into this?”
“Never mind that, Ray. The question is how to get out of it.”
“No sweat,” Costello said flatly. “She can stay right here where I can
keep an eye on her. For that matter, Harry can be full-time security for her.”
“No,” I said.
Bianca frowned at me. “Why do you say that, David, if I would not mind
to stay here with you?”
“Because you have your work in Rome. That job at the clinic. The
money to deliver.”
“You know the money can be mailed. And the young man now attending
to my work will be glad to remain at it a while.”
“There are other considerations,” I told her. With Costello taking all this
in, I shifted to Italian. “Mi dica la verità. You know what the real problem is.
What happens if you’re always close by, you and your idea that heaven has
somehow destined us for each other. A fine comedy that could develop into.
And with a very good chance that you’d be badly hurt before it’s all over.”
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She nodded wisely. “I see. You suspect — and with some justice — that
if I remain here, I’ll be sharing your private life. And your bed. And in the end
I’ll be left weeping about it like Cio-Cio-San.”
“The operatic touch again?”
“That’s the opera you’re writing,” she said. “The way mine goes, you’re
being made inhuman by this obsession to carry on your vendetta. And my
presence is dangerous, because it might make you human again.”
“If you think I’m so damned inhuman —”
“I’ll settle for you on those terms,” she cut in. “Even for the role of Cio-
Cio-San if it comes to that, although I don’t believe for a moment it ever
could.”
“What the hell is this all about?” Costello said in exasperation. “If I
have to hire an interpreter —”
I said to him, “Harry’s waiting downstairs with Miss Cavalcanti’s bag.
Have him bring it up, and while he’s here you can work out the details of his
job as bodyguard for her.”
“Well, all right,” Costello said. Then he had a thought. “Bring up the bag
where? She ought to be in one of our rooms along the hall here, but none of
them’ll be empty until our deadheads take off tomorrow.”
There was no sense in game-playing. “My room?” I said to Bianca, and
she said placidly, “Perchè non?”
Why not, indeed?
205
Harry entered into his new duties by
seeing the lady and her belongings to my quarters. As soon as they were gone
Costello said to me, “Now let’s have it. How did she find out you were van
Zee?”
I told him how.
“Smart woman,” he acknowledged. “And she really propositioned you
like that? With her looks and class?”
“She did.”
“Uh-huh. Well, why not, considering she knows you’ve got ten million in
the bank? Anyhow, if Frenchy had any idea of getting at you through her, that’s
taken care of. What isn’t taken care of is that one-eyed Humpty-Dumpty with
the knife. Something has to be done about him.”
“I’m dropping in on Marie-Paule this morning. If there’s anything at all
to your theory about Humpty-Dumpty, she could be the one to handle the
problem for us.”
“What’s that mean?”
“She’ll be shown a special van Zee letter as soon as I get it down on
paper. It might do the trick.”
“It better. But first do me a favor and call His Highness. He’s been on
the phone trying to get to you.”
I didn’t have to be told why. As soon as I identified myself over the
phone Jean-Pierre said, “What the devil have you done to me, my friend? You
offer me a pearl — a magnificent black pearl — and then suddenly snatch it
away. Is that an act of friendship?”
I laughed. “Sorry, Jean-Pierre, but it was her choice to make. And like
so many flighty young things today, she chose fame and fortune. You can’t
really blame her for that, can you?”
“Of course, I can, the empty-headed little Venus.”
“Then,” I said, “let me offer you a replacement for your pearl. Has your
mother told you about a dinner being planned in her honor?”
“No.”
206
“Well, the hostess is a dear friend. A charming Siamese noblewoman
cruelly abandoned by her husband. If you attend the dinner in my place, you’ll
be her partner for the evening. After that, it’s all up to you.”
“Siamese, hey? How exotic. And you have no claim on her?”
“None at all,” I said.
When I put down the phone Costello said, “Which combs both of them
out of your hair together. Did you have that cooked up in advance?”
“Improvisation,” I said. “The old master himself is a great believer in it.
Kees Baar.”
“Looks like he’s a real expert at it too,” said Costello.
There were still a few sheets of the Luxembourg notepaper in stock. I
took them, and en route to the writing desk saw Bianca hanging away clothing
in the bedroom closet.
“La posso aiutare?” I asked courteously.
“Ma no, grazie. There’s not much to help with.”
“So I see. As it happens, I have accounts in some excellent shops around
town, and all you need do —”
“No. You’re not to make such offers to me, David. No clothing. No little
extras. No money that magically appears in my purse.”
“Pride?”
“Yes. You don’t know me at all, do you?”
