out van Zee, Kees refused to acknowledge it.”
“Stubborn, isn’t he?” I said. “And what about Leewarden and Yves?
Neither of them gave any indication they knew I was a CIA agent.”
“Because they were never informed that your agency did now and then
use our services. After all, it was Kees alone who brought in that account.
Why should they get a share of our commission from it?”
“And van Zee?”
“Knew nothing.” One wall of the room contained a bay window, and in
the area it provided was a small table, the remains of a breakfast on it, and a
couple of chairs. Marie-Paule seated herself on one of the chairs and tapped
the ash of her cheroot into a half-empty coffee cup. “Too bad,” she remarked,
“that van Zee wasn’t advised from the start about our dealings with you
people. He wouldn’t have been so easily tricked into regarding you as a
confidant and writing you those letters.”
“Perhaps not.” I straddled the chair across from her, putting on the
expression, or so I hoped, of a CIA agent not to be trifled with. “So you’re
telling me that it was van Zee who pulled off the hijacking. No one else.”
“As if you didn’t know that, Mr. Shaw. Otherwise, why would your
agency go to such lengths to run him to earth? But what you’ve been told about
his fate is true. My associates were on the way back to Zurich with him to
reclaim that money when he tried to escape from them and killed himself in the
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attempt. A bitter pill to swallow, but there it is. He is dead, and there is no
way of discovering where he hid the money.”
“Deplorable,” I said, straight-faced.
Marie-Paule gave me a sharp look. “You doubt me?”
“Yes. You see, Yves, who once told me that same story, phoned me from
Marseille this morning to say he had some fresh thoughts on the subject. He
now believes he was tricked by Baar. That it was Baar who hijacked the
money and then arranged van Zee’s death to cover up his crime and make sure
there was no real search for the missing million.”
“Ah, l’impileur!” Marie-Paule said in outrage. “Le batteur!” and then
in expurgated translation, “The filthy liar!”
“Maybe,” I said. “All I know is that Yves told me that if I’d meet with
him in Marseille he’d describe exactly how Baar pulled off his double-cross.
He’d even take me to the scene itself and demonstrate it.”
“All lies!” Marie-Paule exploded. “Van Zee himself confessed to the
robbery.”
“After being beaten half to death, according to Yves. But I’m not making
final judgments yet, Miss Neyna, not until I hear what Kees has to say. He may
very well explain the whole thing in a few words.”
“Then speak to Kees.”
“Unfortunately, he’s too cautious for his own good. It seems he prefers
to keep away from me, rather than meeting with me and settling all questions
on the spot. I must turn in a report to my superiors which makes some sense.
You can see that unless an interview with Kees is part of it, it won’t satisfy
them at all.”
“And what if I do see that? There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“But there is,” I said. “You can tell me where to find him. Or is it
possible” — I timed a pause for maximum effect — “that you yourself share
Yves’s suspicions and won’t admit it?”
“No. All I will tell you is that van Zee was guilty of the hijacking. He
was capable of any treachery, that one. I’ve had the privilege of reading all
those self-serving letters he wrote you. You’re a fool if you judge him by such
nonsense.”
“So it may turn out, Miss Neyna, but I have one small advantage over
you in this.” The translation of Bianca’s effort was waiting in my pocket,
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reduced to three pages of van Zee’s jagged penmanship. I took out the pages.
“A letter which no one but myself has ever had the privilege of reading. Since
it was so intensely personal, and since it offered my agency nothing of value, I
simply left it out of the files.”
She took the pages. “More of van Zee’s wild imaginings?”
“That,” I said, “I must leave to your judgment.”
She cocked the cheroot at an upward angle between her teeth and read.
She couldn’t have been more than midway through the first page when her
expression suddenly changed. What little color there was in those sallow
cheeks drained from them. She abruptly stood up and extinguished the cheroot
in her coffee cup. “Pardon,” she said, and, letter in hand, crossed the room to
the windowless little lavatory there. The sound of its bolt being slammed into
place was like a pistol shot.
It was a long wait. As it lengthened, Costello started to look worried.
He drifted over to me and said in an undertone, “You don’t think she did
something to herself in there, do you?”
“No.”
“Then you better get ready to bust down that door, because if she just
stays locked up in there that’s what’s left.”
“She’ll come out.”
She finally did, her face expressionless, but her eyes now swollen and
reddened. She crossed the room, obviously under rigid control, and reseated
herself at the table.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes in the line of duty one is given a look at
things he really shouldn’t see. Like that letter.”
“Understandable,” said Marie-Paule in a tight voice.
