Agent in Place (22 page)

“Normal delivery nowadays.” Dorothea thought of her own postcards to Washington that had taken four weeks. “Better read the letter, Tom.” It was important. Doubly so because its arrival was so late.

Tom stuck the letter into a pocket. “It’s all old news by this time.” And he had a feeling he didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s still urgent enough.” She glanced at his face, saw worry increasing. So she made an effort to lighten her voice, and her manner, and the news. “He had planned to come and see us last week, after some publishers’ meeting in Paris. But Mona was in Acapulco and guess what she did? She developed pneumonia. In Acapulco—I ask you! So Brad had to cancel Europe and fly down to bring her home.”

“Stop circling, Thea. You’re getting into a constant habit of doing just that recently. You can give me the bad news.”

Can I? she wondered. If I circle around it you are the one who evades it. She drew a deep breath. “He must see us, Brad says. And so he is arriving in Nice on March eighth, straight from New York.”

“But that’s next week-end.”

“Yes. Before he goes on to Paris. He wants to talk with you.”

“So we are getting top priority.” He didn’t like that idea either. “What’s his problem? Is it the book? Or—” he forced himself to say it—“about Chuck?”

“About Chuck.” She reached over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was late, darling. But I met—”

He silenced her with a kiss on her lips. “I’m sorry I was so damned sharp-set. It’s just that—” He hesitated, fell silent.

“You are worrying far too much these days,” she told him gently. “I was barely thirty minutes late. And you can blame twenty of those on Tony. We bumped into each other just outside the market.”

“Tony? Tony Lawton’s in town?”

“Come on, darling. Let’s get this basket of food into the kitchen, or the Brie will be melting over the lamb chops.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“On holiday. Sailing. The boat needed emergency repairs, so it’s stuck in Menton for today. I invited him to come back here with me for lunch, but he had some ’phone calls to make. So I asked him to come up this evening and have a drink.” She was already heading for the back door, carrying the smaller packages. Tom gathered papers and basket, and followed her into the kitchen.

“When?” His voice was sharp.

“Oh, around five.”

“But Chuck will be—”

“Chuck will be late.” He had a habit of lateness whenever something unpleasant was on the horizon, and this meeting with Tom wasn’t going to be easy for either of them. “And before you meet him, Tony wants to have a word with you. Sort of background information, I think. Necessary, Tony said. Otherwise, you’d—”

“I don’t need advice on how to handle my own brother.”

“Oh, Tom! Tony’s only trying to—”

“What the hell does he think he’s doing, sticking his nose into—”

“Read Brad’s letter.” Abruptly, she turned away and began unpacking the basket: cheeses and meat into the refrigerator; fruit and vegetables to be washed and dried. Tom turned on his heel, walked into the pantry, but the letter was now in his hand. She found she was waiting, tense and nervous, for his footsteps to stop at the bar, and chided herself for even listening. But there was no sound of a bottle set down on the tiled counter, or of ice dropped into a glass. He must be reading, not pouring another drink. Not yet, at least. She faced the window, tears in her eyes as she stared out blindly at five little orange-trees trying to screen the torn-up land farther up the hillside.

Then Tom was beside her, one hand slipping around her waist, the other holding Brad’s letter. “He’s so damned diplomatic. As far as I can make out, he had something important to tell Chuck at that lunch. And Chuck didn’t like it.” He frowned at a closely-written page, trying to read between the lines. “I wish he had been more explicit. I suppose he couldn’t be—not old Brad, at least.”

“He was giving Chuck some off-the-record information. So he said.”

Tom liked the look of the whole matter less and less. “Brad wouldn’t entrust it to a letter,” he agreed, “or to a ’phone call.” His frown deepened and he looked once more at the paragraph dealing with Chuck. Brad’s script was as discreet as Brad himself.

