The Luxembourg Run

by Ellin, Stanley

  restaurant.”

  “Money troubles?”

  “Last show she was in closed six months ago. And she’s into her law

  firm for a thousand pounds. Bills she ran up going to court about the kid. I’ve

  got copies of the bills if you want them.”

  “No need. Just copies of the van Zee letters.”

  “All ready and packed,” said Costello.

  Grete, looking as if she had put in a hard weekend, slept in the front seat

  of the limousine through the entire trip. Oscar, in back with me, talked most of

  the way, starting with the question of why we were embarked on this

  expedition. “All right, so van Zee mentioned the kid in those letters, she might

  still have contact with him, it’s worth checking out. But a part in the picture for

  her, Dave? Why?”

  “Authenticity.”

  “The documentary quality? Look, Dave —”

  ”I like the idea, Oscar.”

  He recognized his mastery s voice. “Well, if you feel that way about

  it —”

  We held close to schedule. At twelve-fifteen we picked up the Detec

  agent at his café and were at the school with time to spare. It was on rue

  Melsens, a weatherworn building next to an even more weatherworn church.

  Harry and the agent took their positions on the sidewalk, and when a

  covey of uniformed girls spilled through the school door I watched the agent

  point out our mark to Harry and depart. Harry, cap in hand, moved toward a

  girl and addressed her. Sarah Leewarden had grown in inches, apparently

  145

  without adding an ounce to that narrow frame. The elongated look of her and

  the lank blond hair reminded me of those illustrations of Alice in Wonderland

  after she had shot up in height above her surroundings, except that this Alice

  wore thick eyeglasses.

  She seemed bewildered by what Harry was saying, then aimed the

  eyeglasses in the direction of the limousine. I opened the door. “Miss

  Leewarden?”

  She walked over and stooped to get me in focus. “Yes?”

  “I’m David Shaw, Miss Leewarden. Of Shaw Film Productions in the

  United States.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said mechanically.

  “And it’s a happy meeting for me. This gentleman is Oscar Wylie, the

  film director. The young lady is Miss Grete Hansen who’ll appear in the

  picture we’re now making.”

  Oscar grunted his greetings, Grete turned to nod hers. Sarah disregarded

  Oscar; she seemed transfixed by the sight of Grete. “Grete Hansen.” Her voice

  rose. “Grete Hansen? But you were in the newspapers here!” Those

  nearsighted eyes returned to me, the light of wonder in them. “You’re that

  David Shaw, aren’t you? The one searching for the missing writer.”

  “I am. And to explain your part in the search, I’d like you to read this.” I

  reached out to hand her the van Zee letter, then indicated that there was room

  on the seat beside me. She was tempted but shook her head. “Thank you, but

  I’ll read it here, if you don’t mind.”

  As soon as she started reading her face turned pink. When at the very

  end she looked startled, I knew that the meaning of the signature had

  penetrated. “Van Zee,” she said. “The writer you’re looking for.”

  “Right.”

  “But I didn’t realize — I mean, when we met he just called himself Jan.”

  “But you do recall that meeting.”

  “Oh yes.” She shrugged broadly. “But the rest of this letter — the

  impression I seem to have made on him. I don’t know how. Really, I was such

  a kid.”

  “That’s your opinion. Obviously, he found you an extraordinarily mature

  and perceptive kid.”

  146

  Oscar leaned forward. “Look,” he said to Sarah, “what it comes down to

  is whether you can give us any lead to him.”

  “I’m afraid not. I only met him that once.”

  “Oh, fine,” Oscar said sourly. He looked at me. “Well?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Thoughtless of me,” I said to Sarah, “taking up

  your lunch hour this way. So, although Mr. Wylie and Miss Hansen must now

  get back to their hotel, I’d like you to be my guest at lunch. Your helping me

  find van Zee is only part of the reason I’m here. You see, since his brief

  contact with you was so deeply meaningful to him, Mr. Wylie and I want to

  make use of it in our film. And, if possible, with your playing the role of the

  younger Sarah. Right, Oscar?”

  “It was a thought,” Oscar acknowledged ungraciously.

  Sarah looked from one to the other of us. “Me?” she said.

  “Yes. Can we discuss it over lunch? The chauffeur will drop us off any

  place you choose.”

  “Across the street,” said Sarah in a daze. “I mean, that’s where we all

  go to eat.”

  Downstairs across the street turned out to be noisy and crowded, but

  upstairs there was comparative quiet. I ordered poulet rôti, the national bird

  of the Low Countries. Sarah ordered gauffre Bruxelles and was delivered a

  waffle sheathed in crystallized sugar and piled high with whipped cream and

  syrup. She abstractedly put away a spoonful, still clutching the letter in her

  other hand. “Please,” she said, “I really don’t understand about your wanting

  me in your movie. Are you serious about that?”