“A letter like that —” I said. “Well, I have the feeling that if van Zee
knew your address when he was moved to write it, he would have sent it
directly to you. You didn’t realize until now that he was forced to end his
attachment to you, did you? That Kees Baar didn’t want any such intensely
emotional partnerships within the organization.”
“No, I did not know that until now.”
“Then I’m glad at least to have that small injustice to van Zee cleared
up.”
“Yes.” She held out the letter. “Your property.”
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“All yours, Miss Neyna. You have every right to it. And what my
superiors don’t know about this won’t hurt them.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“However,” I said, “what will concern them is my failure to get together
with Kees and hear his explanation of events. You know you hold the key to
that meeting.”
She shook her head. “No more, please. Not now.”
“I don’t have time to waste. Yves wants me to meet with him by this
weekend so that he can explain his charges against Kees in detail. But if I can
see Kees beforehand —”
”No.” She looked at me unwaveringly, jaw set. “I’ll call you before the
weekend. I give you my word on it.”
I pretended to think it over. “All right. I suppose you know I’m at the
Meurice.”
“Yes. I’ll call you there. Now please —”
On the way to the elevator, Costello stopped to get it off his chest. “The
CIA, would you believe it?”
“Aside from that, Ray, what did you make of her? And that story about
phoning me?
”
“Well” — he gave this close consideration — “she swears easy and she
lies easy. Still and all, you worked her right up to where she’s ready to cut the
Dutchman’s throat right now. So she could make that call. Did you watch her
while she was reading that letter? You really did one hell of a job on it.”
“Give Miss Cavalcanti all the credit. It was her job.”
“You’re kidding,” Costello said. “You got her to write the letter?”
“No. She volunteered.”
“Women,” Costello said with awe.
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In the cab, homeward bound to the
Meurice, he remarked, “Couple of cars back, there’s a guy with an eyepatch
driving a Citroën. Your hit man?”
I turned to see. “Yes.”
“Uh-huh. And you never did line up Marie to do something about him.”
I said, “She sidetracked me with that weird CIA angle. But I’ve been
thinking about it. Much as she’d like to get Baar in her sights now, wouldn’t
she want him to finish off Yves first? After all, I gave her the idea that Yves is
ready to offer evidence about the hijacking. Since she was in on it, that makes
him a threat to her too.”
Costello nodded agreement. “It does. How long would it take the
Dutchman to get to Marseille from around here?”
“Couple of hours by plane. Eight to ten hours by car.”
“Then I’ll stay on the line with the agency right through. Hell, there’s
that good-by party Oscar’s giving tonight, isn’t there? I guess this leaves me
out of it.” He didn’t sound sorry at the prospect. “Meanwhile, as long as Oneeye
is around, don’t you come walking home alone from any more parties.”
I didn’t expect to find Bianca in the suite when I got back, and she
wasn’t. No need to worry, I told myself without conviction, because Harry
wasn’t present either. It was well after dark when I heard her give him a
hearty “Ciao, amico” outside the door, and in she walked, weighted down by
a string tote overloaded with books and a bulging brown paper bag.
I looked pointedly at my watch. “Da dove vengono, signorina?”
“Where? Oh, the library where I caught up on some research. The
bookstalls along the river. A fruiterer who had some splendid bargains. But
what happened with you? Did you show Marie-Paule the letter?”
“Yes. Now I’m going to lay down an important rule. You’re always to
be back here before dark, understand?” I took the string bag from her and
planked it down on the table with a thud. The thud made me feel better. “What
is this stuff?”
“A few books I could never find in Rome. Some fruit. Or what’s left of
it, now that you’ve worked out your temper on it.”
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I said with great control, “Signorina, take my word for it that room
service will be glad to deliver fruit to you any time you call for it.”
“It was. At lunch. But I wasn’t glad to pay that monstrous bill. And
kindly stop addressing me as signorina. Try bellezza. God knows I’ve starved
myself enough years to have earned it.”
“Very well,” I said. “Bellezza. Light of my life. Add to the rules that I
pay the bills here.”
“When we dine together, yes. Only then. Now what about Marie-Paule?
Was she affected by the letter? Did she tell you where Baar is keeping
himself?”
“Yes, she was affected by the letter. No, she didn’t tell me where to find
Baar, but she may in a day or two.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll see. Meanwhile, you can dine off your fruit while I dress for a
dinner party to which you’re not invited.”
Inevitably, attendance at the dinner party was minimal, with Costello
and Harry on duty, and with Grete having decided to share a private farewell
with Jean-Pierre. That left me marooned for what seemed eternity in the
company of Oscar Wylie and Miller Williams who, as a team, were even more
stupefyingly dull than they were individually.
