77 Rue Paradis (18 page)

CHAPTER 20

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Chevard said.

Baron made the effort to speak. The words caught in his throat and he swallowed with doom ticking in his ears. He waved his hand back at the two secretaries and grinned, then his voice broke through strong and clear.

“Came by a little early.” He looked at Chevard. “But I’m going home, Paul. I feel lousy. After I left you last night I stopped for something to eat. Must have been bad. Awful stomach cramps this morning. They just seem to be hitting me.” He grimaced slightly, and avoided Paul Chevard’s eyes.

“I’m pretty much of a mess myself,” Chevard said. “Hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble last night. I must be in terrible shape, the way that cognac hit me. Ordinarily, I can drink brandy all night long.”

“You’re tired.” Somehow or other, he had to get Chevard away from the office, manage time enough so he could get away from the plant.

“I guess I am tired.” He stepped closer to Baron, and Baron saw the anxiousness in the man’s eyes. “I talked a great deal last night, didn’t I? I told you something, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Forget it. It was nothing. What I mean, you have a wonderful thing in this breather, Paul. It’s an amazingly wonderful discovery. I can see why all the secrecy now, and I admire you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m going on home,” Baron said. He felt the papers in his shirt and he distinctly heard them crackle. He watched Chevard’s face closely. “Why don’t you ride out to the parking area with me? You could bring this jeep back.”

Chevard glanced over at his office, then back at Baron.

“Come on,” Baron said. There was anxiousness in the tone of his voice, he tried to make his voice light. “We can talk. You can spare the time.”

“All right,” Chevard said.

They went on outside and climbed into the jeep and Baron hardly talked at all. He had difficulty in keeping his foot easy on the accelerator.

“You seem troubled,” Chevard said. “I thought we were going to talk, Frank.”

“I’m sicker than I thought.”

“You get on home, then. Listen, why don’t you go to my place? Jeanne will fix you up.”

Oh, good great God, Baron thought. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, the poor fellow.

“I’ll see,” Baron told him. They came into the parking lot and he drove the jeep over to where the Fiat stood. He climbed out immediately, and the papers crackled. He wondered if they would be worth a damn by now. They would be sweat-soaked, but the envelope would protect them.

“Listen, Frank,” Chevard said. “For God’s sake, please never say a word about what I told you last night.”

“You don’t have to ask me that.”

“I know, but I am asking you. One slip and all is lost. And that’s not being dramatic.” His face looked intensely worried.

“Just don’t bother yourself about it,” Baron said. “I’ll see you later. Maybe tonight?”

Chevard nodded quickly. “Yes. Come to the house.”

Baron was already in the Fiat. Chevard kept looking at him, wanting to say it again and again, that he should not say anything about the breather, the story he had told him last night. Baron could read the fear in Chevard’s eyes.

“Tonight,” Baron said. He started the Fiat, drove swiftly out of the parking area. Once outside, he stomped on the accelerator, careened down the curved road toward the gate. In his mind’s eye he saw Chevard climb into the jeep and start back for the office. He slowed the Fiat on the last curve and rolled slowly to the gate.

Already, he knew, the phone might have rung in the gatehouse. The guards might be waiting.

They weren’t. They came out and one of them took his identification card, then handed it back, and the gate opened. He drove through with the card still in his hand. As soon as he was out of sight, he turned the Fiat loose. He saw the card in his hand blow abruptly out the window, and made a wild grab for it. He was already doing eighty-five miles an hour and the car swerved on the road and he straightened it out, perspiring, his hands wet on the steering wheel.

He hit the main road, finally, and opened the car up all the way. The Fiat roared and became a light, foolish, wild thing in his hands, but it stuck to the road. He saw by the speedometer that he was doing 168 kilometers, and went through the familiar mental steps to translate the kilometers into miles: 105. This speed on those particular roads was out of the question. There were no guardrails and the road began to peel down now, around the mountainside. He came off the macadam onto a stretch of gravel where they were doing repair work, and the car hit it lightly, cuttingly.

He began to let up then, going down, and as he approached the first really wild curve on a cliffside, he looked straight out there and saw the sea and Marseilles bright and shining in the morning light. If he held the wheel perfectly straight, it seemed that he could ride right on down there, coast to the Cannebière.

He wanted to take those papers out of his shirt.

He made the curve and it was close. For one long horrible moment he could see from the corner of his eye out the car window straight down and down and down to treetops and the bare side of the mountain with the road curling and a vineyard.

He took it a little more easily then. But not much.

There was nobody in the Café Demoiselle except the woman with the red wig and the horribly interesting background.

She looked at him and shook her head.

“I do not know if I can do this thing, monsieur.”

“That’s not the question,” Baron said. He was very nervous. He knew every minute counted, that Gorssmann was very smart, and that he might have had him followed. If so, he had managed to elude the shadow. He had driven up and down several alleys and had seen no one. He knew, however, that he had to reach Gorssmann’s place, and fast. Bette was in the back of his mind, like a poised dagger, and Lili was there with her, and he was going through hell and now this woman had to act this way. “You’ve got to get word to Follet, see? Tell him to come here and wait here until he hears from me, until I get here, something! Understand? There’s not a single moment to lose, madame.”

“I should not divulge this, perhaps, but this I know: Louis Follet will no longer help you, monsieur.”

Baron just stared at her.

