The Aquitaine Progression (18 page)

“He’s mentally deranged?”

“My
God
, no! He’s one of the most lucid men I’ve ever met. You have to understand. He went through a prolonged period of extreme physical stress and mental anguish. He endured punishment, to both his body and his mind. There was no permanent damage but there are indelible memories. Like so many men who’ve been subjected to such treatment, he avoids all forms of physical confrontation or abuse. It is repugnant to him. He can’t inflict punishment because too much was inflicted on him.”

“You mean he would not defend himself, his own? He would turn the other cheek if he, or his wife, or his children were attacked?”

“Of course not, but that’s not what you described. You said ‘a particularly vicious assault,’ implying something quite different. And if it were otherwise—if he were threatened or attacked and defended himself—he most certainly would not have left the scene. He’s too fine a lawyer.” Mattilon paused.
“Was
that the case? Is that what you’re saying? Is the injured man known to you from the police files? Is he—”

“A limousine chauffeur,” interrupted Prudhomme. “An unarmed man who was waiting for his assigned passenger of the evening.”

“In the
cellars?
”

“Apparently it is a customary service and not an unfamiliar one. These firms are discreet. This one sent another driver to cover before inquiring as to their employee’s condition. The client would not know.”

“Very chic, I’m sure. What do they say happened?”

“According to a witness, a guard who’s been with the hotel for eighteen years, this Simon approached in a loud voice, speaking English—the guard thinks angrily, although he does not understand the language—and forced the man outside.”

“The guard is wrong! It had to be someone else.”

“Simon identified himself. The concierge had cleared his departure. The description fits; it was the one who called himself Simon.”

“But
why?
There has to be a reason!”

“We should like to hear it, monsieur.”

René shook his head in bewilderment; nothing made sense. A man could register at any hotel under any name he wished, of course, but there were charges, credit cards, people calling; a false name served no purpose. Especially at a hotel where one was presumably known, and if one
was
known and chose to travel incognito, that status would not be protected if a front desk was questioned by the Sûreté. “I must ask you again, Inspector, have you checked thoroughly with the hotel?”

“Not personally, monsieur,” replied Prudhomme, looking at his associate. “My time was taken up interrogating those in the vicinity of the assault.”

“I checked with the concierge myself, monsieur,” said
the younger, taller man, speaking like a programmed robot. “Naturally, the hotel is not anxious for the incident to receive attention, but the management was cooperative. The night concierge is newly employed from the Hotel Meurice and wished to minimize the incident, but he himself showed me the registration form.”

“I see.” And Mattilon did see, at least insofar as Joel’s identity was concerned. Hundreds of guests at a large hotel and a nervous concierge protecting his new employer’s image. The obvious source was accepted as truth, another truth no doubt forthcoming in the morning from more knowledgeable men. But that was all René understood—nothing else. He needed a few moments to think, to try to understand. “I’m curious,” he said, reaching for words. “At worst, this is an assault with severe results, but nevertheless an assault. Why isn’t it a simple police matter? Why the Sûreté?”

“My first question, monsieur,” said the plainspoken Prudhomme. “The reason given us was that the incident involved a foreigner, obviously a wealthy foreigner. One does not know these days where such things may lead. We have certain controls not available to the
arrondissement
police.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” asked the man from the Sûreté. “May I remind you that as an attorney you have an obligation to uphold the courts and the law? You have been offered our credentials and I have suggested you call my station for any further verification you might wish. Please, monsieur, who is Henry Simon?”

“I have other obligations, as well, Inspector. To my word, to a client, to an old friendship—”

“You put these above the law?”

“Only because I know you’re
wrong
.”

“Then where is the harm? If we are wrong, we shall find this Simon undoubtedly at an airport and he will tell us himself. But if we are not, we may find a very sick man who needs help. Before he harms others. I am no psychiatrist, monsieur, but you have described a troubled man—a once troubled man, in any event.”

Mattilon was uncomfortable with the blunt official’s logic … and also something else he could not define. Was it Joel? Was it the clouds in his old friend’s eyes, the unconscious verbal slip about a blemished rock in the dirt? René looked again at the clock on the mantel; a thought occurred to him. It was only eight-forty-two in New York.

“Inspector, I’m going to ask you to wait here while I go into my study and make a phone call on my private line. The line, incidentally, is not connected to the telephone on the table.”

“That was unnecessary, monsieur.”

“Then I apologize.”

Mattilon walked rapidly to a door on the opposite side of the room, opened it and went inside. He crossed to his desk, where he sat down and opened a red-leather telephone index. He flipped the pages to the letter
T
, scanning the names until he reached
Talbot, Lawrence
. He had both the office and the house number; the latter was necessary because the courts in Paris were in operation before the East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbot was not there, he would try Nathan Simon, then Brooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was necessary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone.

“I’ll be damned, how are you, René? You in New York?”

“No, Paris.”

“Sounds like you’re down the block.”

“So do you. It’s always startling.”

“It’s also late where you are, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It’s very late, Larry. We may have a problem, that’s why I’m calling.”

“A problem? I didn’t even know we had any business going. What is it?”

“Your missionary work.”

“Our what?”

“Bertholdier. His friends.”

“
Who?
”

“Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.”

“Who is he? I’ve heard the name but I can’t place him.”

“You can’t … place him?”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been with Joel. I arranged the meeting.”

“Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?”

“You weren’t aware of it?”

“Last time I spoke with him was two days ago in Geneva—after that awful business with Halliday. He told me he was all right, but he wasn’t. He was shaken up.”

“Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not in Paris on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, is that what you’re saying?”

Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. “No, he’s not,” said the senior partner softly. “Did he say he was?”

“Perhaps I just assumed it.”

Again Talbot paused. “I don’t think you’d do that. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me.”