At my insistence, the party broke up early and traveled back to the hotel
on foot from rue Royale along the rue de Rivoli. I was acutely Citroënconscious
now, curious to know if One-eye was still on duty. If not, would
someone else be filling in for him? There was some satisfaction in noting after
a few blocks that the hired knife was evidently not in the area, a satisfaction
that abruptly evaporated when I gave thought to where else he might be right
now. And that I hadn’t warned Bianca to double-lock the door after I left.
I quickened my pace more and more, looking around for a phone booth
in this wilderness along the Tuileries, my companions falling into a trot to
keep up with me, Oscar now and then loudly protesting against the exercise. At
last, there was a phone.
“Pronto,” said Bianca, her throat obviously unslit. “’A llo. Qui est-ce
qui est là?”
I told her who, then took a deep breath of relief, and she instantly picked
up the clue. “David, why do you sound like that? Is something wrong?”
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“No. I just called to tell you that I’m on my way back. And even though
Harry’s keeping an eye on the hallway, there are extra locks on all your doors.
So please —”
”I understand. That little man with the knife. Well, you may as well
know that he’s been on my mind since you left. I could see him waiting in a
dark corner for you. Please don’t be too brave about him.”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting for you, caro mio.”
Bellezza.
Caro mio.
God almighty.
And out of all the confusion in me, one thing became terrifyingly clear. I
was as vulnerable now as Leewarden and Yves had been in their women. If it
had been the voice of the enemy at the other end of that line instead of
Bianca’s, there would have been no negotiations, only instant and abject
surrender.
Costello was at his desk, a map laid out before him, a stubby forefinger
tracing lines along it. He swung around to face me. “Little over an hour ago,
Frenchy packed some stuff into his car and headed out of Marseille. My guess
is the Dutchman phoned him they had to have a meeting right away, and
Frenchy fell for it. I’m trying to figure where it’ll be.”
“How about Paris?” I said.
“But not for sure. I’ve got two cars on Frenchy now — four men — so
they can take turns calling where they are without losing him. Look at this road
map. Here’s where he is now, heading north. Where would you say he’s
aiming for?”
I followed his finger on the map. “Too early to tell. He’s past Tarascon,
so it’s not Spain. Actually, Dijon, way up here, would be the giveaway. West
from there means Paris, east means the Low Countries. Paris still makes the
most sense. It means Baar sits tight and lets Yves do all the traveling.”
“Uh-huh. So we just keep watching and waiting. How’d the party go?
See One-eye around anywhere?”
“No. We walked home from the restaurant so that I could keep an eye
out for him.”
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“Which,” said
Costello, “is not the brightest move you ever made.
Anyhow, I got the number of that car when it was tailing us and I passed it
along to the agency. They already came up with one tidbit. The ownership’s
held by an outfit that rents out cars for company use.”
“Not much of a tidbit.”
“So far. But tomorrow the agency’ll try to find out just who they rented it
to.”
“If they do, let me know fast.”
“Sure.” He nodded at the door opening on my part of the suite. “By
phone?” he asked expressionlessly.
“By phone,” I said.
220
Not perfume, but a powerful smell of
sliced oranges met me when I walked into the bedroom. Bianca was seated in
bed under the covers, half-glasses perched on her nose, her hair piled high and
a pencil thrust into it. She was wearing what might be called a good practical
pajama jacket and was evidently going through the van Zee letters, the folder
of which she had in hand while a large part of its contents were scattered
around the bed. Also scattered around the bed were some paperbacks, a bowl
heaped high with orange peel, and a face towel dyed with citrus stains.
She lowered her head to regard me over her glasses. “And what do you
find so funny?”
“Truthfully?”
“Always truthfully.”
“Well,” I said, “this isn’t exactly what I saw waiting for me. Humor is
the fine art of surprise. Let’s say I’m surprised.”
“Possibly because you anticipated soft music and the Maja Desnuda
beckoning?”
“Something along those lines,” I admitted.
“Yes. I thought of that when I was getting ready for bed. Then my
insecurities got in my way.”
“Your insecurities. Of course.”
“No, I mean it. I don’t really have evidence yet that you’re eager to make
love to me, and I don’t want you to do it just because I’m sending out signals
that it’s expected. What if you aren’t in the mood? Then you’d only feel
resentful about it. I think it’s much better to let these things take their own
course, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Well,” I said, tempting fate, “I suppose I should thank you for such
consideration and the happiness it promises.
“So?” Her guard was up. “Explain that, please.”
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