The Luxembourg Run

by Ellin, Stanley

  It’s time for them to open our Hollywood branch. Get them all together before

  dinner, and we’ll settle it then.”

  Costello looked doubtful. “Oscar and Williams, okay. But our girlie?

  She’s got His Highness right where she wants him whether his mama likes it

  or not, and that means she’s got options. And that babe is solid brass all the

  way through.”

  “Just call the meeting, Ray.”

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  I was on my way out of the room when an unpleasant thought struck me. I

  turned and said, “Hell, with Leewarden murdered right after I delivered his

  kid to her mother —”

  ”That’s right,” Costello said. “That’s why I was on the phone with

  Emmaline right after I got the word. She caught on quick. She said when the

  police come around with the sad news you can depend on her to handle them

  perfectly.”

  “How did she take the sad news?”

  “With pleasure,” said Costello.

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  Iwas skimming through Oscar’s inept

  screen treatment of The Last Hippie in preparation for the company meeting

  when the phone rang.

  “David, you were right,” chimed the little temple bells. “You said I

  would soon be very lonely. I am lonely now. Would you dine with me this

  evening?”

  “Any place you name.”

  “Chez moi. A dinner for two at home.” She timed a pause. “And who

  knows? Perhaps a breakfast for two?”

  “Servants’ night off?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” I said with deliberate intent, “if it isn’t, Yves is soon going

  to learn what takes place between your dinners and breakfasts.”

  “Good,” clanged the temple bell triumphantly. “Eight o’clock, mon

  cher.”

  So when I joined the gathering in my sitting room I was not only dressed

  for dinner à deux but had a bag packed for the night to follow. There was

  nothing for settling raw nerves like the cuckolding of Yves Rouart-Rochelle,

  and if he were now going to be given convincing proof of the cuckolding by, I

  hoped, his loyal domestics —

  At the company meeting I came straight to the point. Since Jan van Zee

  would not cooperate in the making of our cinema verité, we would simply

  shoot the picture in the States as an American fiction. It was now Monday

  evening. On Wednesday morning, Wylie, Williams, and Hansen would fly to

  Hollywood and set up shop there. I would join them as soon as possible.

  Grete who had started off sullen now looked stormy. “Now wait. You

  can’t just tell people to pack up and take off on two day’s notice. I’m not sure I

  even want to go. And I don’t have any contract where you can make me.”

  I said, “The choice is yours, baby. The idea was to try you out for the

  lead — van Zee’s girl friend — and, if you had the talent I think you have, to

  sign you for a long-term contract. Star billing and all. But if you’re not

  interested —”

  ”I didn’t say that.” She was wavering a little. “All I said —”

  189

  Whatever it was, it was cut short by a staccato rapping on the door.

  Costello opened it a few inches, held a muttered colloquy through it, then

  motioned me to join him in the corridor outside. I did, and he hastily closed the

  door behind us, indicating that this was not public business.

  The tall blonde woman he had been having it out with smiled warmly at

  me.

  “David, sono liato di vedera,” said Bianca Cavalcanti.

  Bianca Cavalcanti?

  Off balance, I strnggled to right myself. David Shaw had last seen a

  buxom and emotional Bianca ten years ago. But Jan van Zee had been

  confronted by a slender and coolly self-possessed Signorina Cavalcanti only

  months ago. I wasn’t prepared to sort out my identities on such short notice.

  And there was the language problem, because I could never get away in this

  case with pleading ignorance of her language.

  I held my breath and took the plunge. “But it’s Bianca!” I said, molto

  Italiano. “I didn’t recognize you. You’ve changed so much.”

  “And you haven’t, aside from shedding your youth. How strange. I’ve

  had the image of you in my mind over the years, and you so much resemble it

  that it’s almost frightening.” There was no kittenishness in this. It was her

  considered judgment of a curious and troubling phenomenon. “But I’m glad

  we’re face to face at last.” The magnificent gray eyes darkened. “Your man

  here did his best to make that impossible. You should tell him to manufacture

  better lies than he does. A meeting indeed.”

  I opened the door briefly to give her a view of the company inside. “You

  see,” I said, “there is a meeting.”

  She looked puzzled. “But those phone calls from your mother about my

  arrival. I thought you would be prepared for it at this time.”

  “Phone calls from my mother?” I said in English for Costello’s benefit,

  and looked at him hard.

  “Twice last week,” he said. “And I didn’t mention them, because I know

  how you feel about having Mama mentioned.”

  “Allora.” I shrugged at Bianca. “That’s not far from the truth. For

  various good reasons.”

