77 Rue Paradis (7 page)

Baron turned all the way around, performing a kind of pirouette, then leaned across the desk. The perspiration had really started again. He could not seem to reach the commissaire and he was beginning to understand that there is nothing so disconcerting as not being able to reach somebody in time of real need. He had to convince the commissaire, but just looking at the man, he knew it was futile. The commissaire had made up his mind about something.

“You expect me to believe this tale?” the commissaire said.

“You’ve got to believe it.”

“Henri,” the commissaire said. He nodded toward a door on the other side of the office. Henri nodded back and Baron caught the look of pleasure in the man’s eyes.

“We will have to detain you,” the commissaire said.

“Oh, no,” Baron said. “No, you don’t!”

“Please,” Henri said, nudging Baron with the barrel of his revolver toward the door on the other side of the room.

Baron shrugged him away, went around the desk belligerently.

“Arrest at attention,” Henri said, “or I am forced.”

“Go to hell.”

“It is to warn.”

Baron bent over the commissaire, grabbed his arm, held his face close to the man. His voice was even louder than he’d thought of making it. “You’ve got to do something,” he said. “You can’t just sit here. The Republic is in danger, monsieur le commissaire. Don’t be a fool.”

“He calls you the fool,” Henri said. “Release or I am forced.”

The commissaire looked at Baron, and nodded toward Henri. Baron understood what he meant. Henri would, in another moment, obey the impulse.

“How did you find out about Cassis?” the commissaire said.

“I told you,” Baron said.

“Laughing,” Henri said.

“Do so,” the commissaire said to Henri. Henri came over and took Baron’s arm, held the gun just under his elbow, and began to guide him across the room toward the door.

“My apologies, monsieur,” the commissaire said from behind them, and the chair creaked. He heard the commissaire leave the office and the door slammed.

It was the detention room. Henri thrust him aside, closed and locked the door. There had been no need to tell him not to try to escape. There was no way out. There were no windows. Only one door led from the room and it was a solid oak door. He heard Henri on the other side of the door, pacing the office floor.

There were several chairs in the detention room and a single golden oak table about eight feet long. There were two dry inkwells on the table and three broken-nibbed pens. A single sheet of paper was by one inkwell and somebody had doodled on it. There was a steam radiator, stained with rust where it leaked at one end, and the air in the room was very close.

A key scraped in the lock of the door, the door opened partially, and the commissaire leaned around the iamb, looking at Baron. “We cannot at this time allow you the usual,” he said. “You understand this? It demands the utmost. Security is vital. I am sorry, monsieur.”

Baron made for the door. The door closed and the key grated and clicked.

“Truly,” the commissaire said from the other side of door. “Wait a little.” Baron heard him walk away.

Somewhere in the building a telephone began to ring.

Baron tried to tell himself that at least he was safe. It was a conclusion reached very deviously and it did not help at all. It only seemed to make matters worse, and for the space of a moment he lost his head. He went over to the door and banged on it with both fists as the precariousness of his position became clear. Finally he quit that and went over and sat in one of the chairs by the large table. Nobody had answered when he banged on the door.

Gorssmann would never suspect for a moment that he had come to the police. No sane man would have done this. It placed not only himself, but Bette and Elene, in horrible danger. How could he have been such a fool? If Gorssmann somehow got wind of this, it would be all over. He tried to discover the true motive for his coming to the law, but his mind drew a blank. He was here. It had seemed the right thing to do. Now he knew he must somehow get away.

Again he left his chair, with Bette’s name flashing on and off in his mind like a red light. He went to the door and began banging on it again. They could not hold him like this. He had to get away, find somebody who would listen, and act.

He began to see how things really were more and more clearly and he knew he had to get hold of himself. Gorssmann might, at this instant, be trying to reach him. The man who had been following him had probably by now reported his disappearance.

He pounded still harder on the door. He could hear the frantic thunder of his own knocking. It reverberated through the nighttime emptiness of the old building, and above the knocking, like an old woman’s intermittent screams, the telephone rang and rang.

CHAPTER 8

About a half hour passed and Baron felt himself slipping toward a very real despair. There had been no answer to his knocking on the door and the telephone finally stopped ringing. His own mental condition was a trap now. There were pitfalls he had to avoid. It was a battle to stay clear of them. The one thought that tortured him most was the memory of what Gorssmann had said about Bette. He could find no way of forgiving himself for coming to the police. He called himself every name he could think of as he paced the worn board floor of the detention room. Nothing helped.

He did not hear the door open.

“Monsieur?”

He whirled as the commissaire spoke loudly.

“Someone to see you, monsieur,” the commissaire said. He stepped aside in the doorway, brandishing a newly lighted cheroot, and a tall cadaverous man strode past him. The man came on into the detention room and stood looking at Baron across the large expanse of table.

“This is Louis Follet,” the commissaire said.  

