Agent in Place (27 page)

“I know, I know. I agree completely. I’d probably have called him worse.”

“Not you. You wouldn’t have given him a hook on to which he could latch his suspicions. Sure, he now probably thinks I know too much. So let’s see what he will try with that.”

“Stop goading him, Tom.”

“How else do you trap him into a false move?”

“Don’t you try it.”

“That’s right,” Tom said, “leave it to the professionals. And what use have they been so far?”

Tony’s fatigue suddenly caught up with him. His voice sharpened. “Ask that question of your own people. Who has been building up public opinion against your professionals? Nothing but denunciations, imputations, revelations, recriminations—how the hell do they manage to work at all?” He turned away. “I have to get back into town. I’d better call a taxi.” He headed for the living-room. At the French windows, he paused. “I’m sorry, Tom. Forget what I said.”

Tom didn’t answer, didn’t even look round. He stood staring out at the lights circling the bay, hearing nothing, seeing nothing.

* * *

Tony found the telephone easily enough. It stood on the same old, rickety, eighteenth-century table he remembered from his week spent as a guest here. Solange had put him to work—she believed in keeping her visitors busy. These wall panels, on the other side of the room, testified to that. He had painted them and Michel had added the finishing touch by smearing them with a dirty rag. Antiquing, Solange had called the process.

“You know,” said Dorothea as she appeared quietly beside him and noticed his interest in the panelled wall, “Solange did that. She’s really very clever about such things.”

“Indeed, she is.” He opened the telephone directory, and actually smiled. There was relief, too, to see that Dorothea was avoiding an emotional scene. “That’s sensible,” he observed of her change of clothes: the thin dress had been replaced by a heavy sweater and tweed pants.

“I was frozen.” She studied his face. “I’ve made some coffee. Boiling hot. Sandwiches, too. I think you need both.”

It was twenty to seven, he noted in dismay. The half-hour planned for his visit had stretched considerably. “I’d like that. I’ll have some coffee while I wait for a taxi.”

“No need to call a cab. We’ll drive you down to Menton.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it.” He glanced back at the terrace.

“Tom often stays out there by himself. Don’t worry. Please don’t. And, Tony, don’t let his words disturb you. He didn’t mean them. He—he often has these moods.”

Tony concentrated on dialling. “Tom’s had too rough a day to drive anywhere tonight.”

“He’s going down to Menton anyway.”

“Why?”

“To see the police. They ’phoned him just after Rick Nealey’s call.”

“Time enough to talk with them tomorrow. They’ll know more by—” He broke off as he made the connection with the taxi-stand near the Casino. (A cab for seven thiry without fail, at the gate of the Michel Nursery, Roquebrune. Night rates, of course, and a hefty tip, if punctual.)

“That’s what the police suggested. But Tom wouldn’t wait. He’s a man who needs action.” She hesitated. “These last months have been difficult for him.”

And for you? Tony wondered. He remembered his first glimpse of her today, down at the market. An unhappy girl, he had thought. “Let’s have that cup of coffee.” Possibly a sandwich too, just to please her. Besides, she was right: he needed it.

“Rick Nealey—” she began, as they sat down at the kitchen table, and then fell silent.

Tony braced himself. More questions, more answers. The only way to handle them was to plunge right in, keep everything brief and restrained, and—above all—generalised. “He’s been working in Washington for the last nine years.”

“As an enemy agent?”

So she had either heard talk from the terrace, or added up her own suspicions to score a solid guess. He shrugged a reply.

“And never discovered?” That horrified her.

“He’s good at his job.”

“Good? How can you say that? He’s a monster.”

“To us, yes—he’s one of the bad guys. To the opposition he’s the hero, and we are the villains. It just depends on what side you stand.”

“But you can’t approve of what he has done.”

“No. If I did, I wouldn’t be interested in him.”

“Were you following him on the day we met in the Statler lobby?”

“Frankly, until I saw him there, I didn’t even know the fellow. It was you who told me who he was, remember?”

“But you
were
interested. Immediately.” She looked at him angrily. “Why didn’t you tell the CIA?”

“And have them up before another investigatory committee for more interference in domestic affairs?”

“Then the FBI—”

“From that day at the Statler until he left Washington, Nealey kept his head down. No peculiar ’phone calls, no contacts with anyone doubtful: just an innocent citizen going about his own business.”

