However, to see her again, he had to wait, to wait patiently. Would he manage it?
Paris – December 17th 1929
Thérèse had left the bank, Carlo had offered to accompany her but she had said she would go alone; the offices of the lawyer Barret in Rue de Richelieu were not far from the bank in Boulevard des Italiens.
Still, she did not feel comfortable, both because she was carrying an object of considerable value in her bag, and because it represented her passport to a new life, or because the disquieting words of Professor Bertrams were still ringing in her ears. She decided to take a short cut along a side road, busy at that time of day with clerks from the various banks in the area.
She almost did not realise what was happening when a man passed her, tearing her bag from her arm and fleeing down the street. Before she could open her mouth to shout thief! two boys who had seen what had happened ran after the thief. As he ran, he knocked down a passer-by, hindering the pursuers, then there was a squealing of tyres and a loud thump.
In the meantime, the gendarmes had come running, while two young women, probably dressmakers at a nearby atelier had come out to help Thérèse, who was pale and shaking with fright.
Once again, Thérèse was certain she had recognised her husband in the attacker: she shook herself and began walking towards the group of people gathered at the junction with rue de Richelieu. A gendarme followed, asking if she was all right, but she did not listen to him.
Assisted by the gendarme, she pushed her way through the crowd: the thief had been knocked down by a lorry and now he was lying on the ground, immobile, in a tangle of limbs, his face pressed to the ground. Thérèse almost fainted, she was certain it was Jean-Luc; the gendarme supported her to stop her collapsing. At that moment, two other gendarmes approached and bent over the body. One of them stood up shaking his head, while the other turned the body over to examine the pockets in search of identity documents.
Thérèse looked down and saw that it was not her husband. She was relieved and sorry for the poor man who had, for a short time, been in possession of the coin that seemed to have brought terrible evil.
After asking for her identity documents and address, the gendarmes wrote their report and returned the handbag to Thérèse and one of them, Brigadier Fontanes, accompanied her to the offices of the lawyer Barret.
The secretary hurried to call the lawyer, who knew the brigadier.
“Good morning Brigadier, to what do I owe this…”
In the meantime, Carlo had come into the room and seeing Thérèse, he went towards her asking what had happened.
“Carlo, is this Madame Milaud?” asked the lawyer. “What happened to her?” he asked the brigadier.
The gendarme gave the lawyer a brief account of the theft and asked if he could represent the lady, if became necessary for her to testify.
Thérèse was sitting beside Carlo, who was holding both her hands and listening to her story.
Atlantic Ocean – December 17th 1929
Jean-Luc Benoit had opened the porthole; his only access to the world since he had boarded as an ‘invisible passenger’ as the captain called him, on the merchant ship that had left Le Havre two weeks earlier.
The captain, a friend of Armel’s, had told him that he should keep out of sight. No one, except for the captain was to know that he was on board, and this would allow him to disembark illegally in the United States.
Sailors, as everyone knows, go drinking when they reach a port and this loosens their tongues, they might reveal the presence of Jean-Luc. Better not to risk it and make sure that they were not aware of his presence.
Someone knocked on the door of the cabin, it was the code they had agreed, still, just to make sure he pulled back the bolt and hid behind the door.
“It’s all right,” said the Captain, “it’s me. Tomorrow we will dock, now I will tell you what to do: do precisely what I say, no improvising. Ever! You would be in trouble, but so would we with our cargo. Beware! I have covered for you and protected you because your friend Armel spoke for you, but if you fuck up; I will kill you with my bare hands.”
Jean-Luc nodded, he knew that the Captain meant what he said. He watched the docking manoeuvres through the porthole. The port was vast and the city that lay behind it seemed endless. He was afraid but he shook himself and prepared his baggage. He found a package wrapped in newspaper containing his shackles. He thought briefly that he had been stupid to bring a souvenir of this kind with him. He unwrapped the package and looked at the iron cuffs that had encircled his ankles. He was about to throw them out of the porthole when he noticed that the name and number of the owner:
025632 - TENOY
He could not believe his eyes; they had exchanged his shackles with those of that bastard son of a whore Tenoy: a description that was a compliment! Tenoy was guilty of nine rapes, followed by nine murders, not to mention the way in which those poor women had been killed. He spat in disgust on the shackles and threw them into the sea. He was about to throw the newspaper after them when he noticed that the headlines mentioned the accident in the port of Nantes. Curious, he began to read.
… the locomotive crashed into a military truck transporting eight prisoners destined for hard labour in the Cayenne islands. Six of them were slightly injured, one was killed and the eighth managed to escape. A nationwide manhunt is underway.
The prisoner who escaped is a very dangerous criminal, Luc Tenoy, guilty of atrocious crimes. The prisoner who died was called Jean-Luc Benoit.
He stared in amazement at the newspaper for at least ten minutes, then a shudder ran through the ship as it bumped against the pier and he woke from his daze.
