The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) (23 page)

This might have all stayed theoretical if Alex hadn’t found himself in a position to make a coup. As one of the signatories to the bank accounts at Selwyn, Inc., he moved the contributions from one account to another, into still other accounts. It was difficult to tell who was getting what. That was the idea. But it seemed that the Contras weren’t getting a whole lot of it.

A lot of the money was rubbing off, into accounts run by Selwyn and others. It was a scam. Alex began to look into how he could take some off himself—just as a theoretical exercise, at least at first.

It seemed easy enough. He could endorse a check into one of the Swiss accounts to which he was a signatory, then transfer the money into Alex’s own Swiss account. Then transfer it from there into another account. It wouldn’t even have his name on it. Just his number.

The idea began to intrigue him. Drop out and start all over again, but with a lot of money. Start a new life as a rich man with a beautiful wife in complaisant, corrupt Asunción.

He figured he could siphon off at least a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more. In the general confusion and covering up, they’d probably be a long time getting around to him. By the time they did, he’d be long gone, and the money would simply have to be marked down as “unaccounted for,” as happens so often in affairs of these sorts.

Rachel was a part of all this. Maybe the final ignition that set the idea in motion came from her. They had lived together for just over six months. There had never been any talk of love. Alex didn’t love her, but he suspected, or feared, that she loved him.

Rachel had good ideas. She was a necessary part of the plan. There was no way to do it without having her in on it.

Alex discussed the whole thing with Nieves. She was a very level-headed girl, and a very passionate one. Unusual combination.

“I would live with you anyhow,” she said. “Even if you had no money. I love you; that’s all that matters. But I do like my life back home. And you would like it too, Alex. And I don’t think you would be happy living on my money.”

“No,” Alex said.

“That is silly, but I respect you for it. It is a matter of pride with you. But it means you must get money of your own; otherwise you’ll never be happy.”

“Suppose I could get quite a lot of money,” Alex said. “For the moment, never mind how. Would you marry me and live with me in Asunción?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I had a different name and slightly altered appearance?”

“What are you talking about?”

Alex told her about Iran and the Contras, the contributions, and how he was thinking of tapping them rather heavily.

Nieves listened until he was finished, then laughed. “You had me scared for a moment. I thought you were thinking of robbing a bank or maybe a Seven-Eleven store. But what you’re talking about doing, Alex darling, doesn’t really qualify as a crime at all. You’re going to relieve the thieves of a little of their loot. They should give you a medal.”

“They could give me one hell of a long jail sentence if they caught me.”

“Then if you’re going to do it,” Nieves said, “you’d better steal a lot, because you’re just going to do it once and the sentence is probably the same, whether you take a lot or a little, if you get caught. But Alex, you mustn’t get caught.”

“I wasn’t really planning to. I’m going to need Rachel’s help on this one. She’s in on it anyhow. I need her help, and I need to give her some of the profits.”

“That’s up to you, of course.”

“We’ll have to keep this quiet. No one must know about us. Not until I can marry you.”

“I hope that won’t take too long.”

“Less than a month. I’m going to need the help of some of your friends. Can you give me some contacts in Paraguay?”

“Of course.”

Then Alex had a moment of doubt. “Some people in Asunción may figure out who I am. Any problem?”

“Certainly not. They’ll think it was clever of you. No one would tell the American authorities.”

“Maybe a Paraguayan wouldn’t tell. But an American might.”

“Not our American friends in Asunción.”

“What if one of them is the wrong kind of American?”

“Don’t worry, my love. The wrong kind of American doesn’t stay long in Paraguay.”

Nieves opened her purse and found a tortoiseshell cigarette case. She lit up a long, dark brown Nat Sherman cigarette.

“Alex never told me his plans in so many words,” Nieves said. “The idea was, he would do what he had to do, and we would meet in Asunción. He wanted the names of some Paraguayans in Paris whom he could rely on. I had several friends there. You must understand, I didn’t really know what was going on. I didn’t really think it was so bad, taking money from those pompous fools who support these soldier-of-fortune causes. All I thought about was how Alex was going to come to me in Paraguay. He would look different. A moustache, at least. Maybe a little facial surgery. It was the most exciting thing I’ve ever been involved with. It was very romantic. And I was very much in love. Or very much infatuated. I guess that’s why I didn’t think it through until now.”

“What did you think through now?”

“Well, what Alex would actually do. Take the money, of course. Go to Paris. Then disappear. Rachel would hire you to find him. That had all been planned beforehand. You were selected because you knew Alex well, and because Alex thought you would be … flexible.”

“Flexible,” I said bitterly. “You mean malleable. And gullible, to boot.”

“It’s a nice quality, Hob,” she said. “Don’t lose it.”

“What else did you know?”

“You would witness Alex’s death. He would be able to start a new life under an assumed name, with me, in Paraguay. But of course, there was one part that had been left out, one thing left that wasn’t safe, one thing that was a loose end.”

“Rachel,” I said.

“Yes, exactly. Rachel. I didn’t want to think about it. But finally I did. And I realized—but I hope I’m wrong—that the only way Alex could be really safe was if Rachel was dead, too.”

Yes, of course. And Nieves didn’t know all of it, perhaps. How Rachel was planning not only on sharing the money with Alex but on sharing his life, too. She loved him. She wasn’t about to take no for an answer. It had to be her or Nieves.

If he went away with Nieves, if he left Rachel, she could be counted on to blow the whistle as loud and as long as she was able.

Where was Rachel now?

I made a call to her hotel. There was no answer from her room. It didn’t prove anything, but I thought I knew what was happening. When Rachel had learned about Alex’s death, that was her signal to meet him. At a previously arranged rendezvous, her thinking they were going to take off together.

