Vanishing Point

by Morris West

  “If the question is asked, I’d be happy for you to tell him you are no longer involved.”

  “I can do that, very easily. It would be much more difficult to lie to him. He is a good client. He serves others of our clients. Our relationship is formal, but it has been in existence for a long time. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “I do. My second request is that Claudine Parmentier remain as my personal contact inside and outside the office.”

  “Have you spoken to her about this?”

  “I have. She will accept, subject to your approval. Your only involvement would be to make any payments I recommend for her activities and expenses.”

  “I can do that, certainly; but may I ask how much you know about Mlle. Parmentier and her background?”

  “Only what she has told me herself.”

  “Before you leave me, you should take a look at her dossier. She’s a talented woman—not everyone’s cup of coffee but a highly efficient member of the staff.”

  “Trustworthy?”

  “So far as I know. Erratic, sometimes. She has a fierce temper if she is crossed.”

  “I can believe that.”

  He leaned back in his chair and gave me a slow, quizzical smile which transformed his saturnine face.

  “You are not, perhaps, romantically interested in Claudine?”

  Now it was my turn to smile.

  “No. I can read. The sign says KEEP OFF THE GRASS.”

  “Sometimes, I am told, the sign changes.”

  “I’ve been told that too, by the lady herself, but I won’t be around to see it. As from tomorrow I’m on the move. Messages and mail should be passed to Claudine. I’ll check in from time to time. Just one more thing. This hasn’t been the best beginning to a friendship. Once this business is behind us, you might care to come down to Cagnes and spend a weekend with me.”

  There was a moment of silence between us; then Marc Antoine Vianney stood up and held out his hand.

  “I’d like very much to get to know you better, Carl Emil Strassberger. Go with God, and come safely home.”

  Lunch at the Vert Galant was an event which never happened. I waited in the office until two o’clock. I had a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. I talked with my father in New York and reported my meeting with Oskar Kallman. He had just finished breakfast and was in a hurry to get to his office. He told me that he would be pursuing his own inquiries on Dr. Hubert Rubens of Geneva. I should call him back before close of business in Paris.

  I called Dr. Alma Levy. She had spent a long night going through her tapes on Larry Lucas. Her secretary would be typing up the material and her notes during the morning. She would fax them to me at my office. She was not too hopeful about their value. The geography was vague, the images specific to states of mind but not necessarily to an identifiable earthly paradise—lost, regained, or imagined. She would, however, scan them once more before transmitting them.

  At two-thirty I called Giorgiu Andrescu at Corsec and told him my change of plans and residence. He was happy with both. He asked me to let him have further details—numbers of passport and credit cards—as soon as the documents were in my hands. In his high-noon style he informed me, “We’ll track you like a satellite. We’ll know every move you make.” So far, however, he and his people were still feeling around the walls of Simonetta Travel. They hadn’t yet opened a window on its operations. I had just put down the phone and tossed my luncheon wrapper into the wastebasket when Claudine Parmentier walked in. It was five minutes past three. I snapped at her.

  “As I remember, we had a lunch date at the Vert Galant.”

  “We did. Please don’t be angry. There was no chance to call. I’m sorry I stood you up; but this was an opportunity I dared not miss. Will you let me explain, please?”

  “That depends on what you’re about to tell me. Sit down.”

  She sat down, a little less gracefully than normal.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes. One certainly—maybe two—glasses more than I should.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Vert Galant, of course.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  With slightly tipsy abandon, she acted it, scene by scene.

  “Where to begin? Simonetta Travel maintains an office on Saint Honoré, second floor. There is no display window on the street, just a brass plaque, very reserved, very chic. The reception area also is very discreet, modern furniture, pastel walls, no posters, no magazines, just a Chagall and a Giacometti and a stunning piece from a Mexican painter I’ve never heard of.

  “The receptionist matches all this: black hair, tailored suit, a voice like golden honey. She asks if I have an appointment. Regrettably I do not. I tell her I am obeying an impulse. I have read about their agency. I wonder if they can offer me the kind of service I need. She asks where I have read about them. I say, in a magazine, don’t ask me which one. I was struck by the name of their director—two fs—Francesco Falco. Very romantic. Ah, yes. She remembers that article. They have had many inquiries from it. If I would be so kind as to wait a few moments, one of their consultants will be at my disposal. I ask, with a certain reserve, whether I may deal with a woman consultant. There is an intimate side to travel matters which many agencies do not understand. But of course! I think I catch a gleam of understanding in her eyes. She speaks quietly into the telephone.

  “I wait perhaps three minutes when the consultant enters. Now this is where a miracle begins to happen. I have seen this one before with an older woman at Elle et Lui, which, in case you haven’t heard of it, is a lesbian club. She is beautiful and—you will not laugh!—still as desirable as she was when I first set eyes on her. She does not recognize me. We had not spoken that first time. My Anne-Louise is very possessive, so in company I’m careful. Anyway, here is the consultant, fresh, well-groomed, infinitely obliging. Her name is Liliane Prévost.