  “Completely. After all, van Zee wrote that you dreamed of becoming an

  actress. And that your mother is Emmaline Bell. In professional circles she’s

  regarded as a marvelously talented actress. I’m sure she’d be enthusiastic

  about your getting a start in her profession this way.”

  “But she has nothing to say about it. And my father —”

  ”Yes?”

  “Well, there was a most awful divorce, and the court awarded me to

  Daddy — I mean, they made Mummy look dreadfully tawdry and unworthy —

  and now he’s quite rabid on the subject of show business.”

  “But you’re not a child any more. You should have some choice of

  career, shouldn’t you?”

  147

  “I know. And I did so want to go into the performing arts. But who’s to

  pay for what I want? Mummy certainly can’t.” She looked panicky. “Look, if

  Daddy suspected I was sitting here with someone in films —”

  ”Then he mustn’t ever suspect. Now tell me something. Are you in touch

  with your mother?”

  “Well,” Sarah said uneasily, “it’s a most desperate secret, but once a

  month she comes to Brussels and we meet here in the central library.”

  “The library? A pretty conspicuous place for a secret meeting, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. But then I can tell Daddy truthfully that I was in the library.

  Anyhow, Mummy and I stay out of sight in the stacks and just talk.”

  “And you get along well with her?”

  “Oh yes. She’s a darling.”

  “All right. Now listen very carefully. If it could be arranged for you to

  move in with your mother on short notice — and with a contract from me that

  would help settle all financial problems — would you have the courage to

  make that move?”

  “A contract?” Her fork, a piece of waffle harpooned on it, remained

  poised
midway to her mouth. Then she set the fork down and clasped her

  hands in agony. “Oh God, yes, I’d want to do it. But I couldn’t. Don’t you see,

  there’s that court order —”

  ”I give you my word it won’t be any obstacle.”

  “But what if I can’t act? All I’ve done so far are school plays.”

  “That’s my risk.”

  “And there’s Daddy to consider. I’m not sure you’ll understand, but he’s

  frightfully dependent on me in some ways. And all this is so sudden really.

  Must it be settled right now?”

  That strained face across the table from me. That syrupy mess on the

  plate before her. That was what she had been feasting on three years ago in the

  little restaurant in Bruges. And suddenly here was Anneke beside her, Anneke

  proudly saying “Mijn man” as I drew up a chair next to hers, slipping her arm

  through mine, delighted that now I had — clever Jan — obtained a car and

  would soon be taking her south to the Mediterranean sunshine.

  Here she was, and even though I knew there was no longer any Anneke,

  that all that was left of her was a handful of ashes nurturing a stand of trees in

  148

  a Luxembourg valley, I could feel her arm pressing hard against me while a

  horrid stench of burning cloth and flesh rose to my nostrils, choking me.

  “What is it?” Sarah said in alarm. “Are you ill?”

  “No, no. I’m all right.”

  “But the way you look —”

  ”Pressure, that’s all. My line of work invites it. Like this matter of your

  signing a contract with me.”

  “Yes, that. Really, I must have time to think about it.”

  I controlled the impulse to grab those narrow shoulders and shake them

  until her head rattled. Instead, I reached out my hand and rested it on hers. She

  gave a little start, and again there was that surge of color to her cheeks. “I’m

  sorry,” I said, “but I’ve got an enormous investment in this picture and every

  day’s delay adds to it. Every hour, in fact. So you have to decide right now.

  Say the word, and tomorrow morning I’ll be in London making the necessary

  arrangements. Otherwise —”

  ”Arrangements? What arrangements are those?”

  “First,” I said, “I must have your decision.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. “You know, I’ve never in my whole life had

  the chance to decide on anything important to do with me.”

  “Now’s the time,” I said.

  149

  Imade it to my hotel on Grand’ Place on

  foot and found a message waiting. Telephone M. Costello in Paris, s.v.p.

  Costello wasted no words. “How did it go?”

  “Fine.”

  “London tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, now here’s Williams with something to tell you. I’ll get back

  on the line after he’s done.”

  Miller Williams sounded apprehensive. “Well, Mr. Shaw, about those

  shares you held in transatlantic airlines —”

  ”Held?”

  “That’s what I must explain. A little while ago — bank opening time in

  Miami — the brokerage department there called me. Both The New York

  Times and Wall Street Journal had stories this morning about federal action

  being planned against every one of those airlines whose shares we hold for

  paying illegal rebates to travel agencies.”

  “I see. Well, if you’ve put in a sell order on that stuff, Miller, you did

  the smart thing.”

  Over the line came what I took to be a heartfelt sigh. “I’m glad you feel

  that way, Mr. Shaw. Now here’s Mr. Costello.”

  A few moments later, Costello said to me, “I had to get him out of the

  way. Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe. For all you know, a certain Dutchman could be leaning against

  your door right now.”

  I said impatiently, “What’s on your mind, Ray? Let’s have it.”