“About as well as you know me,” I said.
“You’re wrong about that. In those letters to your mother when you were
at school —”
“Jesus, not only the postcards to Grandpa, but the letters to Mama, too?”
Bianca said equably, “She was glad to share them with someone, and
Milos certainly wasn’t interested. But now and then you wrote about your
interest in old films and football and chess. So I took an interest in them. I
joined a classical film society and made a point of seeing all the pictures you
seemed to like. No sacrifice really. I was delighted by them.”
“And in your spare time you played football and chess?”
“Only chess. And very well. But I did lure Umberto into taking me along
whenever he attended a football match. I became quite the aficionada. In fact, I
run the football pools at the clinic.”
“The complete home study course,” I said, “in the school for wives.”
207
“At least you seem amused by the idea, not angered. I call that progress.
But what’s the writing paper for? Battle plans?”
“Sorry,” I said, “but any such questions are not in order.”
“It’s too late for that, David. Whatever you withhold from me now I’ll
only imagine, and imagination can make things much more frightening than they
might really be.”
“No. I don’t want you complicit in what I’m doing.”
“You know I’m already complicit. And Umberto happens to be the
saintly one in the family. Resist not evil. Peace at any price. He really lives by
those precepts. Not I. And your situation now—”
“Che cosa è successo? First you call my vendetta a madness. Now all
of a sudden —”
“Not all of a sudden. I’ve had time to think it over.”
“Not that much time,” I said.
“Yes, I have. I put myself in your place and asked myself what I would
do if I were the victim of those people. Are they to live out their lives happily
while I lick my bleeding wounds? And do you know what the answer was?”
“I can’t imagine,” I said truthfully.
“The answer was that I would do nothing. Even worse, I would tell
myself it was because it was morally right to do nothing, and all the while it
would only be cowardice that moved me. But you’re not a coward. It came to
me that I couldn’t feel about you as I do if you were. So now I want to know at
least as much about your plans as Signor Costello does.”
“Very well, have it your way. Kees Baar has so far managed to stay out
of range. But the woman who was certainly his accomplice in the
hijacking —”
“Marie-Paule Neyna. A Belgian. You were her partner in Les Amis du
Bon Évangéliste.”
I said with honest admiration, “That’s a remarkably shrewd deduction.
You really studied those letters, didn’t you?”
“And I have an excellent mind. Does that surprise you?”
“I’m beyond all surprises. Anyhow, she’s in Paris now, and I believe
that if I play my cards right, she may steer me to Baar. I’m going to introduce
David Shaw to her.”
“Your cards, you say. What cards?”
208
“She and I had a very friendly time of it in Marseille. More than friendly
on her part. I want to produce a van Zee letter for her that’ll ignite those
embers in her, providing, of course, that any embers remain. If I can convince
her that Jan van Zee did not carelessly walk out of her life, but was ordered
out by our boss, Kees Baar —”
“I understand. Then you might turn her against Baar.”
“I might. The difficulty is in getting the message across to her. I’m not
sure how she’ll take a love letter popping up ten years after the event.”
“Then I can tell you as a woman that she’ll believe what she wants to
believe. David, let me write that letter.”
“You?”
“Yes. At least let me try my hand at it. You can do the translation of it
from Italian into van Zee’s English.”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. While she was scribbling away I had
visitors. Williams and Wylie of Shaw Film Productions. They looked at
Bianca with interest, she dipped her head at them, I omitted introductions.
Oscar said, “We’re throwing a farewell-to-Paris dinner tonight at Maxim’s,
Dave. It won’t be official if you’re not there.”
Arguing this would only keep them here. “I’ll make it official,” I said. I
hustled them out on that, a hand on each shoulder, and waited impatiently until
Bianca completed her labors. She watched intently as I read through the pages
of tiny, finely etched script.
“Well,” she said, “What’s your reaction?”
“Embarrassment.”
“That’s not surprising. But take this into account. Marie-Paule knows
that Jan van Zee was really Jean Lespere. And that the French are capable of
expressing love in words. They’re not speechless lumps on this subject like
the Dutch. Or the Americans.”
“Very astute of you, doctor. All right, I’ll work up a translation and take
my chances on it. Meanwhile, Paris, the city of light, the city of love, awaits
you. And so does Harry, who will be happy to drive you around in his fine
limousine and show you the town.”
“I see,” said Bianca. “You find me a distraction.” She seemed taken
with the idea.
“Well,” I said, “that’s one way of putting it.”
209
The wrong way.
Not really a distraction. Much more a presence. A light. A warmth.
It was happening too fast.