...And so I tried some frank talk with your brother. He didn’t believe me, not then. But I think I’ve jolted him enough to start him thinking about the net result of his actions last November. Some of it can be told now, off the record. (I had to take this chance with Chuck; and he will be the last person to want it publicised. It goes far beyond personal matters.) We parted coldly, yet I still have hopes that my news will have some effect on him. He has some extra worries, too—new developments which must trouble him: Katie Collier has jumped bail, leaving her family to forfeit a hundred thousand dollars; and Martin Holzheimer has stumbled on a story that seemingly convinced him to get in touch with the police. So my guess would be that Chuck is a deeply worried young man, and more than a little scared by the way things are turning out, although—so far—he is persuading himself that he can cope. I gave him your address and telephone number, by the way; and I shouldn’t be surprised if you have a letter from him, as the first sign that my words had some effect. I hope I didn’t overstep our friendship, Tom, in trying to handle this tricky situation. But I knew the facts, and I was on the scene. That’s my excuse, anyway.

Tom slipped the letter back into his pocket, and loosened his hold on her waist. “I’d better cable Brad at once—let him know we did get the letter. He’s probably been worrying for the past week why he had no answer from us.” Tom thought over that, and impatience returned. “Why the devil didn’t he call and ask if his letter had reached us? That wouldn’t have broken security.”

“And risk having his ears pinned back for interfering?” More nervous than she let herself appear, she glanced at Tom. “I’m just following your advice, my love. I’ve stopped circling.”

“Does Brad think I’m so damned touchy as all that? And you know me better than to even think I’d—” He checked his rising temper. “I’m sorry, Thea. Sorry.” He took her in his arms, felt her stiff spine begin to relax. “I know, I know. I’ve had my moods recently. They’re over. All over. Believe me. I can’t afford them now. I’ve got more to worry about than myself.” He kissed her, hugged her close, kissed her again. Now her body felt soft and warm, supple against his.

She said, “I’ve been difficult too. I—”

He silenced her with another kiss before he let her go. “I’d better start sending that cable. Or perhaps I’ll risk a telephone call.”

“It’s seven in the morning in New York.”

“All the better. I’ll get him before he leaves for the office.” Tom halted half-way across the kitchen. “Who is Katie Collier?”

“Oh, that’s the girl who nearly got blown up with her friends when their bomb-factory exploded.”

December headlines, he remembered then. “But what has that got to do with Chuck?”

Dorothea could only shake her head.

“And what’s this flap about Holzheimer? There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be in touch with the police—he’s a reporter. And a good one.”

Dorothea was less generous. The man who started all our troubles, she thought. She said, “Couldn’t he at least have told you where he got that copy of the memorandum? After all, you’re fourth estate, too.”

“I didn’t ask him. Because I knew. Because I didn’t want to hear.” He began walking to the pantry door, stopped there, said, “He got the memorandum from Chuck.”

At last, she thought, at last he has actually said it out loud. She heard his footsteps go briskly past the bar towards the telephone. Relief surged over her. His mood had indeed changed. Permanently? Certainly for this afternoon, making Tony welcome—like old times. And thank God for that.

She began pulling leaves of lettuce into small pieces for a
Salade Niçoise
. Radishes to be sliced. Chop up some of that red thing that looked like a blood-soaked cabbage. (She never ate it, was that why she could never remember its name?) Anchovies. Small black olives. Pieces of tuna. Croutons, garlic flavoured. Hard-boiled eggs—“Damn and blast,” she said aloud. She had totally forgotten them this morning. Okay, okay. Almost
Salade Niçoise
but not quite. Blame it on a telephone call from Chuck.

But at least he had telephoned. Give him credit for that first gesture. He had sounded normal enough. Perhaps Brad had exaggerated the trouble around him. And yet, if the situation wasn’t as bad as Brad had seen it, why had Tony changed his own plans so suddenly when she mentioned Chuck’s call from Nice? Yes, that was when Tony had dropped all interest in the busy street outside the market, even in the pretty girl (well worth admiring, conceded Dorothea) who was passing by with her long wide skirt swinging over dark red boots, and had shifted his entire attention to Dorothea.

“Chuck?” Tony had asked. “In Nice?”

“He must be in Menton right now. Rick Nealey met him at the airport.”

Tony whistled softly; an eyebrow went up.

“I agree. A little unexpected, isn’t it?”

“Frankly, I’d have bet on a letter. That’s always easier than direct confrontation. Is he staying long?”

“I shouldn’t think so. He’s at Shandon Villa, and there won’t be much room for him when it starts filling up next week.”

“Why stay at Shandon at all?”