  “Sure. Gardiner Fremont is dead. The hard way.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Well, he’s been holed up in Brussels there with Detec guys on him

  around the clock. Last night about eleven, the man on him — Chiasson’s his

  name — sees him come out of his boarding house and get into a cab. He

  follows along and they wind up in a neighborhood — wait, I’ve got it down

  here — Chaussée de Mons. You know that section?”

  150

  “Yes. A warehouse district.”

  “That’s it. Anyhow, the cab stops in front of an old warehouse, Fremont

  goes inside, the cab waits. After awhile, the cabbie goes in and then comes

  running out yelling for the cops. It seems Fremont walked into an elevator

  except the elevator wasn’t there. He landed on the bottom of the shaft all

  busted up. The cops combed the building and couldn’t find anybody there, so

  they put it down as an accident. You and I know different, don’t we?

  Especially since there’s a back way out of that building.”

  “But what makes you so sure it was Baar? What about the other two?”

  “All accounted for. No, Davey, this was the Dutchman’s job. That means

  he was close to you last night and he still could be. I want to be there too. So

  hold off on the London trip until I am.”

  “What do you plan to do when you’re here? Stand around and look

  menacing?”

  “That might not hurt, Davey. This baby is a killer. And whether or not

  he’s worried those van Zee letters might go public, you’re crowding him

  hard.”

  “Stay where you are, Ray,” I said and replaced the phone on its stand.

  I pulled off my shoes, then switched out the room light. Silently, I made

  my way through the darkness to the hall door and flung it open.

  Nobody.

  At least, not yet.

  151

  Picadilly Circus. Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Theaters; cheap eating places; electronic musical instruments; porno shops;

  porno movie houses, the gaudiest of them featuring Danish Delights which,

  from its title, might be a Leewarden production turned out at the Copenhagen

  works by the multitalented Marie-Paule Neyna.

  A right turn, a snail’s crawl through traffic for two blocks while I tried

  to stop my mind from racing through the moves of the game about to be played,

  and at last, thank God, here was Macclesfield Street. No parking place in

  sight, so Harry double-parked. It was noticeable that passing drivers, no

  matter how loudly wrathful about this obstruction, gave the Rolls room to

  spare in passing it.

  Emmaline Bell’s flat was two flights up a rickety stairway that smelled

  of cooking oil. The woman who opened its door was in bulky sweater and

  slacks. About forty, with tight little coppery curls close to the head and an

  amusing face.

  “Miss Bell?”

  “For better or worse.” The voice was surprisingly deep. “Is that your

  car down below? That loverly, old-ivory number?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to report there’s a bobby standing there preparing to do

  something about it.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “The chauffeur’ll take care of it.” I handed her

  my card and she scanned it nearsightedly. “Film Productio
ns, Incorporated,”

  she recited. “What beautiful words. Film magnates are always welcome here,

  especially the solvent. You are solvent, Mr. Shaw, aren’t you?”

  “Very.”

  “Good for you. That isn’t true of all your colleagues, you know, and I’m

  the girl with the half-healed scars to prove it.” She stood aside to let me in and

  with a broad gesture motioned me to an armchair. “I trust that handsome

  attaché case contains a script with an Oscar-winning part for me?”

  “Sorry, Miss Bell. My business here concerns your daughter.”

  Her face went white. “Something’s happened to Sarah?”

  “Not at all. She’s fine. You have my word on it.”

  152

  “Then what —?”

  “Look,” I said, “do you recall a news item about a million-dollar

  production that’s bogged down because a young Dutchman has turned up

  missing? Something you might have read lately in the trade papers?”

  “Young Dutchman?” She pressed her fingertips to her brow. “Wait. I

  think so. An untutored genius of sorts? There’s supposed to be a vast search

  going on for him?”

  “There is a vast search going on for him. I know, because as producer of

  that picture I happen to be leading it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Very seriously, considering the amount of money I’ve invested in the

  production. Getting down to cases, the missing man — his name is Jan van Zee

  — has already been paid a large amount for his story material. My mistake

  was in giving him final script approval. And now that I’m ready to roll —”

  ”No van Zee. But what does Sarah have to do with it?”

  I said, “All the van Zee material was in a series of autobiographical

  letters he sent me over the years. Sarah popped up in one of them, and

  yesterday I had a meeting with her about it. Not in the company of her father

  who so far knows nothing about this. The reason for that bit of evasion, I think,

  will interest you.”

  “There, Mr. Shaw, is the understatement of the century.”

  “I know what you mean. And I’ll let the van Zee letters do the

  explaining.” I handed her the packet. “The first one tells of a chance meeting

  between Sarah and van Zee three years ago. All the others concern her father.

  Take your time with them.”

  I kept an eye on her as, hunched over on a rump-sprung couch, she did

  her reading. Her concentration on those pages was so fierce that after awhile it