant who, after a consenting nod from de Gonde, answered my query about Madame de Villemont. She had been indisposed after dinner and gone directly to bed, he informed me, so that was that. To the rest of the company I was evidently a disembodied spirit, mute and invisible.
Nor did Jeanne-Marie have to describe the guard outside my bedroom or his friends. I had been guided upstairs to my room by a burly character who, although in mufti, wore a paratrooper’s beret and jump boots. A half dozen others like him had been holding a low-voiced discussion at the foot of the staircase. An
other pair lounged against the wall of the second-floor hallway, and one of them, thumbs in belt and jacket thrown open, displayed a shoulder holster with a gun butt protruding from it. No question about it. If the mansion on the rue de Courcelles was an armory for the Organisation d’Élite Internationale, the Château Laennac was one of its barracks.
8
Bathed, shaved, and dressed, I was ready to reconnoiter the enemy camp.
The objectives were clear-cut. Vosiers had let slip that Paul and his grandmother would be in Venice. Now all I had to do was learn exactly where in Venice they would be, get away from the chateau alive, cross the Italian frontier, find the child, take possession of him, and place both of us under the protection of the nearest American consulate. All this, of course, without money or passport, and with the police of every country this side of the Iron Curtain on the lookout for me.
I forced myself to examine my situation calmly, to move with slow deliberation, to push up the sleeves of Edmond Vosiers’ now dirty and wrinkled cashmere sweater as if I were really preparing for a morning of tennis, but what I felt was a frenzy of helplessness. I felt as if I were bound hand and foot, writhing futilely under thoughts that were being driven into me like needles.
The thought of Louis dead and his killer roaming free was the most painful; and almost as tormenting was the thought of Léon Becque consoling Véronique for the tragedy and for my supposed part in it. I was sure he would remain close to her until I was safely in exile. After that, it would be good-bye to her and to poor Eliane who imagined herself engaged to this dashing salesman. Becque had more important missions in life than marriage.
Come to think of it, it was lucky Jeanne-Marie had refused to forward my message to Véronique. As long as Becque hovered close to her and Eliane, their best protection from him would be their innocent faith in him. Better to have them believe whatever he told them than to have him suspect they knew too much.
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