There had been Anneke. My Anneke. Suddenly, in this light and warmth,
the image of her was becoming more and more insubstantial. Unbelievably,
another was taking its place.
All wrong to even let the thought enter my mind, but there it was, framed
as a question. Two words. Question mark.
My Bianca?
210
The battered old Hôtel Mazarin on the
rue de Vaugirard was solidly French middle class, the kind of place where
thrifty, well-to-do farmers and merchants from the provinces stayed for a big
week in town. It smelled of respectability and a noxious floor polish. I could
see its appeal for Marie-Paule, a great girl during our evangelical stint for
respectability and floor polish.
Costello looked around. “Somebody here is one of the agency men. He
covers the front way out. There’s another who hangs around the side door.
They’ve already been warned that if she tries a getaway they’re to stay with
her, no matter what.”
“A getaway?” I said doubtfully, and Costello said, “You never know
what somebody’ll do when they’re cornered. And little Marie sure as hell
knows she’s cornered.”
She did. When I announced my name through the door she opened it at
once, shrugged a greeting, and motioned us in with a sardonic flip of the hand.
Physically, she hadn’t changed much in ten years, although the hair, once
waist-length when released from its schoolmarm bun, was now cropped into a
boyish coiffure. She was as lean and sharp-featured and sallow as ever. In
style, however, she had traveled the full distance from dowdy to ultra-chic.
And, marking the Danish influence, she was smoking a long thin cigar.
“Do you speak English?” I asked, knowing she did.
“Yes.”
“And you know who I am? Why I’m here?”
“Yes, of course.” She pointed her chin at Costello. “But I don’t know
who your friend is.”
“As you say, a friend.”
“A nice way of putting it.” Now the chin was aimed at my attaché case.
“That isn’t wired for recording by some chance?”
I opened the case on her dresser, and she inspected its structure closely.
Then, indifferently, she checked the contents of a folder. “The famous van Zee
letters,” she remarked. “Copies, naturally, considering how valuable the
originals are.” She dipped into the other folder. “And reports by an unnamed
211
agency on Marie-Paule Neyna and some others of interest. No surprises here.
Well?”
“Well,” I said, “since there are no surprises, we can get right down to
business. The business, of course, concerns Jan van Zee.”
“So? But your own records must show that I never knew any Jan van
Zee.”
“How about a Jean Lespere?”
“That one I knew ten years ago for the matter of a few days. I haven’t
seen him since.”
I said, “Are you trying to tell me you aren’t aware they’re the same
man?”
“Of course, I’m aware of that. I am merely trying to answer you with
precision. I understand that your type appreciates precision in these
interrogations
.”
“My type?”
“Yes. You may drop the mask, Mr. Shaw. The stories you’ve been
telling such credulous fools as Simon Leewarden and Yves Rouart-Rochelle
are not for me. The charade is over. This must be a painful enlightenment for
you, but it’s a necessary one if we’re to come to terms.”
Actually, the enlightenment was not so much painful as stupefying. There
were good reasons why Bianca had seen through me. I couldn’t, on the spur of
the moment, come up with a single reason to explain how Marie-Paule had.
And I couldn’t just stand here and wonder about it. “Miss Neyna, forgive me if
I seem slow-witted, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” She compressed a world of scorn into that one word. “Almost
as soon as you made your appearance on the scene I suspected your identity.
After all, it was simply a case of following your activities closely until there
could be no doubt about them. An idealistic film producer searching for his
lost author? And mustering an army of agents to this end? What a clumsy joke.
No wonder your country has a name for being a bungler in these matters.”
A ray of light appeared in the darkness. “My country? Then you really
do know the nature of my work?”
“As an agent of your CIA in America? Yes, of course.”
“Jesus,” said Costello in wonderment, and I shot him a look to choke off
the next word before it could come out.
212
Marie-Paule glanced at him. “That one,” she said to me scathingly,
“even looks as if he had been cast for the role.”
“Never mind him,” I said. “I’m the one in charge. Now tell me, does
Kees Baar know my real identity too?”
“He won’t admit to it. When he first decided to let our service
sometimes be used as a conduit for your CIA money I warned him that if
anything went wrong along the way, you were not people to take it lightly. He
laughed it off then. He’s got remarkable talents, Kees, but he can be too sure of
himself. Then, when van Zee’s name and your cover story appeared in the
newspapers, I asked Kees if CIA money made up any part of the hijacked
million dollars and he said no. He dreamed up a story for me about its being
removed from the treasury of some large city in America. Otherwise he’d have
to admit my concern was justified from the start, and Kees will never admit to
a mistake. Even when you put into motion your elaborate apparatus to search
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