“Armel, you devil!” he thought, “that is why he called me ‘ghost’. He sorted out the newspaper. But if Jean-Luc Benoit is dead, then who am I?” He smiled and shrugged.
“Who cares who I am? The United States are enormous. One Jean-Luc Benoit more or less. What does it matter to anyone?”
He threw the newspaper out of the porthole, he had turned his back on the past, he was a free man, all he had to do was start again and he knew where.
He took the scrap of paper the boy at the port had scribbled and re-read it.
Thérèse Milaud
C/o Nick Van Buren
530, Park Avenue
New York
That was where his new life would start out.
The feeling of freedom even overcame the wave of nostalgia for his ex-wife.
“Oh widow of mine, wait for me, I am on my way!” he thought with a cynical grin.
Paris – December 20th 1929
The documents founding the company had been signed and Carlo had accompanied Thérèse to visit half a dozen offices for rent in order to choose the most practical for their work and, above all, the most convenient for Thérèse who would be working there.
Carlo had also proposed to choose one with a section designed for accommodation, but Thérèse preferred to remain with Madame Antonelli, where she was happy and had created a relationship that was almost mother-daughter.
When her parents, a strict Jewish family from Roubaix, had found out that she intended to marry a goyim, a gentile, they had thrown her out of their home. They had not even contacted her when her husband was sent to prison and she was left on her own.
One day, sooner or later, she thought, she would ask about them. Perhaps one day Rivka, that was the name they had given her, while she had chosen Thérèse, would go home. Who knew? But then, why would she?
When she returned to the house in rue du Sentier, Madame Antonelli asked if everything was all right and she nodded. They had chosen an office in rue de Richer, near Drouot, it was already furnished and – a great novelty – it had a telephone!
She said that they had seen another larger office, that would have allowed her to move in, but she had chosen this one because she preferred to stay chez madame.
The old lady hugged her and
kissed her forehead.
“Carlo, pardon, Monsieur Fantone,” madame looked at her with a mischievous smile, “has asked me to spend Christmas in Locarno, so that I can meet his father, who is also his business partner. I told him that I preferred to stay in Paris, my family is Jewish and anyway, I don’t want to leave you alone during the festivities.”
Madame scowled and said to her reprovingly, “Now you just go downstairs, go to Monsieur Janvier who owes me a lot of favours, you phone the Hôtel Millennium and ask for Monsieur Carlo Fantone. Tell him to come and see me immediately… as soon as possible.”
“What if he is not there…?”
“Leave a message. Go, run.”
Carlo read the message and at six o’clock that evening he was standing at the door of Madame Antonelli’s residence, he rang the bell and heard the voice of the old lady asking, “Who is it?”
He answered and the door opened.
“Bonsoir, Madame Antonelli, I came because Thérèse, pardon, Mrs Milaud, (Madame gave another mischievous smile) asked me to call, has something happened?”
“I summoned you, please come in and sit down. I have asked Thérèse to stay in her room, because I wanted to speak to you alone.”
Carlo looked at her, tilting his head interrogatively
“Thérèse told me that you invited her to Locarno for Christmas, but that she declined.”
“Yes, she told me that…”
“Let me finish,” said Madame, in a firm voice but smiling.
“Did you know that Thérèse’s family are Jewish?”
“No. I didn’t know, but what does that matter?”
“It matters, it matters. Certainly it matters!”
Carlo shook his head staring at her and made the typical Italian gesture with his fingers, to say ‘well?’
“It is important because my family was also Jewish, although they were not strictly observant. I have never celebrated Christmas; it was not part of our traditions. Therefore, I have no reason to be sad if I spend the week alone, absolutely none. Please, do me a favour. Ask your father to book a room at the best hotel in Locarno for Mrs Milaud, pardon, for Thérèse.” She gave her mischievous little smile.
“And… Merry Christmas!”
New York – December 20th 1929
Jean-Luc Benoit arrived at number 530 Park Avenue. Fortunately, the clothes Armel had found for him before he embarked gave him a respectable air, so that when he spoke to the concierge of the building, who looked to Jean-Luc like a general in dress uniform, he was taken for one of Mr van Buren’s many guests. The concierge did not speak French and Jean-Luc did not understand a word of what the man said. It sounded like msorisoer batmiservenbiuen isded plisasc misertrepr isneibor (I am sorry, sir, but Mr van Buren is dead. Ask Mr Trapper his neighbour for information).
Jean-Luc shook his head, saying, “I don’t know what the hell you are talking about!”
He said it, however, almost gracefully, so that the doorman thought he was asking in French which floor he should go to. He took a piece of paper and wrote the name Trapper, then he accompanied him to the lift and rode with him to the fourth floor.
They emerged on a vast landing lined with pinkish marble, with two doors facing each other. One had a large brass plaque with the name van Buren. Two strips of paper with seals were glued across the locks, so that it was impossible to enter without tearing them.
The facing door had a smaller plaque saying ‘TRAPPER’.
Jean-Luc rang the bell and the door was opened by a young man of about twenty years old, who Jean-Luc considered rather effeminate. He simply muttered a few words in French, including his wife’s name, and showed him the scrap of paper the boy had written.
