gave me the feeling of danger. But the awakenings were always a disaster,
bringing each time the stunned awareness that there was no Anneke, there
never again would be an Anneke.
Costello knew this and understood it, and his way of counteracting it
whenever he woke me was to plunge immediately into the business at hand,
deliberately snatching me past those bad minutes into wide-awake
consideration of our strategy and tactics. He did this at noon, bringing me out
of my sleep by gently poking my shoulder, and, as soon as I opened my eyes,
by saying, “How’d you make out with her last night?”
“She’ll be leaving with me Friday afternoon for Chaumont.”
“Quick work. There’s also news from the Paris end.” He sat down
heavily on the edge of the bed. “Nine o’clock this morning, Williams met with
Frenchy about those IOU’s. Sweated him good. Put in American money, the
best Frenchy can offer right now is a hundred grand. For the remaining two
hundred he wants a lot of time, but Williams kept saying no. Then Frenchy
came up with something real interesting. He asked how about taking the house
there as collateral until the two hundred G’s is paid off.”
“Williams didn’t agree to that, did he?”
“No,” Costello said with satisfaction, “our boy knows what he’s doing
when it comes to this kind of thing. He left it at that and went to records to
check the title. And what do you think?”
“It’s mortgaged right up to the chimneys.”
“No mortgage at all. But Frenchy doesn’t hold title to it. It’s his wife’s.
His wedding present to her.”
“Meaning,” I said, “that if he wants to cash in on it, he has to get it back
from her.”
“Uh-huh. Any chance of that?”
“None,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
170
I said, “She got half stoned last night and let her hair down. I heard
enough to be sure about it. Incidentally, when Williams was talking to Yves
did my name come into it?”
“You said it could, so it did. Frenchy wanted to know who was
squeezing him for payment, so Williams told him. Which must have handed
him a real jolt.”
“Tomorrow he gets another,” I said. “His wife isn’t keeping her social
success from him. She’s letting him know about the big weekend before we
leave for the château.”
“Your idea?”
“Yes. The sister-in-law wanted to rig some kind of cover-up, but I let
them know this could lead to a scandal involving the countess herself. That
was out of the question.”
“Poor Frenchy. You put him in the pot to stew and then hand him a ladle
and tell him to baste himself.”
“I wish to hell it was poor Kees Baar,” I said. “Still no lead to him at
all?”
“Possibilities. For one thing, Leewarden’s standing by in Paris.”
Costello, the perfectionist, referred to an index card. “Hôtel Mazarin, rue de
Vaugirard. For another thing, last night an old girl friend of yours, name of
Marie-Paule Neyna, took the train from Copenhagen to Paris, and right now
she’s fixed up with a room in the same hotel. That puts the three of them in
town together. They could be waiting for the Dutchman to show up and
organize them against this weirdo Davey Shaw.”
“Are you rating Marie-Paule as a full-fledged partner?”
Costello took his time lighting a cigar. He exhaled smoke through pursed
lips. “When you were on their payroll, Davey, you settled for being hired help.
But suppose Marie didn’t? Does that make any sense?”
It suddenly made such sense that I could only stare blankly at its
implications.
“Well, well,” said Costello. “I seem to have struck a nerve.”
“You have. When that money was hijacked all I could make of the one
holding the gun on me was a skinny hand like a kid’s, so I’ve been assuming it
was some kid Baar cut in on the deal, risky as that was. But put everything
together and it could have been Marie-Paule.”
171
“I don’t think it could have been,” said Costello. “Put everything
together, and I think it had to be.”
172
Ireturned to Paris to find David Shaw
Productions, Inc. in disarray.
Where, demanded Oscar, was this screwball van Zee? If the idea was to
get the show on the road —
Miller Williams, anguished at the thought of refusing ready cash, argued
that I must consider accepting the initial hundred thousand dollar payment from
my debtor. Then, if a schedule of further payments could be drafted —
Grete, on her way to dinner in décolletage down to her navel, stopped
by just long enough to ask what was being done about the publicity lately.
Where were the photographers now? The only thing she had gotten the past
week was a brief mention along with Jean-Pierre in some scandal sheet. Not
that Jean-Pierre was happy about it, because the way things were with all his
uptight relatives —
It was Yves Rouart-Rochelle, of all people, who provided consolation. I
was sharing a whiskey nightcap with Costello when the phone rang.
“Mr. Shaw? Mr. David Shaw?”
There was no mistaking that soft and sibilant voice. More than once I
had had the thought that if Yves were ever reduced to his essence, he would
certainly emerge as a black mamba.
“Yes?” I said.
