Vanishing Point

by Morris West

  “I doubt it—but I’ll be checking as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

  “What shall I tell Madi?”

  “Just what I’ve told you. Our first guess was right. But please, Father, don’t call me at the office. I’ll phone you from the hotel. You’re six hours behind us. So I’ll get you either at the office or at home. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Do you have any thoughts on the woman driving the Peugeot?”

  “It’s too early to speculate.”

  “I have a suggestion.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Ask Vianney who handles the carnet de bal.”

  “The what?”

  “The carnet de bal, the dance card. I know there is one. I know there’s someone in the office who handles it.”

  “That doesn’t tell me what it is.”

  “Work it out for yourself—my compliments and good luck. Madi will be relieved and the children will be happy.”

  “Don’t build too much hope on me yet.”

  “Little or much, Carl, we all need hope. Once it goes, there is only grief to be endured. Again, I apologize for disturbing you. Good luck!”

  The line went dead. I sat there with the receiver clamped to my ear cursing my father for a provocative mischief-maker and thanking my lucky stars I was not bound to him forever and a day. Then the humor of it took hold of me and I began to laugh. I put down the receiver, picked it up again, and dialed Vianney’s office.

  “I’ve just been talking to my father in New York,” I told him. “He suggested I ask you about the carnet de bal. Who handles it now?”

  There was a sudden silence on the line, then a very formal answer.

  “I am in the middle of dictation. This is something we should discuss at the end of the day, in private. I’ll drive you back to your hotel about six.”

  “Fine.”

  “You have spoken with Mlle. Parmentier?”

  “We’re just about to continue our conversation.”

  “Until later then.”

  I looked at my watch. It was already ten minutes after five. I called Claudine back into my office. I told her I needed to clarify some notes given to me by the Corsec people. She was not amused.

  “It’s late. I have mail to sign and an appointment at six. May we continue in the morning?”

  “This won’t take long. Larry made four visits to Geneva to see a certain Dr. Hubert Rubens. What can you tell me about him?”

  “He is what the Swiss call a Treuhänder, a trustee. I gather he handles a small list of big clients.”

  “Of whom Larry was one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there any correspondence with Dr. Rubens in the files?”

  “A series of faxes confirming appointments Larry made by phone. Nothing else.”

  “Next, two overnight visits to Milan. The diary note has an acronym, SVEEO. You told the Corsec people you didn’t know what it meant.”

  “I was lying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t like the gorilla who was asking the questions, and it was Larry’s private business anyway.”

  “Will you tell me what the letters mean?”

  “It’s a travel agency: Simonetta Viaggi, Europa ed Oltremare—Simonetta Travel, Europe and Overseas.”

  “Paris is full of travel agencies. The concierge at Le Diplomate could send you to the moon if you asked him. Why would Larry go to Milan?”

  “He didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “No, but I learned fast that when he was frayed and tired he could be as prickly as a rosebush. I never asked unnecessary questions. In this case, however, I was interested enough to find out for myself. I have a colleague who works for the Banco Ambrosiano in Milan. I called her. She told me that Simonetta is a boutique agency specializing in exotic tours for rich clients, male and female. There is no Simonetta. The director is a man; he has a team of attractive young people to tout business for him.”

  “Sometime after his visit to Milan, Larry went on a ten-day holiday. Where did he go?”

  “Again, he didn’t tell me. Again, I didn’t ask.”

  “Who made the travel arrangements?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I understand your lying to the Corsec people. How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

  If she was startled by the question, she gave no sign of it. Her answer was faintly contemptuous.

  “You don’t. But the old test still applies. Cui bono? Who profits from a lie, if there is one? Larry and I were not lovers. He was a respected colleague, an agreeable friend. How do I profit from his distress? On the other hand”—she thrust in fast, like a duelist—“on the other hand, Mr. Strassberger, you could be lying to us, setting up some elaborate fiction to protect your family interests. The Corsec invasion could have been the first move to soften us up. Then you follow in with a beautifully scored cry from the heart for the lost lamb and the afflicted family.”

  “The same question to you then. Who profits?”

  “Simple answer. Disappearing bankers make world news and big dents in the stock market.” She gave a small dismissive laugh. “Don’t worry! I believe you. You can believe me. You’ll find my signature on the receipt for Larry’s clothing and laundry.”

  “You understand I had to ask the question.”

  “You did it very clumsily.”

  “I apologize.”

  “I forgive you; but you shouldn’t try to frighten me, Mr. Strassberger. I was blooded in the battle of the sexes.”

  She was out the door and gone before I could utter another word.

  4

  “IT’S A JOKE,” SAID MARC Antoine Vianney, “a stale office joke!”

  We were sitting over drinks in my suite at Le Diplomate, waiting for the concierge to call us as soon as the evening scramble around his desk was over. Vianney was commenting on my father’s cryptic phrase, the dance card.