  “She presents her card, formally like a Japanese. I pretend to have forgotten mine. She leads me into her office, which is furnished to accommodate four people. There are comfortable armchairs, a display screen, a tray with coffee cups and mineral water. She seats me beside her within hand’s reach. Her chair is equipped with an index and a computer keyboard. She moves smoothly into an obvious routine. Can I give her my name, my address, my marital status, et patati et patata! It’s basic information that helps them to make recommendations that suit the client. I decline gently. She understands surely that one prefers to keep all personal details to oneself until one has established a personal rapport. Of course she understands! She’s been in the auction ring herself. First names only until you’re ready to get acquainted. She compromises by handing me a printed form and asks me to fill it out at my leisure. I agree. She hands me the form which I now hand to you. She pats my hand and asks how I think she can help me…Are you reading me so far, Mr. Strassberger?”

  “I am reading you loud and clear, Mademoiselle. Take your time. I don’t want to miss a single grace note of this opera.”

  “I tell her, with carefully modulated emotion, that I have certain problems in my life. My lover is very possessive. She insists on an exclusivity, which I feel is unreasonable. I’m young. I have the means to enjoy myself. I want to do just that…Of course I don’t want to break up our relationship—but I want to think about choices: a restorative vacation for both of us, or in the last resort we break up and I go traveling alone for a while.

  “Instantly the atmosphere changes. Liliane is infinitely sympathetic. She explains the workings and the policy of Simonetta Travel. This is not mass tourism. This is haute cuisine for the gourmets of travel. The menus are designed and prepared by their eminent director, M. Francesco Falco. He is constantly seeking new locations and preparing them to receive the distinguished clients of Simonetta. Sometimes he himself, or one of us, travels with the clients to see them installed and marshal the local services they need. He functions from Milan but he is always on the move. Two weeks ago h
e made a transatlantic trip to settle a lady on an island in the Caribbean.

  “That’s my cue to tell Liliane I’ve never been to the Caribbean. She moves immediately into selling mode with her computer and the display screen. I tell you they have everything beautifully organized. All the relevant facts pop up on the screen: accommodation, routings, costs, and beautifully sanitized film clips. When I begin to make notes, she stops me. There is no need. She will supply printouts and photographs of anything I want.

  “Then we begin to be a little playful. I name a place at random and we search the screen for details. Then we play the game in reverse, fitting places to people. I push the game a little further—whom would I like to send where. All the time Liliane is loosening up. I am becoming more and more the eager client and I have to confess I’m enjoying Liliane. So I ask her to join me for lunch at the Vert Galant. She accepts with pleasure.”

  “How did you pay for lunch, by the way?”

  “In cash. You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to use a credit card!”

  “So what did the lunch produce?”

  “Intimacies, mostly. The prospect of an affair if one wanted to pursue it, which for the moment I do not want at all. I believed also that I might pick up more useful information.”

  “You didn’t think she might have had the same idea?”

  “Of course. That was the spice of the game. The more she pressed me, the more emotion I had to spend on the scene. I played it like Bernhardt, believe me. I had debts of love and honor. But yes, yes, yes, I would be back to her. By way of distraction I asked if it might it be possible for her to travel with me to my chosen destination.”

  “And her answer?”

  “Was strictly business. It would be a pleasant idea. It could work if the money I was spending with the agency were substantial enough, and if I paid her expenses as well. However, things changed from day to day. The number of clients was increasing. Each one required special personal attention. For example, only a few days ago she had been appointed to escort a male client who was spending a week in Paris before she sent him on his way to his next destination. He had to pay very expensively for that. How did she feel about this kind of escort service? That depended. This one was young, agreeable, obviously wealthy, and Mr. Falco had planned a big journey for him. He wanted him kept happy and interested. It wasn’t as if it were a romance. But he was exciting to be with and generous. I pressed her for a description and a name. I had to make a joke of it. You know, girlish giggles over the wine. I didn’t get a name, but she came up with a reasonable facsimile of Larry Lucas.”

  “Then she could have been the woman driving the black Peugeot when he came to pick up his clothes.”

  “I believe she was. I want to check my diary so I can be sure of the date and time of the incident. However, I hadn’t been near enough to see her—and thank God she hadn’t seen me. You have to remember I’m stringing out a game here, because I can’t ask the big direct question. I ask where the client was going. She just smiles and touches my lips with her finger. I shouldn’t tempt her. I might be her client very soon. She might have to protect my privacy too. I tease her then. I don’t want to be just a client. I hope we might be friends. Besides, what was so secret about a man going on a holiday? Most travel agents were very happy to talk about satisfied clients. She is quick to point out that the article I had read emphasized a confidential relationship. I pouted a little. She relented and told me strictly entre nous there was some sort of mystery about this one. Her own opinion was that he was in the middle of a divorce and didn’t want anyone to know where he was.