Her anger faded, leaving only bewilderment. “How can these things happen? The cold war is over.”

“A matter of terminology. You can call boiled cabbage a
pourri
of roses, but it still smells and tastes like cabbage. There’s too much rhetoric, too little thought nowadays—much of our own fault: we keep accepting words and ignoring acts.”

“You don’t.”

“Which makes me a very bad buy indeed. And, it hurts me to say, not just to the other side,” he reminded her.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Once, I thought you were—were—”

“An anachronism? A bit of a fake? Like that antiqued panelling, cheap pine pretending to be weathered oak?”

“Not a fake,” she said quickly. “Never that. I just thought you were wrong, all wrong—a waste of a good brain.”

“I’m a pretty good wine-taster. Doesn’t that justify my existence?”

“Oh, Tony!” She almost smiled, checked herself and frowned. Tears were not far away.

In alarm, Tony said, “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t. It’s just me... I feel—I feel terrible. About Chuck. I always found something to criticise in him—oh, not openly. But I had a lot of hard thoughts, especially when Tom kept excusing—” She shook her head. “Chuck didn’t like me very much either. I wish now it hadn’t been that way. And I’ll always keep thinking that I—”

“No, you won’t keep thinking about that,” he told her. “Everyone feels guilt when sudden death comes to someone close to them. There’s always remorse as well as regret. The last tribute. But no brooding, Dorothea: you aren’t the morbid type. And how much would that help Tom? What guilt is he feeling right now, do you think?” He rose from the table. “Restrain Tom, will you? Don’t let him do anything on impulse. That’s usually disastrous.” He raised her hand and kissed it. Just as abruptly, he left.

He took the exit through the living-room’s French windows. The terrace was in darkness. Tom called to him. “Hey—wait there, Tony! I’ll run you down to Menton.” Voice normal, friendly. Tony halted in relief. Tom’s arm went round his shoulders. “Why don’t you stay and have some supper?”

“Wish I could. But I have promises to keep. Besides, I’m bulging with sandwiches and coffee. You could use some yourself.”

“Let me give you a lift.”

“Thanks, Tom. But the taxi will arrive any minute now. I’m meeting it at the gate.” Tony began walking towards the driveway with Tom at his side, relaxed and friendly.

“No direct connection with this house?” Tom asked, making the right assumption.

He has recovered, Tony thought: he’s using his brains instead of his emotions. “Better not, don’t you think?”

“Anyone been following you?”

“Hope not.”

“How many of them are there, I wonder?”

He has recovered too damn well, thought Tony.

Tom went on, “Who arranged the accident? Not Rick Nealey. He must have had help.”

“They’re around. And all the more reason for you to watch your step, old boy. Keep Dorothea safe, will you?” He grasped Tom’s hand. “Take care. Both of you.”

“I’ll walk you to the gate.”

“Not even that,” said Tony. A final handshake, a grip that reassured both of them, and Tony was off.

Where is he bound for? Tom wondered as he turned back to the house.
Promises to keep
. Business or pleasure? No, not pleasure: not tonight. Business that dealt with Nealey? That was Tony’s main preoccupation now.
We have a possible lead.
His words. Was that what he was searching out? A possible lead...

Tom burst into the kitchen. “Look, Thea,” he said, “I think I’ll go down to Menton right away. Get it over with.”

“But—”

“I don’t feel like eating. I may as well learn what the police have to say.” He put his arms around her, kissed her anxious face. “Lock up after me. Thoroughly. And go upstairs. It’s cosier there. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” she said in some surprise.

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Must you, at all? Tonight?”

“Yes.” He left as quickly as he had entered.

Obediently she locked the kitchen door, the front entrance, and the French windows. In the study she searched for a book to take to bed. Nothing in English, all in French. The television was black-and-white, a discussion from Paris with solemn novelists disagreeing at great length. French intellectuals talked in paragraphs, not in sentences. She picked up
Time
and
Newsweek
, switched off most of the lights, leaving just enough to welcome Tom back.

Then, with a last look at the lonely rooms, at the empty terrace, she broke into tears. I wish I were home, I wish I were home.

