77 Rue Paradis (8 page)

CHAPTER 9

Follet moved slightly on his chair and cleared his throat.

“If we helped you now,” he said, “if we stepped in and prevented this, we would stand to lose everything, monsieur. We would lose Gorssmann, surely. We would lose the one man who may mean more to Europe’s destiny than even Hitler thought he might mean. This is the very man you would like to meet, monsieur. It is the man who will buy from Gorssmann. We cannot afford this.”

Baron wanted to say something. He still could not speak.

“This has happened quickly, I admit,” Follet said. “But we are used to this. One acts when one can, not before—usually after, when it is too late.” He stopped speaking abruptly, watching Baron closely now.

“You mean you want me to continue with Gorssmann? Just as though I never came to you?”

“It’s up to you,” Follet said. But Baron saw the obvious relief in the man’s eyes. “Entirely up to you. You will leave here, just as you came in. Free and not free. We will never bother you, perhaps. Remember this, monsieur. From the time you leave this building, we do not even know you exist beyond what anyone knows from the newspapers. We know of no Herbert Longwell. We know nothing!”

“I see.”

“I hope so. And this remember: We cannot help you in any way. No matter what happens to you, it is not our concern, unless you tread on us—as anybody might. It is completely up to you. We will be forced to treat you the same as we would treat Gorssmann, if it comes to that. You must understand this. From the moment you leave here, we don’t know you, until you cross our path. It must be this way. If at any time you wish to speak with me, it will be arranged. We will be around, perhaps. You’ll never know. But you will be treated as though we were not around. You, monsieur, as of right now, are an enemy agent—a spy in the pay of an international spy ring.” Follet clawed in the breast pocket of his suit, tossed the bundle of franc notes on the table. “You know what happens to spies?”

Baron frowned.

“It can easily happen to you, monsieur. Like that!” Follet snapped his fingers loudly. He stood up, withdrew his smashed felt hat from his pocket, began straightening it. “If you do ever wish to reach me, come to the Café Demoiselle on the Prado, near the Place Castellane. Speak to the madame, ask for Room Two. You will remember?”

Baron’s mind was in a whirl. He nodded. He experienced the sudden desire to run, to run someplace, anyplace at all, and hide.

“You can do nothing?” Baron said. “Nothing at all?”

Follet took the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it on the floor, stepped on it. He smiled at Baron. He rapped Baron lightly on the shoulder. “C’est la vie, eh?”

Baron wished he did not feel as ill as he did.

“Come,” Follet said. “I wish to show you something. We will take a small ride together, then I will leave you.”

Baron walked dazedly toward the door. Follet opened it and they went into the office of the commissaire. The commissaire was not there. They went on through, across the waiting room. The agent’s hat still hung on the doorknob. Baron walked with one hand in his pocket, his fingers clenched around the bundle of franc notes.

“We will use the back way,” Follet said.

They walked through the silent, dark building, out into a still darker alley. A car was waiting. They climbed into the rear seat and a driver in plain clothes started the engine.

“It won’t take long, monsieur,” Follet said.

Baron sat silently in the midst of despair.

* * * *

They entered a small driveway behind a gate, shielded by tall shrubbery. After the car stopped, Follet guided Baron through a shadowed doorway and into a broad hall lit with dim bulbs along its ceiling.

“Through this door, please,” Follet said.

Baron did not even wonder what was coming. As they went down a flight of stairs and into a fairly large room, cement-walled, cool, and approached a desk, he could think only of the many things Follet had told him. And his mind mused on the impolite edge of fear. He heard Follet speaking with a man at the desk, but he paid them no attention. Follet again took his arm, guided him down the length of the room. They stopped by a table covered by a sheet. Baron’s heart rocked abruptly and the fear mushroomed.

The man who talked with Follet was a squat, middle-aged fellow with a sober red face. He wore a gray apron. He leaned forward and whipped the sheet back off the table, and Baron looked down into the half-closed, horror-shot eyes of Elene. Her body was stretched out on the table beneath the turned-down sheet. She still wore the same clothes he had last seen her in and her arms were tight against her sides.