The young man was surprised to read the name and he exclaimed, “Ah! Terry!” waving his hands to indicate that Jean-Luc should wait and called in a shrill voice,
“Joe, come here, there is a friend of Terry’s! A French guy!”
Joe, an elegant man of about forty arrived and greeted Jean-Luc in French.
“Good morning, sir, please forgive my young friend, he does not speak our language.”
“Are you French, Monsieur… Trapper?”
“I used to be. I changed my name ‘George Trappeur’, too difficult for Americans to pronounce to Joe Trapper and I became an American citizen. What can I do for you Mr…?”
“Benoit, Jean-Luc Benoit.”
“Ah.” Said Trapper.
“Have you heard my name before? From Thérèse, perhaps?”
“Well yes, I’m afraid so, but not in a particularly flattering way. However, since you are now a free citizen, I don’t see why I can’t offer you a beer. Come in Jean-Luc.”
Joe told Jean-Luc that Thérèse had left for Europe at the end of October on Nick van Buren’s business.
Nick’s financial affairs were dire, in that period the American stock exchange had lost millions of dollars and Nick, after losing vast amounts of money, had sent Terry to France to sell a very precious item and try to recover some of it.
Only a few days later, after yet another senseless speculation, Nick had lost everything and in despair, he had thrown himself of the Queensboro bridge, the one that linked Manhattan with Long Island.
The authorities had seized his apartment. Joe Trapper did not know if Nick had any relatives.
“You know them well; can I ask you whether Thérèse was Nick’s mistress?”
“Ha ha ha!” Trapper began to laugh. “Forgive me, Jean-Luc, I couldn’t help it. No, she was not. Certainly not.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Jean-Luc.
“You see, Nick and I were friends, we certainly didn’t do business together, and that is why I am still… shall we say… well off. We had only one thing in common, we went to the same exclusive clubs, and I can assure you that there are no wo-men in those places.” He affectionately took the hand of the young man who was watching them languidly.
“Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” answered Jean-Luc without turning a hair.
“Would you like another beer?”
Jean-Luc nodded and Joe gave a quick wave of the hand, which was sufficient to send the dreamy young man in search of two cold beers.
“What are you going to do here in America?” asked Joe.
“I don’t know, yet. I hoped that Thérèse would be able to help me, I certainly did not want to convince her to come back to me. Now I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you got any money with you?” asked Joe.
Jean-Luc showed him.
“You won’t go far with these francs. If you try to change them, they will certainly cheat you. I’ll change them for you at a fair rate.”
He got up, took some banknotes from a drawer, and gave them to Jean-Luc.
“They are low denomination. You can buy a ticket to… No, wait.”
He turned to the young man, Eddie and told him that when they had finished their beers he should accompany Jean-Luc to Central Station and buy a train ticket for him.
He got up and went over to his desk, where he took a sheet of deckle-edged paper with his initials in the watermark and unscrewed his gold-plated Waterman fountain pen.
He wrote a brief letter that he folded and placed in an envelope made from the same paper. Then, on a piece of notepaper, he wrote the name of a city and a state.
“Eddie will take you to the central station and buy a ticket for you. I am sending you far away, but I think that is the best solution for someone who has to make a new life for themselves. Once you arrive, go to the person whose name is on the envelope. He is a friend of mine and he will find you work.”
“How can I? I don’t have much money, almost nothing.”
“Don’t worry; I will take care of that.”
“Thank you, but I will never be able…”
“To pay me back? Well, we will see about that, there is time. This country offers plen
ty of opportunities and a lot of surprises for those like us.”
“Like… us?” asked Jean-Luc worriedly.
“Oh don’t worry, I didn’t mean what you are thinking, silly boy!” said Trapper laughing.
“I meant this.” He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a tattoo that was very common in the French prisons: Jean-Luc had a similar one.
Locarno – January 1930
Thérèse had left at the start of the month, after spending the holidays in Locarno. It had been an opportunity to meet Siro, but also to understand their business, so that she could set up the office in rue de Richer more efficiently. There was a lot of work to do in Paris, during his long absence between November and December Carlo had purchased a considerable number of objects at auction, both furniture and paintings, and now came the complicated and boring part of the shipping to Locarno, with all the problems and bother that the customs procedures involved.
Fortunately, the presence of a telephone line in both offices (Carlo had had one installed in Locarno, too) made it easier to clarify all the doubts that Thérèse might have at the start of the activity.
Siro had always been sceptical regarding such technical innovations.
“How can anyone seriously talk down a metal tube?” he said shaking his head despairingly every time that infernal device trilled.
However, it must be said that, when the first goods arrived punctually at their destination, thanks to the shipments organised by Thérèse using the telephone, Siro gave a low gurgle of approval. He would never have bet even twenty rappen on the possibility that it would work, although clearly, he had never mentioned his doubts to Carlo.
A Bad Coin Always Turns Up Page 9