  “Your father invented the term. I remember the occasion very well. I had just taken over this job. Your father had come from New York to preside at my installation. I was looking to him to define company policy on various matters. What I got was a flea in my ear. ‘We deal in money,’ your father told me. ‘Money and moneyed people. We wine them, we dine them: we entertain them, at the racetrack, at the casino, at the theater. Nobody notices that we are doing it with their money.’”

  Vianney grinned in self-mockery.

  “I asked him then how we were to act on the question of sexual entertainment. He cocked his head at me like an old owl contemplating a fat mouse. He said, ‘We are bankers, Vianney! We are not pimps or procurers or brothel touts, and none of our clients, male or female, is going to thank us for an HIV infection or a dose of the pox. Every concierge at every major hotel runs a dance card of call girls and houses of appointment. So you refer your clients to the concierge at their own hotel. But before you do, write the concierge a discreet note introducing our valued client and asking him to use his best efforts to render the client’s stay in Paris comfortable. Enclose a generous offering—in cash.

  After that you take no further role in the matter. And if you happen to be playing on the bordello circuit yourself, never, never mix your pleasure with our clients’ business!”’

  I laughed aloud. I couldn’t help myself. He had my father down pat: the tone, the gestures, the peremptory ‘never, never!’ I raised my glass in salute.

  “Bravo! Now you’ve got five-star hotels handing out the dance cards to Strassberger clients!”

  “Not quite.” Vianney had something more to add. “I decided later that the spread of risk was far too great. In sexual commerce there are no guarantees. Too many accidents can happen between contact and consummation: so now we work only through Delaunay at this hotel. He has his own rules. No rough trade, no violent games. His escorts are already in the health industry.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  �
�They are surrogate partners employed by a large consortium of doctors engaged in the sex-therapy business. They coax the patients, male or female, back to normal function. As Delaunay reasons it, the doctors themselves have a vested interest in the health of the surrogates. He figures that’s the best insurance he can offer. So far—touch wood—we’ve had no complaints either.”

  “Which brings us full circle, doesn’t it?”

  “How so?”

  “Did Larry Lucas have a dance card?”

  “I never asked but I presume so. Delaunay would be able to tell us. He is the one who makes the appointments for clients.”

  “And presumably collects his commission?”

  “Oh, no! He’s much too shrewd for that. We pay him a certain sum for general services. The clients pay him for pointing them to a safe address. To collect anything from the girls would be as distasteful for him as it would be for us, who are ‘all, all honorable men.’”

  Twenty minutes later, Delaunay, that honorable man, was sitting with us, taking the edge off a very hard day with a shot of Glenfiddich. He was cordial now, relaxed, even amiable, but the edge of caution never left him. He confirmed that Mlle. Claudine Parmentier had signed for Larry’s clothing and laundry. He confirmed also what Giorgiu Andrescu had told me in the Corsec office in New York that Larry Lucas was not a great chaser of women, that he jogged every morning and worked out at the Apollon Club most evenings after work. He did occasionally have Delaunay call up women on the dance card as escorts for himself and his clients. There was certainly no history of continuity with one woman or of overnight visitors at Le Diplomate.

  When I asked him to hazard a guess as to the woman who drove Larry Lucas to pick up his clothes from Claudine Parmentier’s apartment, he shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I suggest, however, that the woman may not have been a sexual partner at all. It may well have been a person paid to cooperate in his flight.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the girls on the dance card work from their own apartments and are transported at the expense of the client. They do not use their own vehicles even if they have them. A minor traffic accident, after a party, with alcohol consumed, could spell big trouble for them.”

  This made sense. There was no way I could argue the issue. I switched to a new tack.

  “Monsieur, you have, naturally, a large number of dealings with travel agencies?”

  “Of course.”

  I handed him a slip of paper on which I had written Simonetta Viaggi, Europa ed Oltremare, Milan.

  “What can you tell me about this one?”

  He hesitated a moment and then hedged the answer.

  “Not a great deal. They have an office here in Paris. Sometimes one of their representatives calls on me to remind me of their existence and the special services they offer.”

  “And what is the nature of these special services?”

  “Luxury travel to exotic places, with or without escort, as the client chooses. Their clients are middle-aged to elderly, but they are always rich. The agency people, on the other hand, are young men and women, very polished, very persuasive.”

  “Did you ever make any arrangements with them for Mr. Lucas?”

  “I made him aware of their existence. I gave him their telephone number and recommended he make his own arrangements.”

  “What, in fact, did he ask you to find for him?”

  “In his own words, ‘a quality agency specializing in exotic locations—but nothing either too vigorous or too extreme in climate.’”

  “Do you know whether he made contact with Simonetta Travel?”

  “I have to assume so. I saw him on occasion in the lobby, deep in conversation with one of their young ladies.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “At this precise moment, it escapes me.”

  “Would you try to remember, please? You understand how important this is.”

  “I do understand, yes; but may I ask a very personal question, Mr. Strassberger?”

  “Please!”

  “What are your feelings toward your brother-in-law?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that my feelings were none of his damn business. I realized just in time that I had made them his business. If I wanted his help, I had to pay him deference. So, as calmly as I could, I put together the answer.

