77 Rue Paradis (12 page)

“You mean to say the whole business is down here?”

“All, Frank. It was originally a natural cave. I purchased the land and built a home on it. I even have a few small vineyards. Just to make everything seem right. Meanwhile, we installed the plant. Good, eh?”

Chevard drove the car off the main tunnel onto a narrower artery, dimly lighted again, and parked in a small space beside a blank wall.

“Outside.”

They got out and Baron stood there waiting. Chevard stepped up to the wall beside the jeep and pulled a chain that hung beneath a gleaming orange bulb. The wall swung open. The door was not concealed, but until it had opened, Baron could not see it. They walked into a well-lighted, efficient-looking office. Two desks behind a wooden barricade faced each other, and at each desk sat a girl. One was typing, the other reading a sheaf of papers and checking things with a pencil. Both girls were extremely good-looking, Baron noted. One was an ash blonde, the other brunette. They smiled and waved at Chevard.

“This is where you keep them?” Baron said.

“This is it. Aren’t they beauties?” He grinned at Baron. “Which do you prefer?”

“The blonde,” Baron said.

“That’s Lucinda. Lucinda,” he called, “Mr. Baron wishes to say he admires you greatly.”

The girl smiled. The other one looked up, smiled at Lucinda, then returned to her machine-gun-like typing.

Lucinda was extremely chesty, and wore a form-fitting, light tan dress with a big gold buckle under her chin. Every time she breathed the buckle seemed to bend. She turned in her chair, crossed her legs, and looked straight at Baron. Her legs were very long and the skirt hissed up over the knees as she crossed them.

“Lucinda,” Chevard said, “show Mr. Baron that you like him.” Chevard gave Baron a light push toward the wooden gate that led through the barrier. “Go ahead, Frank—meet Lucinda.”

Baron strode through the gate. Lucinda’s hand came up. Her hand held a big black automatic. Baron stopped, stared at the large, dark hole in the muzzle, then at Lucinda’s pale smile. She waggled the gun barrel slightly.

“Don’t go any farther,” Chevard said abruptly. “They have orders to shoot. If you had come in here without me, they would already have shot.”

“Magnifique,” Baron said. He came back to the other side of the gate. He looked back at Lucinda. She tossed him a heavy, round-lipped kiss off the barrel of the automatic and dropped the gun into the desk drawer just over her lap. It clanked against something.

The other girl laughed shortly, and Lucinda returned to her sheaf of papers.

“The dark one is Georgette. She also packs a rod, Frank, as they say in America.” Chevard cleared his throat, opened a door leading from the outer office into a smaller room. “They are my girls,” Chevard said. “I think Georgette likes you, Frank.”

“How?”

“Lucinda seldom tosses kisses that freely and Georgette dislikes Lucinda. You understand?”

Baron grinned, then his face sagged as he stepped into the smaller room, and Chevard chuckled again beside him as the door closed.

“Something, eh?”

Baron looked across the room. The far wall was made of glass, opening into a vast cavern. He had never seen anything like it. Rank upon rank of sleek-bodied planes were strung out, leading from near the window to a dimly lighted distance. Baron could not see the end of them. They were jet jobs, he saw, with the most extreme delta-type wings he had yet seen. They were almost like row upon row of torpedoes, squatting on three spindly legs. They looked nasty. They looked mean. The tricolor of France was stamped on the dull crimson side of each plane, beneath the cockpit. Those wings were like the folded wings of an insect, narrow and frightening. They were thicker than any he had ever seen, the trailing edges stepped once, deeply. Beyond the cork-lined walls of the office, he heard the high tight whine of machinery, the staccato sock of a riveting machine, and far down at the end of the cavern, white sparks showered brilliantly in streaming arcs. Men walked around, hurrying like ants among the planes, crawling over them like ants.

He hadn’t expected anything like this. A single plane, yes—other types, perhaps—but countless jet jobs, never.

“Now, you see why all the secrecy?”