  “Finally, the last drink did the trick. His name wouldn’t mean anything because it wasn’t his real one. The night he left he gave her a handsome present. She drove him to Orly Airport. They stopped on the way to pick up some luggage. He was ticketed to Milan. Falco was meeting him there and driving him to a villa the agency operates near Sirmione on Lake Garda. It’s called the Villa Estense. Liliane had taken a woman client there once. According to her it was a place of great luxury, with attentive staff and all sorts of services on call. I ask whether she’d recommend it for me. She shrugs. For me and my lover perhaps, if we wanted to be quiet together. For me alone, or me with Liliane, no! There were much better choices. She didn’t think this man would be staying too long. Mr. Falco himself was arranging his onward ticketing. She didn’t know where.

  “Then she asked again when I thought I might decide about my own arrangements. I told her I wanted to think about it, talk to my partner. I didn’t want to be rushed. Of course not! It was just that there was constant pressure for performance inside the agency. Simonetta’s consultants were paid a retainer, but their principal income came from commissions. By that time I knew we’d had one glass too many and Liliane was pressing too hard for comfort. I called for the check and had the doorman call me two taxis. Liliane and I kissed as we parted. Then we went our separate ways—and here I am, still a little grise and waiting for you to tell me I’ve been a clever girl and that you forgive me for standing you up for lunch.”

  “I do forgive you. And you have been a very clever girl. I’m going to bring you some coffee.”

  “And then you’re going to read me a lecture, aren’t you?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No.”

  “Then no lecture.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But there is a caution. It may be fun for you falling into the tender trap with Liliane Prévost, but you could drop both Larry Lucas and me into a tiger trap!”

  For the first time her composure was shaken. She wasn’t just squiffy; she was in aftershock. There was a whole wave of emotion behind her half-humorous narrative. Her face paled and she fumbled in her handbag for a tissue.

  “You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?” she said.

  I had no answer to that, so I went out to the machine to make her a cup of very strong coffee. By the time I got back with the coffee, she had repaired her makeup and her old persona was firmly in place; ironic, mocking, and defiant. After a few mouthfuls of coffee she challenged me.

  “Go on, say it. I got randy and made a fool of myself.”

  “Enough that you know it. I was the one who put you at risk. You did better than I hoped—or you deserved. You opened a door into Simonetta Travel. You may well have identified Larry’s first port of call after Paris. But you can’t go back to Simonetta, unless you sign up either for travel or a love affair. Either way, you end up in Liliane’s computer. So you bail out, now!”

  “How do I do that? If I ignore the girl I make an enemy.”

  “You may never see her again.”

  “I never expected to see her today, did I? Women like us tend to move in fairly tight circles.”

  “So make it formal. Write her a gentle note without your address: Dear Liliane: Lovely lunch. Thanks for your time and trouble. The plans we discussed don’t work for me just now. When they do you’ll be the first to know. Affectionate salutations. That way it’s done, it’s over. If you ever meet again you meet with a smile—even though she will be disappointed over the commission! Which, if you’re thinking about love, is also a cautionary thought.”

  It was the first time I had seen Claudine Parmentier blush. She nodded a reluctant agreement.

  “That’s true. But you didn’t have to say it. Very well. I’ll wait for a couple of days and then write the note. Talking of notes, have you told Vianney about our arrangement?”

  “I have; but I’m going to cancel it.”

  “Why?”

  “You represent a risk I can’t afford.”

  “I understand. I’m not very proud of myself either. I’m a silly bitch who doesn’t know enough to come out of the rain. What about my job here?”

  “That’s between you and Vianney.”

  “What are you going to tell him about today?”

  “Only that I’ve reconsidered. I think it’s better for everyone that I work alon
e and outside.”

  “You’re a hard man, Mr. Strassberger.”

  “And you’re a bright woman, but you’re also reckless; and I can’t cope with that right now.”

  As she walked out, she looked so dejected that I was tempted to relent. God knows, I needed an ally at Strassberger; but this one was already away and winging with the bat people.

  I sat for a long while studying the document which Claudine had handed to me: the personal details and the vacation wish list which Simonetta Travel required from all those who wanted to use its exotic services. Whoever had designed the two-page form had done a very clever job. It elicited information for a complete identity and credit check as well as a profile of private tastes, recreations, and sexual orientations. Somewhere along the way—and before his change of identity—Larry must have filled out one of these forms. I would obviously be required to do the same before I embarked on my underground journey in search of him. Both forms would be loaded into the computer system; both could therefore be extricated from it.

  I scribbled an explanatory note to Giorgiu Andrescu at Corsec and told him I’d call him later. I sent the note and the form on the private fax in my office. Then I folded the originals and shoved them in my briefcase to show to Oskar Kallman when he delivered the documents of my new identity.

  I debated for a few moments what I should say to Vianney. To honor my promise, I made it as brief as possible.

  “About Claudine Parmentier. I’ve had second thoughts. I’ve decided against using her.”

  “I assume you’re not asking for a comment from me?”

  “No. I’m asking a personal favor. Will you receive and hold all messages for me until further notice?”

  “Of course. Is there anything else I should know—anything that might touch the interests of Strassberger?”

  “No. There’s a credit Claudine should have. She uncovered some very useful information about Larry’s possible movements.”

  “On the other hand?”

  “There is no other hand. There is only the sound of one hand clapping—and that’s a very small, sad sound. Hardly worth mentioning, in fact.”