“I am Yves Rouart-Rochelle. I am sure we do not need elaborate
introductions to each other.”
“I’m sure we don’t.”
“Now I must meet with you. I can be at the Meurice within half an hour.”
“Sorry, not tonight. I’m getting ready for bed now.”
“Then tomorrow morning.” A sharpness crept into the voice. “As early
as possible. I leave the arrangements to you.”
“I see. Has Madame Rouart-Rochelle told you that at four tomorrow
afternoon I’m to drive her to the Château de Liasse for a weekend stay?”
“Yes.” Yves bit it off hard. “She has.”
“Fine. Then I’ll arrive at your home a bit earlier for our meeting. That
way, neither of us will suffer any inconvenience.”
173
“Ah,” said Yves as if he were struggling for air, “so you choose to be
openly insulting, is that it?” His phone banged down hard enough to hurt my
eardrum.
I put down my phone and sat there watching it.
“What happened?” said Costello.
“He hung up. I seem to have hurt his feelings.”
“That’s the good news. How about the bad news? Are you sure you
didn’t blow the chance to meet him?”
“Wait,” I said.
The phone rang. I let it ring a few more times before I picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow at three,” snarled Yves. “At my home.”
Well before the hour Harry laid out the wardrobe for my weekend,
packed my bags, and saw to it that I was wholly presentable. It struck me that
Harry, having been informed that our destination was the château of a
certified, blue-blooded countess, was giving every indication that he was at
least as muc
h a social climber as Vahna Rouart-Rochelle.
It was a maid who opened the door of the Rouart-Rochelle home to me
and then scurried upstairs to bring the word to the master. I was kept waiting
awhile — a test of nerve? — and then here was Yves, a small, somberly clad
thundercloud. He looked acutely ill. Haggard, with dark patches under the
eyes, a pronounced wattling of the jowls, and shrunken into his clothes as if,
despite that pot belly, he had suddenly lost considerable weight. “Mr. Shaw,”
he said, not offering his hand.
And then, prematurely, here was Madame coming down the broad
staircase, the loveliest of Siamese dancers descending the temple steps, the
weight of a luxurious sable coat lightly borne by one slender arm, a Vuitton
jewel case in that childlike hand. “My dear David,” she said, far more
joyously than the occasion required.
Yves wheeled on her in an eruption of hard-boiled French. “Votre beau
mâle, hein? Ça n’a pas de nom!” which in recklessly describing me as her
glamor boy and the situation he confronted as unthinkable instantly wiped the
smile from his wife’s face.
She stopped short midway on the staircase. In French she addressed her
husband as chillingly as she might address a servant who had stepped out of
174
line. “Pig! You will speak respectfully to me in my own home! My home, do
you hear?”
So Costello and I had both been right. Yves must have demanded that his
wife return his wedding gift of this property to him, and, plainly, she had no
intention of doing it. Now he wore the expression of a man who had raised his
hand to chastise an errant kitten and discovered it had turned into a tiger.
Madame, having disposed of him, turned a smile in my direction. “My
dear David, my husband has advised me that you and he have arranged a
private talk. I will wait in the car as long as you require,” and with that she
completed her alluring descent of the staircase and was gone.
The sound of the door closing behind her roused Yves from his stupor.
“A private talk,” he said to me. “Yes.”
The room he led me to was strictly business. The one picture on its
walls concealed a safe. Yves removed a set of papers from the safe and
planted them on the gleaming mahogany surface of his desk. At a glance, either
the copies of the van Zee letters I had left with Leewarden or copies of the
copies.
Yves dropped into the leather-quilted swivel chair behind the desk and
waved at the chair facing him. “When you first arrived in Paris, Mr. Shaw —
when the name of Jan van Zee appeared in the newspapers — I entered into an
investigation of you. Now I must admit that the results of it bewilder me. You
are enormously wealthy, of good family, the director of a distinguished bank,
and, as I have good cause to know, you have entry into the highest social
circles. You have come here with reputable associates to make a motion
picture, so you are, in fact, a businessman engaged in a proper enterprise. Yet
your methods” — he clapped a hand down on the letters — “suggest that you
are much more intent on a savage persecution of me and my associate
Leewarden than on any mere search for your missing author.”
“Do you seriously believe that?” I asked with polite interest.
“I do. For example, your government is now examining certain dealings
between transatlantic airlines and tourist agencies. You inspired that action,
did you not?”
“Yes. But, of course, as a concerned shareholder.”
He stared at me, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I cannot play games
with you, Mr. Shaw, because these letters give you all the advantage of me.
175
What I will do is provide you with information about van Zee that even the
letters do not. After that, we will be in a position to strike a bargain.”
