by Morris West
His good humor was infectious. I was, at last, prepared to relax with him. I asked him whether he would like coffee. He declined.
“Not for the moment, thanks. Let’s discuss names which would suit you. Take a sheet of notepaper and write your normal signature several times. Then show me how you sign your canvases.”
My normal signature is a long emphatic scrawl in which the capital letters dissolve suddenly into two dark bars broken by the downstroke of the g and ending with a small fillip on the final r. My works are signed with an elaborate calligraphic S in the form of a striking serpent. It has references to the old illuminators whose texts were one normal element in my architectural studies. Kallman studied the two signatures for a moment and then delivered his verdict.
“It’s always tempting to stay close to the client’s original handwriting style. The danger is that in a moment of inattention you may begin to use your own signature instead of the fictitious one. I have known people caught out by that. In your case, we have to control your emphatic impulses which display themselves in your writing. We have to slow you down, force you to reflect before you sign even a credit card. So let’s stay well away from cursive scripts. You’ve obviously studied calligraphy?”
“I have.”
“Choose a script with which you are comfortable but which is dissimilar to your own. Something preferably which will make you deliberate for a second or two. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Now write, in your chosen script, the following: Edgar Francis Benson. Francis Edgar Benson. Florence Georgina Smith.”
I wrote, as he directed, in an old-fashioned Gothic style which one of my early masters had taught me. I was out of practice, so I wrote slowly and carefully in the manner of an elderly person. Oskar Kallman nodded approval.
“Excellent! Now take a clean sheet of paper and do me six specimens of Edgar Francis Benson. That’s you. The others are the names of your parents. They will complete the biographical record, which I’ll put in your hands same time tomorrow, together with your Canadian passport.”
“You work fast, Mr. Kallman.”
“I hold reserve stocks,” he told me blandly. “This sort of merchandise holds its value. To set your mind at rest, the background information for Edgar Francis Benson will be authentic. Your job will be to memorize it and be able to render it verbatim, if and when it is required—which, please God, will be very rarely.
“Once the documents are ready, I’ll take you down to Morgan Guaranty, who will arrange drawing facilities and fit you out with credit cards and travelers’ checks. You’ll surrender your own documents into their safe custody. From then on you function as Edgar Francis Benson. Now let me go through the rest of the list. You check out of here tomorrow.”
“Where do I go?”
He handed me a typed card and explained the location.
“It’s a full-service apartment near the Étoile. They cater to up-market transient tourists. No one will bother you. Clothes? New York tailor-mades are a dead giveaway. You’ll need to buy—”
He was going too fast for comfort. I cut him off in mid-sentence.
“Hold it a moment, Mr. Kallman. I have to think this through before I start living it. I surrender all my documents—”
“Everything, passport, credit cards, address book, diary.”
“Suppose I’m knocked over by a truck, how will anyone know whom to contact?”
“My name and my accommodation address will be written under the ‘please notify’ line in your passport.”
“But you could be off making lemon-scented aftershave.”
“I’m a very well-organized man,” said Oskar Kallman mildly. “You really can trust me. When do you propose to make contact with the Simonetta agency?”
“I thought I’d stroll around to their office today.”
“No! Wait until you have all the paperwork done and you’ve moved into new lodgings.”
“That means I’m losing time.”
“You’re also insuring your life—and the life of Larry Lucas.”
“Are you saying, Mr. Kallman, that you believe my theory about Larry’s disappearance?”
“Once your father laid it out for me, I had no doubts at all that you were on the right track. It happens I have more than a nodding acquaintance with Francesco Falco. He’s been trading in warm bodies for many years now—Pakistanis into England; Koreans and Chinese into Canada and the United States—only big-money clients, though. No boat people, no raggedy-ass refugees—”
“So read me the next chapter, please. How and why would Larry walk away from a million-dollar bonus package in my father’s company and put himself in the hands of an international rogue?”
“The how is easy. He’d been living here for months. He was friendly with the concierge—what’s his name?—Delaunay, who profited from his patronage and introduced him to Simonetta Travel.”
“Delaunay says he never uses them.”
“Delaunay’s a professional. He serves the interest of the hotel and his own, conjointly. He offers all care and minimal responsibility. Read the little notice on the back of your door and you’ll find it’s a very wide disclaimer of liability. I saw you take your passport out of the room safe. The management, you will find, does not accept any liability for loss if you use it. It accepts responsibility only for what you lodge in the central safe-deposit boxes.”
“But it was Delaunay who suggested that I try to trace Larry through the agency.”
“He’s good at his job. He makes two-way bets. He serves Strassberger, his client and banker. To you he demonstrates clean hands and good intentions—as well as a neutral attitude to commerce! What can you prove, you or your colleague, Vianney, except that Delaunay was obviously trying to be helpful? You’ll never budge a man like that. He’s anchored in concrete.”