Baron glanced at his friend. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“I have told you this is a fast plane,” Chevard said.

“So?”

Chevard looked out across the ranks of planes, his eyes brooding. His voice was mellow when he spoke, and Baron sensed the strain of excitement in the man.

“It is the most fabulous plane in all the world, Frank,” Chevard said. “The fastest man has yet seen. I do not mean by a few miles per hour. I don’t mean the sort of advancement of speed we are conditioned to reading about in the newspapers, seeing in the newsreels. This plane is amazing.” He went on talking, telling Baron many of the things he knew and suspected, other things that he hadn’t known. But as yet he did not mention the breather. “It has more hours of flying time than you could imagine. Refueling has been reduced to a negligible worry.”

“Atomic power?” Baron asked quietly.

“Ah,” Chevard said.

Baron was half listening, and half thinking of the cruel mess he was in. There had never been anything like this mess, either. The Secret Police would nail him if he made a slip. The guards—yes, even the women secretaries here at the plant—would kill him at the drop of an eyelash. He supposed those girls in the outer office went to target practice twice a week, packing their big black automatics. Gorssmann would remove him and Bette as lightly as he would squash a bug on his desk blotter if he slipped up. Paul Chevard would quite possibly turn on him and shoot him between the eyes with the gun Baron was certain he must carry. Suddenly he wanted very much to get out into the fresh air again. He wished he were drunk. He wished he could be with the billy-goat girl.

Suddenly a door at the other end of the office opened. A uniformed guard stepped halfway out into the room, peered at Chevard, seemed to shrink in embarrassment. “I am sorry,” the guard said. “I expected my relief.”

Baron saw Chevard frown and the man’s mouth twisted. But he said, “It’s all right. Close the door.”

But Baron had seen what he wanted to see. Beyond the open door was still another room. He saw a desk, chairs, and against the far wall a gray metal safe. Somehow he did not have to be told that that was where he would have to go. That was where his journey would end—and begin….

The guard closed the door. There was no lock on it that Baron could see. Chevard turned his back, then slowly whirled again and frowned at Baron. He began to speak, then waved his hand and grinned. He said nothing at all.

* * * *

“Would you care to stay on with us?” Chevard asked.

He and Baron stood in the parking area beside the Fiat. Chevard had shown him around the plant some, but Baron had begged off any further tour, because of his still pressing hangover. He did not give the true reason, that he had seen all he needed to see. He wanted to see nothing else. He wanted to get away from Chevard. He could no longer stand before his friend and lie. He tried to find something about Chevard that he could hate, but failed. The man was too trusting. Yet Baron did have to smile inside. Chevard had never mentioned the breather.

“What would I do?” Baron asked.

Chevard shrugged. “There’s plenty to do. For a few days, suppose you nose around here at the plant, get the lay of the land, as they say. Then I will put you to work.” He paused, watching Baron carefully. “If that is what you want.”

“You know I do.”

Chevard clapped him on the shoulder. “You take my car, then. I have another here at the plant. Go home and get some rest. Come around whenever you care to. You are welcome, and trusted, Frank.”

“Thanks.” He looked across the parking area. “I don’t like taking your car, though.”

“How else will you get around?”

“All right. I will. Will I always find you here?”

Chevard smiled. “I practically live here, Frank. And as for Georgette and Lucinda, so long as you don’t cross the line, you’ll be all right.”

Baron wanted to ask him about the little room off his office, but he refrained.

“I don’t have to remind you about what you have seen, and how much it means, do I?”

Baron shook his head. “No, Paul,” he said. “You don’t have to remind me.” He looked sharply away, stepped over to the Fiat, climbed in behind the wheel.

“Tomorrow?” Chevard asked.

Baron nodded. “I’ll call you.” His nerves shrieked for him to leave, yet Chevard stood there watching him almost casually.

“Call my house, then—at night. This phone’s not listed, here at the plant.”