“Well?” Follet said, watching Baron. “Is this the girl?”

Baron could not tear his gaze away. It was bad. It was very bad. Elene’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. Her head lolled backward, mouth gaping, partially off the table’s edge. Whoever had done this job had taken three separate strokes with a sharp instrument. On one of the cuts, the killer had sawed with the blade. There was no sign of blood. The clothes were damp.

The sudden sensation of death came into Baron.

“She was found on the edge of the canal, not an hour ago,” Follet said. “Her name is Elene Cordon. Is she the same?”

“Yes,” Baron said. “She is the same.”

Baron hesitated, then reached out quickly. He lightly pulled back the front of Elene’s blouse, probed between the cold breasts. He withdrew the five-hundred-franc note, stood there staring at it in his hand. It was wet and one side of it was stained darkly with her blood.

Baron turned away, still holding the note.

“You begin to see?” Follet asked.

“Yes,” Baron said. “I begin to see.”

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Baron looked at Follet, suddenly now overwhelmed with the knowledge that Elene was dead, that he would not be able to tell her of the many things he had wished to. She had been a very fine woman and they had murdered her, cut her off when she might have pulled herself up to a plane worthy of herself.

“Yes,” Baron told Follet. “I’m going to do whatever I can—whatever I possibly can.”

Follet said nothing. He stood there looking very gaunt and gray and he probed for his tobacco, rolled himself a cigarette. He took several large drags, settled his battered hat on his head. His face was quite expressionless.

“You will find your own way out, then,” Follet said. His eyes brightened momentarily. “Au revoir, monsieur.”

Baron watched Follet’s rigid back vanish across the room and through the door. Turning, Baron went over to the table. The other man waited beside the table, but stared at the floor and did not speak. Baron placed the five-hundred-franc note beside the body on the table. He did not look at her now. He turned away and left the building.

Once again on the street, he began walking toward the Rue Paradis. There was a small clean wind. He was tired. The night was kind.

CHAPTER 10

Baron slowly climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. He went inside and reached for the cord on the lamp.

“Do not turn the light on, thanks.”

“Gorssmann!”

“Yes, Baron, it is I.”

Baron was very glad the lights weren’t on. Gorssmann would surely have noticed how he looked, and he did not look well. He’d had no idea that Gorssmann would be waiting here for him and it was a considerable shock. He knew he should have been prepared for this. Hereafter he would be ready for anything.

The pale light from the street lights suffused the room, blending with the shadows, and Baron made out the enormous hulk of Gorssmann, seated on the bed. His round face shone in the darkness, lighter against the darkness of the wall.

“You have been out?” Gorssmann said.

Baron said nothing, listening to the hissing of escaping air as Gorssmann spoke.

“Well?”

“What does it look like?”

“I see.”

“I don’t like being followed, either,” Baron said.

“Yes. He was clumsy, wasn’t he? I’m afraid we can’t use that fellow any more. He was new, I was trying him out. He failed miserably.”

“I’m tired. What is it you want?”

“Frankly, you worried me. Where have you been?”

“Walking. I was walking and thinking.”

“Excellent. Very good.”

“There’s no reason for you to check up on me,” Baron said. “You ought to know I’ll go through with this.”

“Ah, but I do know. Certainly, Baron. Forgive me my curiosity. I like to take particular care of—well, of persons in your position.” Gorssmann coughed lightly, then chuckled. “Also, I have decided to tell you your job, Baron. There’s no point in putting it off any longer. Then, while you get yourself in order, you can be planning the attack.” Gorssmann paused, then spoke just as Baron was about to speak. “We let you plan your own method of attack, you see?”

“Swell of you.”

“Watch the humor, Baron. Sarcastic humor is good in its place. Just now we must be serious.”

Baron said nothing. He went over and let himself down into a chair by the windows fronting the Rue Paradis. He could hear somebody walking slowly up the street. It was growing late now, and with the night, the streets seemed to become lonely and reverberant. The footfalls echoed almost nostalgically. Baron listened, waiting, and was conscious that he ached more and more as time went on. His joints were stiffening and he knew tomorrow would bring plenty of pain. Joseph had done a thorough job. For a time he had forgotten his tooth, and without thinking, he touched his tongue to the cavity now. Pain lanced his jaw, brought sweat out on his face.