“And the information?”
“To put it simply, van Zee was assigned to transport a million dollars in
currency from Zurich to Luxembourg. The temptation was too much for him —
he was a liar and thief at best — and he disappeared en route to Luxembourg
with the money. I am sure none of us will ever see him again. That is the truth
of it.”
“Is it?” I said. “You realize, of course, what’s likely to happen to you if
I don’t believe your version of the truth.”
“Naturally, I understand the possibilities!” His voice rose. “Exposure of
those letters would be disastrous to me. Even now, without that, you face me
with ruin. Any serious attempt to collect the full amount of my notes will
bankrupt me. More than that, it will be enough to end what is left of my
marriage. Certainly I understand all this. And that is why I have every reason
to speak the truth. Believe me, if I could produce van Zee for you, I’d gladly
do it. Is it your idea that the threats you aim at me would enable me to perform
a miracle I cannot possibly perform?”
I put on a sympathetic face. “There’s no arguing with logic, is there?
Well then, what if I settle for a lesser miracle? Kees Baar might have some
helpful information about van Zee. Where do I find Baar?”
“I have no address for him. And even if you met with him, he could tell
you no more than I can. I beg you to accept that fact. Only in that way can we
come to terms with each other.”
“I see. Any particular terms?”
“Yes. I offer you a hundred thousand dollars in part payment on my
notes. Within a year, I will make full payment of the remainder. Since you must
have purchased the notes at discount, you stand to make a handsome profit by
exercising a little patience. What could be more fair?”
“And if I accept these terms?”
“Then, Mr. Shaw, we go our own separate ways. Madame will deplore
the change in her plans for this weekend” — with unbelievable resilience he
was getting more and more smoothly confident as he went along — “but, alas,
these things do happen. After that — well, I see no reason why you and I need
have any more to do with each other.”
176
I gave him time to take comfort from that thought, then shook my head.
“No.”
“No?”
I said, “I’ll accept payment of the hundred thousand, but for the
remainder I had something else in mind. As you remarked, I do have entry into
the highest social circles. And I’ve been looking for suitable accommodations
in which to entertain my friends in those circles. This handsome building
would serve the purpose admirably.”
Yves looked bewildered. “This handsome building is my home, Mr.
Shaw. And it is not for sale.”
“I don’t want to buy it. All I want is the rental of it for a couple of
months. And at a very generous price. One hundred thousand dollars a month.”
He gaped at me. “A joke?”
“Not at all. My offer is entirely serious. All you have to do is be off the
premises by the time I’m back in Paris on Monday, and the two hundred
thousand dollar balance of your debt is cancelled. What could be easier than
that?”
He was darkly su
spicious now. “So much for so little?”
“Monsoor,” I said, doing him the courtesy of trying out his own language
on him, “why question the offer? It’s a much pleasanter solution to your
problem, don’t you think, than the alternatives? The legal proceedings that
assure your bankruptcy? And, inevitably, the exposure of your colorful
career?”
He flinched. “Unfortunately” — he sounded in pain — “most
unfortunately, even taking your offer at its face value, the problem cannot be
solved this way. You see, this building is Madame’s property. Her wedding
portion, which she cherishes with a passion. She would never consent to leave
it under such conditions even for a short time.”
“Of course not. It would be insulting to suggest she do any such thing.”
“What? But you just said —”
”Only that you were to be off the premises. For that matter, I won’t be
using them very often myself. Now and then, simply to provide the proper
ambiance for a dinner party. Madame, who will remain in residence, may be
pleased to serve as hostess on such occasions.”
177
The silence grew so intense that I became aware of his hard breathing.
“So that’s it,” he whispered.
“That,” I said, “is it.”
Yves rocketed out of his chair. “Mais non!” he shouted wildly. “Non!
Non! Non!” smashing his fist down on the desk to punctuate every repetition of
the word. Once before I had seen him in this kind of hopeless fury as he
watched a car below him in a Luxembourg gorge become a sheet of flame. It
was painful remembering that scene, but the pain was eased a little by
witnessing his performance now.
I said, “Even with my limited French, I gather you’re refusing my offer.”
“To sell you my wife? You find that amusing?” A trickle of saliva
dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “In all my life —!”
I cut this short. “Where are you hiding van Zee?”
“I have told you —”
”— a pack of lies. As soon as I showed up in Paris you hid him away
somewhere. Why not? A man who probably drinks too much, takes drugs, talks
too easily. Not the kind of man you’d want reporters flocking around, is he?”
“No! I swear I told you the truth about him.”
I stood up. “Very well. If that’s the way you want it —”
The Luxembourg Run Page 20