  She nodded. “Yes, your mother has made plain the distance between you

  two. Over the years she’s come to confide in me very openly. But I’m not here

  190

  on her behalf alone. There’s also an amazing coincidence involved. When I

  saw her last week she had newspaper clippings about you. About your search

  for a writer, Jan van Zee. David, I met this man only last summer. I was going

  to call you about it from Rome, but when Umberto suggested I take time off

  from my work and visit you —”

  ”Your work?” After all, David Shaw was not supposed to know what

  Jan van Zee knew.

  “I’m a therapist at a free clinic for obstetrics Umberto runs in

  Trastevere. It was his feeling that with your recent good fortune you might, for

  old time’s sake, donate some of the money the clinic needs. But what I was

  getting at is that I met this Jan van Zee at the clinic. He came in with a girl —”

  That struck a nerve.

  “My meeting,” I said abruptly. “Too bad. I do want to hear about all this,

  but those people inside are waiting. And afterward I must leave for a long

  night’s session on some important matters. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I came here straight from the airport. But I’ll find a

  room on the Left Bank to fit my purse.”

  “If that’s how you want it. My chauffeur is at your disposal.” Her

  crestfallen look had me torn between guilt and anger. “Have you had dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that much I can offer.” I turned to Costello. “Miss Cavalcanti can

  wait in Grete’s room until the meeting is over. After that, see that she has

  dinner in the sitting room here. Then tell Harry to put himself at her service.”

  I left her like that, bewilderment written all over her face, and rejoined

  the company inside. Grete did nothing for my mood by stubbornly picking up

  exactly where she had left off. “All I s
aid was why does the picture have to be

  made in the States? If it’s the same story, I don’t see —”

  ”Look,” I said, “we’ll be borrowing van Zee’s material without his

  consent. If we shift the locale to the States, change names and descriptions, he

  can’t make claims on me for that.” I turned to Oscar who was looking doubtful

  about this. “Top priority,” I told him. “If Grete’s cutting out, the first thing you

  have to do on the Coast is find a replacement for her. And get the publicity

  buildup started for whoever it is. After that —”

  ”Wait a second,” Grete said sharply. “Did I tell you I’m cutting out?”

  “I had the impression —”

  191

  ”Well, I’m not.”

  When the meeting adjourned I went into the bedroom to make the

  necessary phone call. It took time to break through the chain of command at the

  château but at last there was Madame la Comtesse herself.

  “A very brief message,” I said. “The young lady will leave in two days

  for America. She will certainly remain there for a long stay.”

  “Indeed?” A wise old bird at the other end of the line. “How very

  efficient you are, David. Will I see you soon again?”

  “No doubt at the party Madame Rouart-Rochelle is arranging in your

  honor, Countess.”

  “Of course. Au-’voir then, until the occasion.”

  It was not Vahna’s fault that our candlelit dinner and the romantic

  interlude that followed did not come off as they should have. The shadow of

  Bianca Cavalcanti lay long over me, and an unsettling shadow it was. At three

  in the morning, with my hostess’s sympathetic farewell — “Vraiment, mon

  cher, you must learn that you cannot bring your business affairs to bed with

  you” — I removed myself from her embrace, and leaving my belongings as

  assurance of my constancy, I set out on foot for the Meurice, Bianca’s shadow

  maddeningly with me every step of the way.

  Odds were that my rudeness had sent her off in a rage, and she’d be on

  the plane to Rome first thing in the morning. Good. The bad part was the

  vision of that stricken face before me. Strange that once we were out of our

  childhood, every time we encountered each other, whether I was Shaw or van

  Zee, she was left with bruises to show for it.

  I considered this in a sort of troubled draydream as I made my way

  down the deserted rue de Rivoli. My awakening was almost fatal. I was

  halfway across the rue des Pyramides opposite the Tuileries when there was a

  wild screeching of tires arcing full speed toward me, headlights blinded me

  momentarily, and with no room at all to spare — I could have sworn that the

  fender of the turtle-backed Citroën brushed my jacket as I leaped for safety —

  I just managed to lunge out of range, landing hard on my hands and knees.

  This was not to be a one-shot attempt. There was another screech of

  rubber as the car backed up like a rocket in reverse and the driver came piling

  out. Small and slight, the face hollow under gray hair, a black patch over one

  192

  eye — under the lamplight the effect was that of the skull on a pirate flag —

  and most piratical was the long-bladed knife in his hand.

  As I came to my feet he was almost on me, light glinting along the blade,

  so I did the only thing left to do, I lashed out with a straight-legged kick that

  sent him full length into the roadway. Then, aware that others were heading

  this way — night-walkers, passers-by, coming to see what the action was — I

  sprinted down the avenue as fast as I could until, winded, I pulled up near the

  Meurice.

  A hired assassin, no question about it, but hired by whom? Leewarden

  was dead and Kees Baar plainly preferred to do his own killing. Yves? Would

  Yves risk the threat that the van Zee letters would wind up with the police if

  anything happened to me?