“But I can’t trust him either?”
“Only to serve his own interests. Once you move out of Le Diplomate he’ll wash his hands like Pilate and file you away with the rest of his case histories. Another important matter. Your father has told me that you have a girlfriend in France?”
“I have.”
“You’ve no doubt confided in her?”
“Up to this point, yes.”
“Then explain to her clearly that everything she knows exposes her to danger. That’s the last thing you—”
At that moment, the telephone rang. Madi was on the line from New York. She had news of a sort.
“I’ve been up half the night, going through boxes of old travel brochures and playing the memory game you suggested. Two things keep popping up in my mind. Larry was very health-conscious, as you know. He worked hard at keeping fit. Whenever he discussed holiday locations he would say, ‘Let’s set a minimum standard of hygiene. I don’t want to be eating pig food. I don’t want to be running back and forth to the john with the Curse of the Incas. I don’t want to have an accident in Africa and wake up with an AIDS infection from contaminated blood.’ He used to chant the motto ‘The Lucas family likes healthy holidays.’
“The other thing was that he, personally, was always attracted to the idea of working on an archaeological dig in the Mediterranean or the Middle East. He never did it because it didn’t fit the family needs. I found that he’d marked places in Anatolia and Mesopotamia and even as far away as China, where the last Roman Legions were reported to have settled. I’ve marked the places on a sketch map and faxed it to your office. That was right, wasn’t it?”
“Right, and wonderfully helpful. Thanks.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Working through the next steps—which we shouldn’t talk about on the phone. Keep your courage up, and say a prayer or two.”
“I’m holding up, Carl—old family training!—and the kids are keeping me sane. I try to bluff myself that this is no different from Larry’s absences in Paris. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that he is fading far too quickly out of my life. I dream of him like
that: a figure receding to infinity across a long bridge.”
The phrase had an ominous ring and it raised again the question that had begun to gnaw away at my confidence: Was Larry worth any of the risks I was taking for him? If and when I found him, would he greet me with a handshake and a thank you or spit in my eye and walk away?
“That’s a dark thought you’re harboring,” said Kallman, after I had hung up. “It might help to share it.”
I told him what Madi had said. He was interested.
“The concern about his health is important. It argues against sexual promiscuity and excludes places where health risks are high. I attach less importance to his interest in archaeology. It would not seem to suit his present purposes of concealment. It would make him prominent in a small elite group with international connections, so I’d discount it somewhat. But that wasn’t the thought that was troubling you, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Tell me, please.”
I told him with a certain embarrassment. He took it quite seriously.
“That’s a symptom of the trauma we were talking about: the sense of futility, of wasted effort, of resentment against the person who got you into all this. It’s normal. It’s useful as a danger signal, but don’t let yourself brood on it. You’ve agreed to search for your brother-in-law as a family duty. It’s a debt of honor. Pay it, don’t question it.”
Kallman did not linger on the subject. He went on brusquely.
“I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning and provide you with documents. We’ll go together to Morgan Guaranty, to make sure their financial routines are watertight. After that, I suggest you move out of here and operate from the apartment for as long as you need to be in Paris.”
“What do I tell Vianney and the people at Strassberger?”
“Just that you’re on the move and you’ll check in from time to time for messages and mail.”
“And Delaunay?”
“Give him a handsome tip and tell him to refer all messages and information to Vianney.”
“He’ll ask about my plans. He’ll want to know about Simonetta Travel.”
“You’ve developed a sudden strong reservation about the whole idea. The more you think about it, the less you like it.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Mr. Kallman!”
“The truth is always much easier to tell.” Oskar Kallman looked like a schoolmaster smiling tolerantly at a thick-headed pupil. He bade me a brisk farewell and was gone.
When he had left I felt oddly restless and uneasy, as if I were surrounded by spies and eavesdroppers. When I brushed my hair and knotted my tie I was relieved that there was no face looking over my shoulder. As I passed through the foyer on my way out, I had to force myself to smile and salute Delaunay behind his counter. On the way to the Strassberger office I found myself rehearsing my dialogues with Vianney and Claudine Parmentier as if their roles had changed overnight from supporters to enemies.
This paranoid mood was still on me when I arrived at the office. The map Madi had faxed me was in an envelope on my desk. As I studied it, I found that my hands were clammy and there was a film of sweat on my forehead. I sat for a few minutes, eyes closed, palms flat on the desk, breathing deeply and slowly, trying to clear the nameless phantoms from my brain. Finally, they were gone. I felt as though I had wakened from a bad dream. I shoved the sketch back into the envelope and put it in my breast pocket.