“All right.” Baron stared at the spokes of the steering wheel. They seemed to spin before his eyes.

Chevard banged the side of the door with his fist, turned sharply, and walked off across the parking area. The sound of his ringing heels burned into Baron’s mind. He started the engine quickly, swung the car out into the immense area, wanting to obliterate everything.

He whipped the car down the road, drew up at the outside gate. The guards carefully inspected his identity card, did not smile, waved him on.

Driving down the tortuous mountain road, with the cliff dropping off beside him, Baron felt utterly lost. He knew now that he was already beyond any explanation. He knew there was no turning back now.

CHAPTER 14

He spent the better part of an hour, after arriving back in Marseilles, prowling the streets north of St. Charles Station. He took the Fiat up one street, down another. He tried one alley after another, seeking the entrance to Hugo Gorssmann’s headquarters. He knew he would recognize it, but the more alleys he attempted, the less confident he became. He found nothing. He discovered many doorways, and tried them all. None was the one he sought. He watched every car carefully, searching for the small gray Opel.

Hugo Gorssmann was well hidden.

Baron drove back toward the Rue Paradis. His head ached dully and his tooth throbbed in time with the headache. He felt dirty inside and out. He knew he was doing what was right, yet he had to keep reassuring himself.

And already he was beginning to dislike Paul Chevard. He could not prevent it, and did not want to. It was better that he hate the man. When all was done, complete, there would be no turning back of time. They could never again be friends. He knew he would never again be able to enter the air industry. He wondered who he would be, where he would be.

He wondered truly if he would be anybody or anywhere.

Above all now he wanted to contact Gorssmann, get word of Bette. He drew the car in to the curb and parked, looked up at the windows of his room at 77 Rue Paradis. That was a hot one, all right. Paradise. He had used to joke with Elene about that, and now Elene was gone and he hoped she had found some sort of paradise wherever it was you went, but he doubted it, believing only in the endlessness, the darkness, the complete emptiness and unconsciousness of sleep.

He felt tired, groggy from last night, fogged with the memory of what he had seen this morning. That place out there near Cassis would have been very interesting if it hadn’t been for his problem. He felt that he could have remained out there for days, just looking, watching. But now, sitting in the car, he had consciously to summon energy to climb out and slam the door.

He stood a moment on the sidewalk, staring up at the gray-brick face of the building he lived in. Two feet of lawn, almost the only lawn on the street along here.

He stepped over the gray grass, his foot crunching on a rusty sardine can, and went through the door.

Inside his room, he closed the door, and saw the door to the closet on the other side of the bed move. He said nothing, waiting. The room smelled musty, as it always did at midday. The bed was still unmade. He stood there staring across the room, seeing himself in the mirror. He looked haggard, worn out. His eyes were slightly wild.

“Oh—thank God, it’s you.”

Lili stepped from the closet, cast him a quick, sly smile that vanished instantly.

Looking at her, he was suddenly tremendously glad to see her. Again that good feeling seeped into him, up through him, and he knew he wanted her. He wanted her badly and with a calm, stolid abruptness that was pure need. He did not know at first whether it was Lili, or merely surcease. He did not care. Just seeing her standing over there across the bed from him washed the fatigue from his system. She was sharp and clear and waiting.

“You’ve come back,” she said. She swallowed, still not moving. He wondered if she sensed the way he felt. He wondered if he recalled rightly what she had said the night before about not having a man, with the intimation that she wanted one. He knew she was not a street girl, not a casual lover, perhaps not even an uncasual lover. Thinking he might not be able to have her when he wanted her like this excited him, and he stepped toward the bed, then stood still, watching her as before.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve come back. How long have you been here?”

“Not long.” She stepped to the foot of the bed, gripped the bedrail with one hand. She looked very good to him. There was something reedy about her, yet full and lushly desirable. She was wearing the pale tan coat again today and now she peeled it from one arm, flipped it across her back, let it slip from her other arm onto the bed. She shook her thick head of black hair, tipping her head back, watching him from beneath slightly lowered lids, with the eyes sly and conspiratorial, and maybe patient. She wet her lips lightly with the tip of her tongue, not smiling, quite somber, contained, patient.