* * *

Down by the gate, headlights swooped into the driveway and stopped, their beam casting a wide arc around the flower-beds as the taxi turned to face the road again. One moment more, and it began moving out.

Tom was already in the Fiat, its engine running. Smoothly he started downhill. He knew what Tony would say. Or perhaps he would be so tightlipped with anger that the words would choke in his throat. But this, thought Tom, is when I must take some action of my own. I will not be stuck on that terrace, knowing little, doing less.

Once past the gate, he abandoned caution until he picked up the rear lights of the taxi. Then he kept an even speed at a safe distance. From the front road along Menton’s west bay, the taxi made a left turn and cut up into town. Not far. It dropped Tony just short of the English Church, at the corner of the square—if that’s what you could call it: really an open stretch of central flower-beds bordered by two avenues, a pleasant prospect for the Casino’s entrance.

Tom found a spot to park, and took it. What now? His first impulses were draining low; he felt both foolish and uncertain. But he got out of the car—he wouldn’t have far to walk from here to the
Commissariat de Police
in any event—and began strolling towards the church.

Menton, in the off season, was an empty place by night. There were few people around at ten minutes of eight, as if everything had closed up tight for dinner. Tony could be easily seen in the well-lit streets. Which means that I can be easily seen too, Tom reminded himself. As a small protection he hunched up his coat-collar—he needed that too, in the cool wind blowing up from the sea—and stared into a shop window. As he risked another look, he saw Tony cross the street, start up some steps, and disappear.

The Casino? It couldn’t be. Tom followed, his mind incredulous. But yes, it was the Casino. First, there was the shock of disbelief; next, a sense of frustration. Damned if I’m going in there, he told himself, his face grim as he turned the corner at the church, and strode past the taxi-rank, the stretches of flower-beds and palm-trees. So he had come chasing into Menton after Tony, and got nowhere. At the last moment, he had balked. Totally irrational behaviour. But he had been in no mood to step into a world of fun and games. His emotions were too raw, unpredictable. Better get them under control and his mind working again—this was no way to enter a police-station.

Half-way up the avenue, he halted and looked back at the Casino. Even if he had put his own feelings aside, entered there, what good would he have done? What purpose served? He would have been too noticeable—the Casino trade hadn’t begun as yet. This wasn’t Monte Carlo with all its slot-machines, Las Vegas style, packing in the bus-loads of people from early afternoon until dawn. No, he realised now, I’d have accomplished nothing at all, only caused unnecessary complications. Tony wasn’t here for amusement: Tony was strictly business tonight. And he had no part in it.

For a moment even now, something of the old urge to know, to help, to do, reawakened in Tom. He hesitated. Cursed his feeling of uselessness. Turned away. Walked on.

The
Commissariat
lay a short stretch to his right, somewhere off these avenues. Few people around here: everyone enjoying their
bonne petite soupe
. The idea of eating still nauseated him—it was something else than hunger that gnawed at his guts. He had judged his direction and distance accurately, at least: the police-station was just where it should be. It was functioning, too: a visitor was leaving. The figure, clearly seen under the brilliance of the street lights, was familiar. Automatically Tom ducked behind a row of parked automobiles, the new-style barricades of every western city. He hoped he looked part of a logical explanation: a man, with head and shoulders bent, about to unlock his car door. For the figure, young, well-dressed, fair-haired, now hurrying across the broad street, was Rick Nealey.

Tom kept motionless, attracted no nervous eye. Nealey had reached a black Citroën, new model—and waited for a man to leave an automobile parked just a few yards ahead. The meeting was brief. Sentences were exchanged. That was all. Within three or four minutes the stranger returned to his car and Nealey entered the Citroën.

Thinking of his Fiat parked snugly several blocks away, Tom damned himself for an idiot: he couldn’t even follow, only watch. He felt vulnerable, though, and testing the door he stood beside, he found it was unlocked. He slid into the front seat, kept his head well down.

Nealey’s Citroën passed him, travelling westward. Back to Cap Martin? The other car—an Opel, green in colour—passed close to where Tom sat, and then made a left turn down the avenue that led to the Casino area. At least, thought Tom, I could partly describe that stranger in the green Opel, Nice registration: from a distance, he was about my height but heavier, and broad-shouldered; near at hand, his features were strong, his hair dark. And who the hell was he?