  “My feelings are, naturally enough, very mixed. Larry is family. He is married to my sister. He has two beautiful children. He is a brilliant banker and extremely important to our firm. He is suffering from an illness that is little understood and which can put him at extreme risk. So my first feeling is deep concern. We are his family. My next is anger, which I can neither justify nor suppress. Larry Lucas walked out on his family and his business and has disrupted a working summer for me.”

  Delaunay threw back his head and laughed.

  “That’s a very open confession, Mr. Strassberger!”

  I had the sudden notion that Delaunay was playing out an old comedy in which he was the clever Parisian and I was the fall-guy American, who couldn’t tell a clochard from a cloche hat. I decided that I didn’t like the script and I told him so.

  “I’m a stranger here. I’m tired and I’m worried. This isn’t Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday. It’s an old fashioned dead-or-alive manhunt. Can you help me or not? If you can’t, say so and we’re done here. If you can, then don’t make me beg like a poodle for dinner scraps.”

  There was a long moment of silence; then Vianney confronted me.

  “Cool down, Carl! Try to understand what you’re hearing. M. Delaunay owes us nothing. How would we react, if suddenly he were knocking on our door with intrusive questions about our financial dealings—no matter under what pretext? In fact, he’s trying to help, as I am, if not for the same reason. As I told you, I was not attracted to Larry Lucas. I respected him; I could not warm to him. M. Delaunay counts Larry a friend. He feels very protective of his interests. He is not hostile to you or to us. He is simply exercising a proper personal and professional caution with a man he does not yet know very well—yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Delaunay acknowledged his advocate with a nod, then sat, hands folded placidly in his lap, waiting for my reaction. The words pieced themselves out slowly.

  “M. Delaunay, I’m desperate. Therefore I am less than gracious. I apologize. I understand your professional reticence. I respect it. I shall be grateful for whatever help you can give me.”

  “Eh bien!” Delaunay smiled and raised one plump hand in absolution. “Let us talk about Simonetta Travel. I have told you I know these people. I am, however, unsure of them. Therefore, I do not recommend them to my clients. I did not recommend them to Mr. Lucas. On the other hand, I do not ignore or conceal their existence and the services they offer. A concierge, like a banker, must be—or at least appear to be—all things to all men and women.”

  He fished in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a business card, attached to a folded clipping. He handed them to me.

  “The card is that of the young woman from Simonetta Travel who most often calls on me. She is the one whom I have seen in conversation with Mr. Lucas. The cutting comes from one of those magazines which you will find in your own suite in this hotel. It advertises luxury travel, luxury lodgings, like this place. Its editorial content is addressed to the idle browser, to be read in the bath. Read it, please!”

  The piece was obviously patched together from an interview by a very pedestrian journalist.

  Simonetta Travel (Paris, Milan, New York, Los Angeles) is, by all accounts, a discreet success in the gadabout trade. It must be successful to afford the services of the beautifully turned out young men and young women who haunt the best hotels in search of clients. Presumably the clients are satisfied, because they’ve got exactly what they paid for—they’ve dropped out of circulation, disappeared completely, stepped off the sidewalks of their home place into a special nowhere, discover
ed, recommended, and tailored to their personal needs by Simonetta—who, by the way, isn’t Simonetta but a certain Francesco Falco, who commutes round the world in search of secret retreats where his wealthy clients may literally disappear.

  Mr. Falco has a long list of heavenly havens in the Philippines, Costa Rica, Brazil, Madagascar, Morocco, the Windward Islands. You name a place you’d like, he can point to it on the map and recite the services his agency has available there: luxury housing, abundant domestic help, companionship, male or female, in a whole range of colors, medical services, discreet financial arrangements to break the money trail between the client’s old world and the new one.

  Who are the clients? At this point Mr. Falco wags a chiding finger. “That’s the whole exercise, isn’t it—absolute discretion!” He will admit, however, that there are typical profiles: men between forty-five and sixty who are bored, lonely, or simply in flight from a bad marriage; women, some damaged by marriage or a love affair, some bored, some chasing the retreating romance of youth.

  Criminals perhaps? Mr. Falco shrugs eloquently. How would one know? One takes paying clients at face value. He points out that criminal organizations everywhere have their own travel arrangements, their own vanishing tricks. All that Simonetta demands is that the clients have solid credit and a sincere desire to step permanently from one life to another.

  Documents? Mr. Falco shrugs again. “Many countries offer special arrangements for moneyed people. Every nation in the world welcomes a well-heeled immigrant.” Nice work if you can get it, we thought—and Simonetta Travel is obviously getting enough of it to stay in business in four very expensive cities.

  I handed the clipping to Vianney. He scanned it swiftly, then passed it back to me.

  “May I keep this?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “How long has Simonetta Travel been in business?”

  “Seven, eight years to my knowledge. But under Falco’s administration, in this kind of business, less than three years.”

  “Next question: Are the documents he provides real or forgeries?”

  “My guess would be that they are real but bought at premium prices from the consulates of the countries which offer this hospitality.”