“By now you must know you are to take the plans for the cosmic breather from the plant near Cassis.” Gorssmann sighed. “This, Baron, is your job. Simple? Certainly. Chevard will know where these plans are kept. They will not be at his home here in Marseilles. They will be at the plant, probably under guard, I imagine in his office. We know this much. There is one set of plans. The breather has not yet been built. They have been studying the plans. Now, further. We have reason to believe that a miniature model of the breather has been built.” Gorssmann hesitated, breathing rapidly, and Baron saw him withdraw his handkerchief from a side pocket and mop his face. “This model, wherever it is, must be destroyed. You see, there were other models, other plans. But they have all been destroyed. Only one set, only one model. That was their security measure. It was also their mistake. The mistake of underestimation.”

Baron waited, trying to keep the air from the cavity in his tooth. It ached horribly now.

“You follow me?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, that’s it. You commence by going to Chevard. He and his family are in Marseilles. It should be easy.” Gorssmann stood, coming off the bed in a powerful lunge. For a moment he stood there, breathing rapidly, the breath hissing like air escaping from a punctured balloon.

“What about Elene?” Baron said. “Are you going to continue to hold her?”

Gorssmann moved silently toward the door of the room, turned, and stared through the darkness at Baron. Finally he said, “We will see.”

You son-of-a-bitch, Baron thought. You vile son of a killing murderous son-of-a-bitch.

“Arnold!” Gorssmann called.

Arnold stepped in through the door from the hallway.

“Good-by, Baron,” Gorssmann said. “I’ll keep in touch with you. Don’t rush things, but also, don’t waste time.” Gorssmann turned toward the door, then back to Baron again. “By the way, Baron. Your daughter, Bette, has arrived in France.”

Baron came out of his chair. He started to speak, shaken with sudden anxiousness. Gorssmann stood for a moment by the doorway, then turned and left the room. Baron listened to Arnold and Gorssmann descend the stairs. Then he heard the street door open and close.

Bette was in France. He wondered if he could believe Gorssmann. If she were in France, very likely she was in Marseilles. He began to pace the room, but stopped abruptly. He had to stop acting the way he did. He went over and lit the lamp, the scarlet glow burning in the shadows, and with his hand still on the cord he remembered Elene’s face there on the table in the morgue. He wanted to cry out. Because there was so little he could do. There was nothing to bring against the conflict that surrounded him; nothing but himself. There was no way to fight back. Every move he made was watched probably by both the secret police and Hugo Gorssmann. Either party could annihilate him. His life was an open book to all concerned; they knew everything of his personal life. He no longer had a personal life. His room might even be wired; how could he tell?

This thought stirred him into action. He canvassed the room, turned it inside out, and found nothing. He flung himself on the bed and he was truly sick inside.

Elene dead, because of him. And Bette in their hands. Follet had been right, of course. When all of this was done, Gorssmann would see to it that no traces were left. He would be the single element that must be destroyed because he would not alone be useless, he would be dangerous.

Sitting up on the bed, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He drew his undershirt over his head and frowned down at his arms and chest. He was covered with bruises, cuts, freshly forming scabs. He was a mess. He rose, stripped, found his bathrobe, took a towel, and padded down the hall to the shower. It was some shower. It was more like a piece of very old pipe, possibly early Roman, with a leak in it. He stood beneath the trickle, soaped himself, rinsed off, dried with the towel, and returned to his room.

He hurled the towel at the dresser mirror, flung himself on the bed. Almost immediately there came a timid knock on his door. He rose carefully, his body smarting from the soap and water, and went to the door and opened it.

The girl Lili gave him a single quick, sly look, then hurried past him into the room.

“Quickly,” she said. “Close the door, monsieur!”

He did so, turned and frowned at her.

“Don’t look at me that way!” she said. “Please!”