“Oh—some business, he said. But he does want to see Tom. At least he invited himself for a drink this evening.”

“Shandon... I’d have thought Tom would have advised him against that.”

“But why?”

He stared at her for a moment, openly puzzled. “Let’s walk a little—to your car? You lead the way and I’ll carry this.” He took the basket over one arm and began steering her through the mid-day crowd. “Now tell me what Brad had to say last week-end—didn’t Tom believe him?”

“Brad never got here. Mona fell ill. He hopes to see us next week-end.”

Tony’s lips tightened. He walked in silence for several paces. “When do you expect Chuck for that drink?”

“At six.”

“I’d like to have a word with Tom before then.”

“Come up and have lunch.”

“Wish I could, but I’ve some heavy telephoning to do.” He plunged into a quick explanation about the boat, engine failure, two of his sailing chums now working on it down at the harbour and waiting for his return with some supplies.

“You have a busy day ahead of you. Come and have lunch tomorrow. Bring your friends too.”

“How about five this evening?” Tony asked. “All right with you?”

“Can you manage it without too much trouble?”

“I’ll make sure I manage it.”

“And stay to dinner?”

“Better not. I’ll disappear before Chuck arrives. Strangers, keep out. Isn’t that what Tom would say? How is he, how’s the book, how are
you
?”

“Worried,” she said frankly. “Your news for Tom—unpleasant, isn’t it?”

“But necessary. Believe me. Someone has got to give him the details, provide some argument-power when he is dealing with Chuck.” He had noted the disbelief in her eyes. “Tom,” he said gently, “is accustomed to dealing with facts. He would want to know the situation. Wouldn’t he?”

“Once—yes.” Her voice was unsteady. “But now—”

“Once and always,” Tony insisted. “He can take it.”

And then Tony made one of his conversational leaps into the charm of southern French towns, red-tiled roofs rippling, light walls and brightly-painted shutters, flowers and palm-trees popping up all over, nineteenth-century hodge-podging with the twentieth, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could have tourist money without the tourists? But why this good bourgeois street, along which they had walked, was named in honour of the naughty president Félix Faure, he would never understand.

By the time they reached the car Dorothea had even begun to smile again. He stowed away the basket, glanced over at the heap of newspapers and magazines lying beside the driver’s seat as he opened the car door for her. He misses nothing, she had thought, not even the way I looked when I spoke about Tom.

Then, as she was about to enter the car, she turned to give him a quick light hug and a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Not at all. Delighted to carry baskets for pretty girls, any day.”

“I wish I had dark red boots too.”

That had startled him. Briefly. “You are a proper caution, you are. See you at five, love.”

“Some heavy telephoning,” Tony had said—a truthful excuse—as he backed away from Dorothea’s lunch invitation... But now, first of all, he had some heavy thinking to do. And quickly.

He watched her grey Fiat safely on its way, and then began walking back to the market district. Slow steps, racing thoughts. Two problems now: Jean Parracini’s safety—the damned fool must be restrained somehow; Chuck Kelso at Shandon Villa. Why couldn’t that self-assured idiot have stayed with his brother? Here on business, was he? What kind of business? Chuck was a young man who surrounded himself with question-marks, Tony thought as he found a small café where he could have a ham-and-crusted-roll sandwich—a difficult feat in a country devoted to
table d’hôte
menus.

Twenty minutes later he was out in the streets again, plans made, searching for a safe telephone. (The café’s ’phone had been the free-to-all-ears type.) Streets were almost empty, shops closed, restaurants crowded, in deference to the mid-day ritual of eating. The main post office, large and capacious, usually packed but possibly half-empty at this time of day, was his best bet. Its telephone booths, nicely tucked into one corner of its ground floor, had doors to ensure reasonable privacy. And he had a sufficient supply of the mandatory
jetons
in his pocket—in France, where coins for public telephones were distrusted, he always made sure of that.

He put in his first call—to Bill and Nicole, up in their hill house in the Garavan district. (Thank God, he thought, that Jean Parracini’s hiding place, on the other side of town from Cap Martin, was so far from Shandon Villa.)

“Keep a better eye on Jean,” he began, wasting no time.

“But he’s safely back. He’s eating dinner now,” Bill said.