For a long moment nobody spoke. The commissaire sighed abruptly, took another frantic puff on his cheroot, turned his back, and closed the door. Baron heard the distinct sound of the key in the lock, the click as the bolt shot into place.

Baron was slightly disconcerted about Follet. He did not know who he was, but he was of that type seen hanging around water-front bars. His clothes were wrinkled, baggy, the gray suit well worn, the stringy tie raveled on one side. He carried a soft felt hat partially crushed in one hand. He was very thin, but large-boned, his cheeks sunken in a gray face that did not smile. The only lively thing about Follet was the probing look in his eyes.

“Yes?” Baron said.

Follet said nothing. He kept watching Baron with those bright-blue eyes that seemed to burn in his head like the blue flame on an alcohol lamp. The eyes did not waver. The eyes simply watched and watched and Baron began to feel the perspiration again.

Follet placed his hat beneath the elbow of his left arm, probed his pockets until he found tobacco and cigarette papers. Standing there, watching, he rolled himself a fat cigarette with long curling shreds of tobacco. The shreds hung from the end of the cigarette as he lit it. From the time he lit the cigarette until it burned out close to his lips, Follet never took it from his mouth.

“I am from the Sûreté Géneralé, Department of Air Intelligence,” Follet said at last. The cigarette jiggled between his lips as he spoke. Otherwise he did not move.

Baron quit looking at the man. He went and slumped into a chair by the table, folded his hands on the table, and looked at them. He listened to Follet breathe and decided the man was consumptive.

“You are now in the hands of the secret police,” Follet said.

“Must we talk in code?”

“You are bitter?”

Baron started to explode, managed to stifle it. He heard Follet’s quiet chuckle, glanced up. Follet’s face hadn’t changed. The chuckle worked its way around the cigarette.

“Would you mind very much telling me everything you told the commissaire? The commissaire is a good man, but prone to excitement, monsieur. It would help if I heard this extravaganza from your own lips.”

Baron said nothing.

“Please, monsieur,” Follet said. “I promise to listen carefully.”

Baron looked at Follet again. He decided to hell with it. He might as well tell him. They would keep him here anyway, and Follet somehow did not seem like the commissaire.

“All right,” Baron said. He went through it all once more. He told Follet as thoroughly as he could, everything. He did not want to have to tell it again. Even thinking about it made him ill. When he finished, he was so worked up he could no longer sit in the chair. Again he began to pace the room. “I came here thinking I could get some help,” Baron finished. “Now I find nobody believes me.”

“Pitiful, isn’t it?” Follet said. He moved over to a chair by the table, stuffed his hat in his jacket pocket, and, folding himself carefully, almost mechanically, he sat down, leaned his head back, and watched Baron. “May I see your passport, monsieur?”

Baron found his passport, flung it across the table. Follet’s hand snatched it up. He glanced quickly through the passport. “You say you are Frank Baron?”

“Yes,” Baron said. “I am Frank Baron. Can’t you read?”

“Monsieur, please,” Follet said. He picked a shred of tobacco from his lip, wiped it on the edge of the table, breathed smoke, and handed Baron his passport. “It is true, the picture there is of you. A good, clear picture, too, I might add. No doubt at all about that. But see for yourself. Your name is Longwell—Herbert Longwell, of Richmond, Virginia.” Follet breathed some more smoke as Baron flipped incredulously through the passport. “Can you blame the commissaire?”

“But—I am Frank Baron!”

“Certainement!”

“Are you ridiculing—”

“But no, monsieur. I know for a fact that you are Frank Baron. I know all about you.” Follet waved his hand across his face, dropped the hand into his lap. The cigarette jiggled between his lips. “You are in trouble, monsieur.’

Something like a cloud of relief spread through Baron. His hand was trembling as he held the passport. In the back of his mind he realized that somehow Gorssmann had substituted this faked identification for his real papers, but more than that, he sensed in Follet’s voice the thing he had been looking for: understanding.

“Well?” Follet said.

Baron looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Follet shrugged, puffed rapidly at his cigarette. There were tiny tinges of red high on his cheeks and his eyes burned brightly. He coughed mildly around the cigarette.

“I am satisfied you are telling the truth,” Follet said. “But truly, monsieur, you are in a terrible position. I have no way of telling you how terrible.” He paused. “I have no right to tell you how terrible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, monsieur. But what is it you want me to do?”

Baron began to feel the slow mounting wonder all over again. Was he never to find a shadow of peace?

“You did right in corning here,” Follet said. “In one way, that is. In another way, it is the worst possible thing you could do. I mean, regarding your daughter, monsieur. I take it she means much to you?”

Baron nodded.

Follet shrugged again, the bony shoulders moving beneath the tent of his suit jacket. “And this—this girl, Elene Cordon? You are concerned about her, too?”