  When I let myself into the suite I saw that Harry had for once been

  derelict in his duties. A couple of empty bottles of Perrier and a half-filled

  glass were occupying a puddle on a coffee table, and every ashtray in the room

  was brimming over with cigarette butts.

  I opened the bedroom door and as I walked inside and pressed the light

  switch I banged a foot against something parked near the door. A valise. And

  sleeping in my bed, clothed except for her shoes — one was on the bed, the

  other halfway across the room — was the long-legged, tousle-haired, wholly

  unwelcome Bianca Cavalcanti, an arm flung across her eyes.

  A light sleeper. She stirred, then raised herself on her elbows and

  regarded me steadily, as if taking stock of me from head to foot.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning, Signor van Zee,” she said.

  193

  Signor van Zee?

  I wildly groped for some clue to her insight. An incredibly lucky guess?

  Information from the only reliable source?

  “Did you enjoy a friendly talk with Signor Costello?” I asked, testing

  her. “He’s a great one for unfunny jokes.”

  “He told your chauffeur to have my dinner served here and then take me

  where I wished, that was all. He didn’t give your secret away.”

  “My secret? Look, Bianca —”

  “David, you told the newspapers you once met Jan van Zee in

  Amsterdam and had then gone right back to America to study the rebellious

  young people there. But, you see, your mother informed me whenever your

  grandfather received a postcard from you over the years, and the postcard was

  always from Europe. The truth is that during that time, you were living the life

  you now attribute to someone named Jan van Zee, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” She got off the bed in one lithe motion, pulled a

  cigarette from a pack on the night table and lit it, drawing at it short and hard.

  The ashtrays here, like those in the sitting room, were heaped high with

  crushed-out butts.

  “You smoke too much,” I said.

  “Nice of you to be concerned. Now can we sit down and talk about this

  like old friends?”

  “Talk about what? Your fantasy that I’m spending my life hunting for

  myself under a different name?”

  “David, the last time we met was in the clinic. Stop pretending it

  wasn’t.” She walked across the room to confront me. “You sat across the desk

  from me — a big, bearded man with a broken nose — and I was tormented by

  a feeling that I knew you from somewhere. I never lost that feeling. It was the

  first time the image of any man but the old David Shaw was so strong in my

  mind. Yet it never struck me until tonight that Jan van Zee —”

  I cut in, “So you met van Zee. But to turn that coincidence into a

  ridiculous theory? I wish you could hear yourself.”

  194

  “A theory? That a young American student runs away to Europe, changes

  his identity and becomes involved with some murderous scoundrels who

  betray him cruelly? That inheriting great wealth, he now lives only for

  vengeance against them?”

  The shock of it left me numb. She took quick pity on me. She pointed at

  the night table and said wearily
, “You left the scenario for your motion picture

  there. Some of the truth is in it. For anyone who knows you as I do, the rest

  wasn’t hard to fill in.”

  “And you made it your business to fill it in.”

  “You invited that,” she said loudly. “You’re supposed to be desperately

  searching for van Zee, aren’t you? Yet the instant I said I had met him you ran

  from me!”

  I faced her in silence, my mind racing.

  “Aspetti,” I commanded. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  I knocked on Miller Williams’s door, and when he sleepily opened it I

  pushed him back into the room not as gently as I might have. “I need some

  information, Miller. What cash balance do we have in our Paris bank here?”

  “About two hundred and forty thousand dollars, Mr. Shaw.”

  “How much is that in lire? In round numbers.”

  “Lire. Yes.” He went to his desk which was as neatly ordered as

  Costello’s wasn’t and did quick calculations on his pocket computer. “A

  hundred million lire. Which still leaves a balance of ten thousand.” He was

  eyeing me apprehensively. “Mr. Shaw, do you feel all right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Bianca was in the sitting room when I returned. Her expression matched

  Williams’s. I said, “Afraid I disappeared for good?”

  “No. Or perhaps I was. All I know for sure is that I’ve turned you

  against me. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “And the last thing I want is anyone persistently meddling in my life.”

  “Ah, that’s unfair. I saved you from making a fool of yourself with

  Sophia Changouris. Anneke Brun came to the clinic of her own accord. Now I

  have good reason to be afraid for you. Do you regard such passages as

  meddling? I don’t.”

  “Except for one thing,” I said. “We’ve become strangers over the

  years.”

  195

  “Strangers? You and I? David, do you remember the fat Bianca, the selfhating

  Bianca, the Bianca intended by her parents to be the empty-headed wife

  of some foolish young man of their milieu and the adoring mother of his many

  children? Now look at me. Consider what I am and what I’ve made of my life.

  Don’t you know who’s responsible for that?”

  “You mean you’re attributing this miracle to me?”

  “Listen. After you left me that horrible New Year’s night in Parioli I

  cried until morning. And then I stood before the mirror and designed the