That rendezvous was the logical place for Alex to kill her.

If only I knew where that rendezvous was.

I turned to Nieves. “Did Alex say anything about where he was going after all this?”

“No. He just told me to wait for him in Asunción. But I couldn’t. I mean, robbery’s one thing, but I couldn’t stand it if he were really going to kill that poor woman.”

I got up, trying almost physically to shake off the deadening depression that had hung over me ever since I had seen Alex.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find Alex.”

12

ALEX REANIMÉE

51

Clovis was our only hope. There was no one else I could think of in Paris, or anywhere else, for that matter, who might know where Alex was going to meet Rachel. Assuming Alex was still alive. And at this point I had to assume that.

I hailed a taxi and explained that we were going to make several stops. The driver complained about the loss of fares until Nieves slipped him a thousand franc note. She had a lot of class, Nieves. Of course, it also helped that she was rich.

Clovis was not at Deux Magots. We checked out the Café Flore and the Brasserie Lipp as long as we were still on the Boulevard St-Germain, but we came up empty. Next stop was the Dôme in Montparnasse. This time Nieves took charge. The manager couldn’t have been more charming. He was desolated to tell her that M. Clovis had been there only half an hour ago, but had left, leaving, alas, no word as to where he might go next.

“How very annoying,” Nieves said, tapping her teeth thoughtfully with a folded thousand franc note. “It is really important for me to find him this evening.”

The manager’s eyes shifted from the francs to the frail, from the gelt to the girl, from the moolah to the madonna, however you want to say it. Cupidity fought a brief bout with discretion and was defeated in straight falls.

“You could, I suppose,” the manager said, “try M. Clovis at his home.”

“And where would that be?” Nieves asked sweetly.

He was good enough to write it out for her, and she was good enough to slip him the thousand. Then we were out in the taxi again, requesting an address on the Quai d’Orsay fronting on the Seine.

Clovis lived in a big old apartment house with black wrought iron bars over the windows, and a wrought iron gate that stood like a portcullis between the street and the front door. I rang the buzzer.

Clovis himself answered the door. He was wearing an embroidered red silk dressing gown. Something that sounded nice but was unfamiliar to me was playing on the record player. I glanced at it later and saw that it was Camille St-Saëns’ first symphony.

“Clovis,” I said, “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you. But we come on an errand of life or death.” Melodramatic, but not, I think, inaccurate.

“Well then, I suppose you must come in,” he said, somewhat churlishly, I thought. But he brightened up and became the soul of graciousness itself when he took a look at Nieves.

“I hope you are going to stay in Paris for a while, mademoiselle,” Clovis said. “You would be perfect for my next picture. Have you ever acted? Not that it matters. My theory on acting—”

Nieves wasn’t going to get caught up in Clovis’ game. “Perhaps we could discuss that some other time,” she said, her smile more brilliant than ever. “Just now we have urgent business.”

“Ah, yes, the famous matter of life and death. But first may I get you both a glass of wine? There is some Entrechat ‘84 on ice, and I also have a rather decent little—”

I wasn’t going to let Clovis get into an interminable wine monologue. “Clovis, we need to find Alex at once.”

He looked at me dumbstruck. “But ’Ob, you yourself saw him die!”

“I saw what I was supposed to see. But you know and I know that Alex isn’t dead. You helped him set this up, didn’t you?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Clovis said frostily. “And who is this young lady?”

“She is Alex’s fiancée,” I told him. “The one from Paraguay. You know about her, don’t you, Clovis?”

He looked at her intently. “You are Nieves?”

“Nieves de Sanchez y Issássaga,” she said, her voice firm and clear, her back erect and shoulders square, like they taught her in parole-busting school. “Alex was going to meet me in Paraguay after the fake death, did you not know?”

“All right,” Clovis said. “Sit down. We’ll talk.”

He led us into an elegant little parlor. It was filled with handblown bottles and assorted bric-a-brac, and there was a lot of stuffed furniture with gilt legs that must have cost a fortune and looked very uncomfortable.

“I recognize you by your picture,” Clovis said to Nieves. “Alex showed me one of you taken in Washington. I am so pleased to meet you. Yes, Alex discussed his plan with me. I found it quite romantic. And at the same time, politically sound. I applauded Alex’s skill in taking money off the evil plutocrats of Washington. And I applauded his decision to start a new life helping the poor in Africa. It was a noble gesture. I wish I could do it myself. But alas, one owes something to one’s art, Rimbaud’s example notwithstanding.”

“Africa?” I asked. “Did you mention Africa? Just what did you think Alex was going to do there?”

Clovis smiled a sagacious smile. “He explained his dream to me in some detail. He was going to take his new identity and his money and set up a clinic in Africa. A place for the poor, the sick, the homeless. He was going to follow his role model, Dr. Albert Schweitzer. I thought it was a wonderful idea.”

“Sure it is,” I said. “Did he tell you where Rachel fit into all this? And Nieves?”

“But of course! That was the best part of it—the way you were all going to work together. And live together in a triune marriage. I thought that was courageous of him, thus to flaunt bourgeois morality.”

“Then you know where Alex is now?” I asked.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Clovis said, covering all the possibilities.

“This really is an emergency,” I said. “Please tell us where he was going to meet Rachel.”

“Ah, you know about that, do you?” Clovis said, a sly look on his foxy face. “Then you can understand the need for discretion. Do not think too badly of him, Mademoiselle Nieves, if he leaves now for Africa with Rachel and without you. The ménage à trois is inherently unstable—a part of its charm, of course, is its ephemerality.”