He could not help grinning. This irritated the toothache, but he grinned on. She was such a damned nice-looking piece, this sly one. And he would never be able to remove from his mind the memory of what she had done to him in greeting that afternoon.

“I should never have come,” she said. Her voice was very emphatic, very serious. She was altogether serious now, and extremely nervous. She snapped two more quick glances at him, then walked swiftly to the window. She stood beside the window, out of range of the street, and pulled down the shade. Then she looked at him again, and this time she waited.

She wore a light tan coat, flaring open across a tight, dark green dress that revealed something of the body beneath it. From what Baron could see, the body was excellent, and promising. She carried a black beaded purse in her left hand. Her right hand was jammed into one deep pocket of the coat. Her hair was certainly the blackest Baron had ever seen, and in the scarlet glow from the lamp it was beautiful, as were her dark blue eyes. As he watched her, she touched her teeth to her lower lip, and for that single instant Baron thought she might cry. She did not cry, but obviously she came close to it.

“Lili what?” he said.

“Does it matter?”

“I think so.”

“Laurent. Lili Laurent.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“What? Who?”

“He sent you, is that it, Lili?”

“I might have known you would be like this.”

“You the modern Mata Hari?”

She said nothing. She just looked at him. It was not a nice look, and Baron wished he did not feel as he did. How could he trust this one? What did she want with him?

“Or did you come to collect?”

“Collect?”

“On your promise, your little agreement, Lili.” He stepped toward her. She did not move. She did not stop looking at him, her head tipped up, the sly light in her eyes showing through all the seriousness even though she might not have meant it to be that way. As he came up to her, he smelled the perfume again, as elusive as ever, and as sweetly good. “You know what I mean, Lili.”

She nodded. “Oui, I know.” She swallowed, searching his eyes. “If that is what you want….” she said softly; then she said, “I am so sorry about your face. Did Joseph do damage?”

“How do you mean? He didn’t cripple me. He hurt me, goddamn him, but that’s all right.”

“I am very sorry,” she said.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” He whirled, went over and sat on the bed, held his head in his hands. “Why are you here?”

He heard her heels on the floor. They reminded him of Elene. He glanced quickly at her, to make sure, unable to control the movement, then put his head in his hands again, staring at the floor. She came close to him and he could see the tips of her black shoes on the floor, the smooth curve of her ankles and calves. He could hear her breathing.

“I wanted you to know,” she said. “That was the only way I could make you notice. By doing that. I am sorry, I—”

“Don’t be sorry. My God, there’s nothing to be sorry about. I can think of nothing more— I can think of nothing.”

She laughed shortly, but when he looked up at her her face was once again serious.

“Anyway,” she said, “that’s why I did that, to your palm, that way. I—I had to let you know.”

“What? Let me know what?”

“That I am of them, but not with them, Monsieur Baron.”

He stared at her and for the first time in all of this he began to sense warmth. He leaped at it, dragging at it with both hands, with all of him, giving himself to it. He was starved for any kind of reasonableness whatsoever. Was she a reasonable person? My God, how could he be sure? He rose, walked all the way around her, came back to the bed and sat down again. It could not be true. There was a catch to it. There had to be.

“Did it trouble you, what I did?”

“Yes. It might have troubled me still more, but I was in pretty bad shape.”

She said nothing and he looked up at her again.

“Are you telling the truth?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I had to let you know, you see? Back there, I could say nothing. I could think of no other way to startle you into thinking of me, so I took the quickest one that came to mind, the—”

“Never mind,” he said. “Quit trying to explain. I understand.”

“I’m glad.”

She had not moved. She was so damned serious. He didn’t know what to make of her, except that he liked her immensely. He couldn’t help liking everything he had seen of her.

“I followed Gorssmann, the pig,” she said. “And Arnold. And when they went out, I came in, you see? I had to find a back way, through the alley. I came upstairs the back way, and here to your room. But you were in the shower. I—”

“How did you know I was in the shower?”

She blushed slightly. “I peeked,” she said. “Truly, that shower is not of much worth. Is it?”

“This is the damnedest,” he said. “The very damnedest.”

“Yes,” she said. “You are right.”