“That’s part of the problem, Larry. I don’t know where he is. He said he was taking the five o’clock plane for London, but he didn’t. He checked out of the George Cinq quite a bit later under very odd circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“His hotel registration was altered, changed to another name—a name I suggested, incidentally, as he didn’t wish to use his own at lunch. Then he insisted on leaving by way of some basement delivery entrance.”

“That’s strange.”

“I’m afraid it’s the least of the oddities. They say he assaulted a man. He may have killed him.”

“
Jesus!
”

“I don’t believe it, of course,” said Mattilon quickly. “He wouldn’t, he couldn’t—”

“I
hope
not.”

“Certainly you don’t think—”

“I don’t know
what
to think,” interrupted Talbot. “When he was in Geneva and we talked, I asked him if there was any connection between Halliday’s death and what he was doing. He said there wasn’t, but he was so remote, so distant; his voice sounded hollow.”

“What he’s
doing
…? What
is
he doing?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure I can find out, but I’ll do my damnedest. I tell you, I’m worried. Something’s happened to him. His voice was like an echo chamber, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” said Mattilon quietly. “I heard him, I saw him. I’m worried too.”

“Find him, René. Do whatever you can. Give me the word and I’ll drop everything and fly over. He’s hurting somewhere, somehow.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Mattilon walked out of his study and faced the two men from the police.

“His name is Converse, Joel Converse,” he began.

*  *  *

“His name is Converse, first name Joel,” said the younger, taller man from the Sûreté, speaking into the mouthpiece of a pay phone on the Boulevard Raspail, as the rain pounded the booth. “He’s employed by a law firm in New York: Talbot, Brooks and Simon; the address is on Fifth Avenue. The assumed name, Simon, however, was apparently a convenience, and not related to the firm.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Whatever this Converse is involved with has nothing to do with his employers. Mattilon reached one of the partners in New York and it was made clear to him. Also both men are concerned, worried; they wish to be kept informed. If Converse is found, Mattilon insists on immediate access to him as the attorney of record. He may be holding back, but in my judgment he’s genuinely bewildered. In shock, might be more accurate. He knows nothing of consequence. I could tell if he did.”

“Nevertheless, he
is
holding back. The name Simon was used for my benefit so I would not learn the identity of this Converse. Mattilon knows that; he was there and they are friends and he brought him to Luboque.”

“Then he was manipulated, General. He did not mention you.”

“He might if he’s questioned further. I cannot be involved in any way.”

“Of course not,” agreed the man from the Sûreté with quiet emphasis.

“Your superior, what’s his name? The one assigned to the incident.”

“Prudhomme. Inspector First Grade Prudhomme.”

“Is he frank with you?”

“Yes. He thinks I’m something of a mechanical ex-soldier whose instincts may outdistance his intellect, but he sees that I’m willing. He talks to me.”

“You’ll be kept with him for a while. Should he decide to go back and see Mattilon, let me know immediately. Paris may lose a respected attorney. My name must not surface.”

“He would go back to Mattilon only if Converse was found. And if word came to the Sûreté as to his whereabouts, I’d reach you instantly.”

“There could be another reason, Colonel. One that might provoke a persistent man into reexamining his progress—or lack of it—in spite of orders to the contrary.”

“Orders to the contrary, sir?”

“They will be issued. This Converse is solely our concern now. All we needed was a name. We know where he’s heading. We’ll find him.”

“I don’t understand, General.”

“News has come from the hospital. Our chauffeur has taken a turn for the better.”

“Good news, indeed.”

“I wish it were. The sacrifice of a single soldier is abhorrent to any field commander, but the broader tactics must be kept in view, they must be served. Do you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Our chauffeur must not recover. The larger strategy, Colonel.”

“If he dies, the efforts to find Converse will be intensified. And you’re right, Prudhomme will reexamine everything, including the lawyer, Mattilon.”

“Orders to the contrary will be issued. But watch him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now we need your expertise, Colonel. The talents you developed so proficiently while in the service of the Legion before we brought you back to a more civilized life.”

“My gratitude isn’t shallow. Whatever I can do.”

“Can you get inside the Hospital of Saint Jérôme with as little notice as possible?”

“With no notice. There are fire escapes on all sides of the building and it’s a dark night, heavy with rain. Even the police stay in doorways. It’s child’s play.”

“But man’s work. It has to be done.”

“I don’t question such decisions.”

“A blockage in the windpipe, a convulsion in the throat.”

“Pressure applied through cloth, sir. Gradually and with no marks, a patient’s self-induced trauma.… But I would be derelict if I didn’t repeat what I said, General. There’ll be a search of Paris, then a large-scale manhunt. The killer will be presumed to be a rich American, an inviting target for the Sûreté.”

“There’ll be no search, no manhunt. Not yet. If it is to be, it will come later, and if it does, a convicted corpse will be trapped in the net.… Go into the field, my young friend. The chauffeur, Colonel; the broader strategy must be served.”

“He’s dead,” said the man in the telephone booth, and hung up.

Joel sat at a table in the open café in Copenhagen’s Kastrup Airport, trying to concentrate. It was his second attempt within the past twenty minutes, the first he abandoned when he realized he was absorbing nothing, seeing only black letters forming an unending string of vaguely recognizable words relating to a figure in the outer reaches of his mind. He could not focus on that man; there were too many interferences, real and imagined. Nor had he been able to read on the two-hour flight from Paris, having opted for economy class, hoping to melt in with the greater number of people in the larger section of the aircraft. The concept at least was valid; the seats were so narrow and the plane so fully occupied that elbows and forearms were virtually immobile. The conditions prohibited his taking out the report, both for reasons of space and for fear of the proximity to straying eyes.