“All right,” he said. He whirled around, all the way around, then faced her again. It would be easy to walk out. He could not do it. He had thought for an instant that he would be able to leave it this way, let them soak in their own stinking broth, let them lose everything. He could not do it.

“Just get word to him. Will you try to do that much?”

“Yes, but as I tell you….”

“Never mind that. Tell him to wait. Tell him things are under way. Tell him that I am going to do everything I can, that— Oh, hell!”

“I understand,” she said. Her face became abruptly kind, serious. “I do understand, believe me.” She stopped speaking French and spoke perfect English. “I have been through these things, Mr. Baron. I know about them. I promise to do all I can to persuade Louis Follet.”

“Thanks.” He reached out and took her hand. She smiled at him.

Then she shrugged. “But Louis is stubborn. He thinks you did a wrong thing.”

Baron nodded. He could think of nothing else to say. He left, running across the sidewalk to the Fiat.

Damn Louis Follet, he thought. Damn them one and all, singly and together Damn them.

* * * *

Hugo Gorssmann stood on the porch of the sprawling stone house on the Corniche. As Baron turned the Fiat’s engine off, he glanced up toward Gorssmann. The big man was nearly dancing up there, rocking back and forth, from one leg to the other. He reminded Baron exactly of an elephant dancing at a circus.

“Success?” Gorssmann called carefully from the porch.

Baron said nothing. He climbed from the car, walked toward the porch. Gorssmann wore a light tan suit and it looked spanking new. He also wore a large-brimmed felt hat of pale gray and it looked fine and rich in the midmorning sunshine. He could hardly wait for Baron to reach him. He had his hands stretched out, waiting, his tongue batting his lips.

“Baron—Baron, did you—”

Baron clipped up the steps, stared at Gorssmann.

“Baron!”

He walked on past the huge man, into the house, on into the sprawling living room. He stood over by the fireplace and waited.

Gorssmann came slowly into the room. He paused by the door, looked bright, then sad. He was afraid to ask anything now. He moved across the room, moving effortlessly, it seemed, like a battleship coming into dock.

Abruptly he turned his gaze to the floor.

“You have failed,” he said quietly. “Something went wrong.” He looked at Baron, then suddenly tears sprang into his eyes. His shoulders shook, his chins shook. He folded his hands in front of him, as if he were praying, took a single step forward, and stood like that, his face thrust slightly forward, tears streaming from his eyes. He wrung his hands, weeping, his lips curling like a baby’s, curling down with his chin puckering. It was a sight.

“Take it easy,” Baron said.

“Oh, Baron!” he cried. “Baron, Baron, Baron!”

“You poor son-of-a-bitch,” Baron said. He was awed. He could say nothing else, do nothing.

Gorssmann trembled and tried to prevent his chin from puckering. With all his might he tried. Nothing seemed to help.

Baron reached inside his shirt, wrenched it around, came up with the papers. The envelope was soggy. He stripped it off like damp, rotten cloth, let it drop to the floor. Then he banged the sheaf of papers and blueprints against his other hand.

“Here they are,” he said.

Gorssmann said, “Oh, Lord!”

“Arnold!” Gorssmann called. “Arnold!”

“You want to know something?” Baron said. He backed away until he was pressed against the fireplace. Gorssmann kept coming, lumbering, wiping his eyes dry, smiling now. “You make me sick.”

“Give them to me,” Gorssmann said. He had changed again.

“Stay away from me,” Baron said. “I’m warning you.”

“What is it?” Arnold said, coming across the room. Joseph followed behind Arnold. They both saw the way Gorssmann was acting and saw the papers in Baron’s hands. Arnold made a happy sound. Joseph just kept coming.

Baron drew the gun and pointed it at Gorssmann. “Stay right there. All of you,” he said.

Gorssmann stopped. He observed the gun closely, then nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Tell us about it, Baron.”

“All of you sit down,” Baron said.

Gorssmann looked at Arnold and Joseph. Joseph stopped walking and looked at Arnold. Arnold made a sign. They all went and sat down, Gorssmann in a chair and the two men on a wooden settee.

Baron relaxed.

“Please,” Gorssmann said. “Put the gun away, Baron. I was excited, nervous. Have you not been this way? A great deal depends on this. Excuse it, please. Now, the gun—I do not like seeing the gun, thanks.”

Baron thought about it, put the gun back in his pocket.

Everybody was very still. There wasn’t a sound. Then coming through it, spearing it, was Gorssmann’s breathing. It was angry breathing, mad breathing, and Baron looked into the man’s eyes and he saw the evil there.

“Where is Bette?” he said.

“Bette?” Gorssmann looked at him. He folded his hands in what lap he had and looked quietly, almost sadly, at Baron.

“When I see Bette, you get these papers,” Baron said.

Gorssmann waved his hand. “Come, come, now,” he said. “Such a bargain, Baron. Is that any way to talk to me? How do I know what papers you have there? They could be any sort of papers. I have to see them.”

“You’ll see them. When I see Bette.”

“I’m afraid we can’t come to terms this way. Bette is, I assure you, Baron, in perfectly excellent hands. Lili’s, to be exact. You certainly can trust Lili, can’t you?”

“I don’t know, frankly.”

Gorssmann did not even smile.

“But I do know this: Until I see Bette in this room, you don’t see these papers.” He stood there by the fireplace. To the right of him, on the settee, Arnold watched him, his face quite sober. Joseph stared straight ahead.