Again Baron nodded, turned away. He got what Follet was trying to say.

“Isn’t there something you can do?”

Follet glanced away. The cigarette had gone out between his lips. He leaned over, spat it out on the floor, stepped on it, proceeded to roll himself another. Baron watched the long dangling shreds of tobacco fry and sizzle as Follet lit the new cigarette. It bobbled precariously between his lips.

“We know of Hugo Gorssmann,” Follet said. “I have even met the man. Over ten years ago, monsieur, I allowed Gorssmann to slip between my fingers.” Follet cursed obscenely. “He is a go-between; a very smooth operator. We would like to have him, monsieur. I would personally like to— But never mind. Gorssmann makes his contacts, arranges certain deals. He is of no country. He sells his merchandise to the highest bidder. Here in Europe, things are different from where you live, monsieur. There is much middle dealing. Small trifles are planned and carried out with magnificent energy and scheming. This is no small trifle. Gorssmann will stand, as he told you, to make enough to retire on it.” Follet paused, smoking. “It is obvious what he wishes you to do.”

“Yes?”

“To steal this thing that is so important. We know of Cassis, the plant, Baron. What Gorssmann says is true.”

Baron began to pace again. Follet seemed to be avoiding the issue.

“You know, of course,” Follet said, “that when you complete the job for Gorssmann, there is but one thing?”

Baron paused, turned, looked at Follet.

“Death, monsieur,” Follet said. “Hugo Gorssmann was lying in his teeth. I don’t wish to alarm you, but your daughter, monsieur—”

“Don’t say it!” The words rushed from Baron’s lips.

Follet shrugged again. He was completely calm, composed. “You must face these things, or not face them—as you choose.”

Baron sat in a chair at the table, rose and paced, then returned to the chair and sat again. All the time he was very conscious of Follet’s eyes following his every move. He knew Follet watched him, trying to discover something. He wondered what it was. One kind of light burned in Follet’s eyes—the light of question.

“We know who Gorssmann is dealing with now, too,” Follet said. “But where the fellow is is something else again. It is a reincarnation of the Nazi movement in Germany, monsieur. The head of this movement is the man we want. There would be no sense in trying to stop Gorssmann.”

The words hung there in the air.

“What are you trying to say?” Baron asked.

Follet shrugged. “Simply this, monsieur. We cannot intervene.”

Baron just sat there. He was stunned. He was unable to comprehend what Follet kept pressing at him.

“You mean you’ll do nothing?”

“Precisely.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Baron felt lost. He tried, in his mind, to find some solid ground to rest on for a moment, but everything seemed to be disintegrating chip by chip. The more he pursued this thing, the worse it became.

“You’re going to hold me here?” Baron asked.

“But no, monsieur. That would be asinine. No. You are the guinea pig, monsieur.”

Baron could not move. He kept on staring at Follet.

The building was very silent. All Baron could hear was the slow, contained breathing of Follet and the occasional whoosh as Follet dispelled smoke into the already stale, ancient air of the detention room.

“The plant at Cassis,” Follet said. “We cannot touch it. It is a separate thing, monsieur. It has its own police, its own government. This is the only way for total security. If some actuality occurs, then we may step in. Until then—” Follet shrugged, puffed at his cigarette.

“But the French government,” Baron said. His voice was loud and the anxiousness was in it very strong now and he recognized the fear, too. “I should think this would be important—vitally important.”

“Believe me, it is. It is the most important thing in the Republic today, monsieur. There is nothing to equal it. If it goes awry, France loses a vital step toward regeneration.” Follet paused, smoking quietly now. He slapped his hand on the table edge several times. Baron expected him to continue. Follet did not continue. He stopped slapping his hand on the table edge, raised his eyes, and looked at Baron. The eyes were quietly steady.

“But I came here because—”

“Because you desired aid, monsieur. Aid that we cannot give you.” Follet’s voice rose slightly now and there was a new note of seriousness here. “We want to help you, monsieur. It would give me great pleasure to act. But we cannot. We are always prepared for something of this kind. Do you know you have been under continual surveillance since you’ve been in France? Because we knew you were after the person who sabotaged your factories during the Korean war. It was becoming obvious to many, monsieur. We wanted you to lead us to this fellow.” Follet shrugged. “Now I discover that Gorssmann is in on it. He has, as he told you, been leading you around by the nose. Monsieur, this is a tired world, a sick world. Europe writhes on a bed of fever, the sickest of all. We all play against each other. We gamble and we wait, we pray and we hope.”

“And what are you trying to say?”

“That you are free. The door is no longer locked.” Follet nodded toward the door of the detention room.

Baron stared at the door.

“Freedom is a peculiar thing,” Follet said. “Isn’t it? You can have it, and at the same time not have it.”

Baron was unable to speak and Follet continued to smoke and wait. It was very obvious and Baron knew he was trapped beyond escape.