“I’m on an errand,” she said. “Paint.” She nodded toward the dresser, and he saw a small parcel.

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Her fingers tightened around the bedrail and she did not move. She wore a pink dress of flannel, with a high curling collar, the throat slit open to the waist. A silver chain with a padlock on it swung from her smoothly rounded waist. The padlock swung like a pendulum, tapping lightly against the full round thrust of her right thigh. Each time it struck soundlessly against her thigh, Baron saw the tiny indentation, almost a shadow, and it drove down into him angry and hot.

She moved from the foot of the bed, walked slowly around, and stood looking at herself in the mirror.

He could not, did not want to, take his eyes from her tightly sheathed hips. The immaculately smooth surface of the pink flannel cloth was drawn just tightly enough around the swell and curve of her hips; it clung to her thighs, stopped at the first outward curve of rounded calf tightly snug in sheer black silk. She wore high-heeled pumps, the heels like two thinly tapered pink promises.

The flannel across her hips was shadowed slightly where the twin curves were separated and he could see the fine movement to her body as she waited.

“I see you,” she said.

He glanced into the mirror, met her gaze.

“I’ve been watching you watch me,” she said.

“I want to watch you.”

“Yes.”

Wind blew the curtain on the window, came across the room, dallied a moment with the smooth hem of her skirt, laying it in a molten caress against her leg, and for that moment her leg was completely outlined to him. He saw where her stocking ended, where the stocking was gartered high on the thigh, and the garter was the only obstruction to the flawless fit of pink flannel.

“You want me,” she said.

He could not answer. It was in his throat, the wild need. He felt as if he were rooted to the floor. Then he went over to her in one step, whirled her around tight in his arms.

“I’ve had no man,” she said. “I have grown up with Hugo Gorssmann. I was fourteen when I last saw my father.” She held tightly to him and he wanted to crush her completely. It was all he could do to restrain himself from tearing her dress off her body as she bent to him, arching her back, the warm depth of her thighs cleaving to him, the faintly harsh movement of her body a taunt. Her words rushed at him between parted lips, her breath hot and fierce against his face, her eyes wide and unafraid.

“You knew you were coming here, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You planned it. You planned this, didn’t you?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on his. “Yes. Yes, all of it. Yes.”

They spoke against each other’s breath and her breath was sweet to him, and he held her against him, rocking her against him, and she rocked with him, whispering to him, moaning low. And in the back of his mind still was the thought that he could not trust her, that she was doing this for a reason, setting him up like tenpins, to be socked into a crock. He tried to rid himself of the doubt, to stop caring. You fool, he thought. You goddamned fool, forget it!

“You still don’t believe me,” she said.

It no longer mattered whether he believed her or not. He lifted her, carried her to the bed, moving with mountainous care, feeling like cement, grooved, set, established. He sat on the bed and stripped her, while she stood there in front of him, doing it slowly, and she watched his eyes all the while, not moving to help him, only waiting, and they came onto the bed together, savagely, intent and fused….

She had not lied. She was ready. She had waited…. And with the moment of spending, with her body a still dying crescendo of laughter and tears, spent yet still spending, Baron heard the knock on the door.

They froze.

For one instant their eyes locked.

His guts seemed to turn to water. In one movement then they were off the bed. Again the knock came. “Baron!”

It was Gorssmann.

She stood like a rock. She could not move, not speak, not anything. He knew it. He shoved her into the closet, retrieved her clothes. He threw them in after her, seeing only her half-closed eyes sharp with memory as he closed the door. He had forgotten her coat. He took that over, stuffed it in.

“I’m coming,” he said, saying it slowly.

All Gorssmann had to do was try the door. It would flip open like an eyelid.