I called Vianney in his office and asked if he was free to talk with me. He had clients with him. He would be free in twenty minutes. I reflected for a while before calling in Claudine Parmentier. I liked the woman. She was good to look at. She had a certain to-hell-with-you-Jack approach that pleased me. There were no sexual complications. There was no way in the world I was going to double in brass in a modern version of the Sapphic odes. On the other hand, she had lied to a company investigator. Her relations with her lover were ambivalent. She was sympathetic with Larry and his plight. Could I trust her as an ally? I called her in, sat her down, and put the question to her directly.
“I’ll be leaving Paris in the next couple of days. I need a personal and private contact in Paris, here in the office and after hours.”
“And you’d like me to be that contact?”
“If you’re willing, yes.”
“Do you trust me?”
“If you tell me I can.”
“That’s a big risk.”
“Bigger than you know. There may well be two lives on the line. Larry’s and mine.”
“Have you told Mr. Vianney about this? I can’t do it if he objects. I have a good position here.”
“If you agree, I’ll ask his consent. Your career won’t be hurt.”
“Why can’t he help?”
“He can, but what he can do for me is limited by the nature of his job. You were closer to Larry than any other person in the office. That means we can work in shorthand if necessary. Situations may arise when there’s no time to spell the words.”
“I won’t be a spy. I won’t peddle gossip.”
“I’m not asking that.”
“Explain then what you will ask.”
“Fine! Today, now! I want you to make a casual call on Simonetta Travel. You are making inquiries about exotic holidays. You are what you choose to be: single or in a lesbian relationship. You can invent what you are looking for, or you can use this as a guide.”
I laid out Madi’s faxed map of archaeological sites and explained its context. She was dubious.
“I don’t know enough. I’m not interested enough to follow that line.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I handed her the clipping Delaunay had given me. She read it swiftly and was as swiftly involved.
“Yes! This I can play with.”
“They’ll ask you how you came by it.”
“I read it in a magazine in a dentist’s waiting room.”
“Which magazine?”
“I can’t remember. I tore it out and copied it.”
“Good! Then you ask all the questions you can think of about their travel packages. Let it be known, discreetly, that money is not a problem. I’ll be interested to know how they deal with you, how much personal information they try to get out of you, how the staff impresses you. The only things you should not reveal are your real name, your home address, and your connection with Strassberger. Come straight back here with your information and I’ll buy you a very good lunch.”
I saw—or thought I saw—a new gleam of respect in her clear eyes. Without a word she stood up and smoothed down her skirt.
“Do I have a choice of venue for lunch?”
“Of course. Anywhere you say.”
“I’d like to go to the Vert Galant.”
“Done! Make the reservation on your way out. Any special reason for the choice?”
“Half a reason, yes. When we met yesterday I was not impressed. I thought that for an American and an artist you were rather stuffy and old-fashioned—un vert galant, in fact. I’ve changed my mind. One might even say…” She smiled and shook her head. “On second thoughts one had better not say anything. I’m on my way.”
When she had gone, I sat doodling on a sheet of office notepaper, practicing the Gothic signature of Edgar Francis Benson and memorizing the names of his parents. Then I set about designing a monogram with which to sign the pictures that Edgar Francis Benson would have to paint to verify his temporary existence as an artist. When Vianney buzzed from his office to tell me that he was ready to see me, I tore the paper into little pieces and dumped them in the wastebasket. I had the momentary comic thought that, perhaps, I should have swallowed them.
Before I reached Vianney’s office I had composed my brief. Vianney had been mortally offended by the Corsec affair, and he was too important to my father and to the company to risk another alienation. He was prickly, but he was honest, and I had to demonstrate respect. On the other hand, he had to know my doubts about Delaunay. I decided to
leave that little gambit until last.
First I thanked him for his contribution to yesterday’s discussions, then I told him of my decision to take the underground route suggested by Delaunay. His reaction surprised me.
“The more I think about that, my friend, the more it troubles me. When I reflect on what Larry has done and how he has done it, I believe even less that anyone should interfere. Suppose the reverse were true, that your sister had walked away from him; would you intervene, to the extent that you are doing now? I think not. I believe you would decide that both parties had the right to a certain privacy. I leave aside all the other considerations—the expense, the risk which you personally are assuming. You are leaving the man no room to move or to recover. We have already determined there is no crime here. Larry has more than honorably discharged his obligations to the company. He has, at least in financial terms, taken care of his family. So, I tell you frankly, I disagree with what you are doing.”
“I respect that. Thank you for telling me. I’ll advise my father that I’ve agreed to sideline you from any further participation in the affair. I shall emphasize that you have a valid point of view and have the company interest at heart.”
“I appreciate that. I confess it will not absolve me from my doubts and from a certain guilt about my dislike of the man.”
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you absolution. I’m not feeling so good either. Now I have two favors to ask. The first is that you tell Delaunay nothing of my plans.”
“I know nothing, therefore I can tell nothing.”