Two Weeks in Another Town (13 page)

He’d walked enough and he found a cab and rode back toward the hotel. He went across the street from the hotel to the newspaper kiosk, lurid with plump movie beauties on the covers of magazines. He bought the Paris
Tribune
and looked at the stacks of bright, paper-covered books in English that were banked all along one side of the kiosk. One book caught his eye because of the sobriety of its cover among the shiny reclining ladies and the gentlemen with pistols who advertised the literature being offered for sale in English that year in Rome. He picked up the dark book and saw that it was the poems of Catullus, translated by an English poet. After the revery in the Forum, Jack felt Catullus was a fitting discovery, and he paid for the book and crossed the street and entered his hotel.

When he got his key from the concierge, he felt a flicker of disappointment because there was no message for him in his box. Well, he thought, getting into the elevator, tonight I’ll make do with Catullus.

He was sitting in the salon, with his jacket and shoes off and his collar unbuttoned, reading,
Look, where the youths are coming, Lightly up they spring, and not for nothing, hark! it’s good to hear them sing. Hymen O Hymenaeus Hymen hither O Hymenaeus,
when the phone rang. He let it ring twice, pleasantly anticipating the sound of the voice he would hear when he picked up the receiver. Then he reached over for the phone and said, “Hello.”

“Mr. Andrus,” a man’s voice said.

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me,” the voice said. “My name is Robert Bresach. I wonder if I could see you for a moment, Mr. Andrus.” The voice was polite, educated American, and sounded young.

Jack looked at his watch. It was after midnight. “Couldn’t it wait until morning?” he said.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Despière’s,” the man said. “It really is rather urgent.”

Jack sighed. “All right,” he said. “Room six fifty-four.”

He hung up the phone, annoyed. It was just like Despière to have friends who insisted upon seeing you in your hotel room at twelve o’clock at night.

Jack put Catullus in the bedroom. He felt a little embarrassed about leaving it lying open on a table, the only book in the room, aside from a 1928 Baedeker he had found on a bookstall along the Seine and had brought with him on the chance he might have some time for sightseeing. If the man were observant and reported the presence of Catullus to Despière, Despière would be sure to think Jack had stage-managed it that way, to impress visitors.

There was a knock on the salon door and Jack crossed the room and opened the door. A tall figure in a khaki duffel coat stood there.

“Come in,” Jack said and stood to one side to allow the man to go through the small foyer into the salon. Jack closed the door and followed him. In the living room, the man turned around and faced Jack. He was young and had dark blond hair, cut short and he was very handsome, with the same kind of knifelike, intense, bony good looks as Jack’s son, Steven. He stood there, staring curiously at Jack, through rimless glasses, his face grave, his blue eyes intent and serious.

“I’m going to kill you, Andrus,” he said.

H
E SAID SOMETHING ELSE,
Jack thought, standing there, smiling puzzledly at the blond boy in the duffel coat, but it sounded like, I’m going to kill you.

“What did you say?” Jack asked.

The boy had his hands in the deep pockets of the coat. Now he took his hands out of the pockets. In his right hand there was a clasp knife. There was a click and Jack saw the long ugly blade, heavy, dull steel, reflecting the light off the chandelier. The boy’s hand was shaking and the reflection on the steel kept changing and trembling. He didn’t say anything, but merely stood there in the middle of the room, tall and bulky in the big coat, his face rigid, his eyes fixed on Jack’s face, with an expression that was somehow appealing and touched with beggary.

This is it, Jack thought, this is what it was all about—the blow, the blood, the dream, the premonition, the sense of being warned, the recapitulation of the dead. The knife was behind it all.

“Put that godamn thing away,” Jack said roughly. The door behind him that led to the corridor was closed and no matter how quickly he could turn and run, the boy would have him before he could wrench the door half-open. And the door opened inward, into the room, to make it worse.

The boy remained still, only the minute trembling of the knife in his hand showing what pressure he was under. His mouth was opened slightly, and he took in air with a small, regular sighing noise. He was making a conscious effort to breathe calmly. There was no other sound. The closed windows, the drawn drapes, the heavy doors and thick walls of the old hotel cut off all noises of any life outside the room. If he called for help, Jack thought, even if he could keep the boy from his throat for a minute or two, there was almost no chance that anyone would hear him.

In two or three of the movies in which he had played, long ago, there had been scenes like this—Jack, unarmed, facing a man with a knife who was out to kill him. In the movies, Jack had always escaped, making a sudden lunge at the murderer’s wrist, cleverly throwing a lamp and disconcerting the attacker, knocking over a table with a kick and plunging the room into darkness. In seeing the scenes later, on film, the action had always seemed quite reasonable. But what was going to happen here, tonight, was not going to be on film later and the knife, with its quivering reflections, was steel and not prop rubber, and was not going to be pushed aside with the flick of a scenario writer’s wrist.

“Where is she?” Bresach asked. “Is she in there?” He motioned toward the bedroom, with a stiff, spasmodic gesture of the knife.

“Where is who?” Jack asked.

“Don’t kid me,” Bresach said. “I didn’t come here to have anyone kid me.” His voice was deep, baritone, with a pleasant, clear timbre, not made for threats. “Veronica.”

“No,” Jack said, “she’s not in there.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Go in and see for yourself,” Jack said, carelessly. He knew that he couldn’t afford to show the boy that he was afraid.

The boy looked uncertainly at the doorway to the bedroom. His mouth twisted and Jack saw a muscle working in his jaw. His face was thin and the bones were prominent and sharp, making triangular shadows in his cheeks.

“All right,” Bresach said. He took a step nearer Jack. “You go in ahead of me.”

Jack hesitated for a moment. Here, in the living room, with only space between him and Bresach, he was at the mercy of the knife. In the bedroom, with a little luck, he could get the bed between them, move innocently near a lamp, perhaps even pick up the heavy leather bag that was on a stand there, to use as a shield or weapon. He turned and walked quickly into the bedroom, with Bresach close behind him.

Only the bed-table lamp was on and the room was in shadow, the shadow slashed by the white light from the bathroom that poured in past the half-opened door. As Jack went into the room, he saw one diagonal of the crimson V Veronica had scrawled on the mirror over the basin. Jack moved away from the bathroom door, toward the giant wardrobe that filled one side of the room. Bresach followed him closely.

“Stop moving,” Bresach said.

Jack stopped. He didn’t have the bed between him and Bresach, but the leather bag was only two feet away now, and if Bresach started toward him, there was a chance he could grab the bag in time. Bresach was standing next to the big double bed, now made up for the night, with the blankets and the sheet folded down in a neat triangle on one side. There were two pillows, side by side, neatly plumped out.

“So, this is where it happened,” Bresach said. He touched the bed with his knee. He wavered a little and his head rolled slightly from side to side as he spoke, and for the first time Jack realized that he had been drinking. “Did you have an enjoyable afternoon, Mr. Andrus?” he asked, harshly, his mouth twisting down to one side again in what looked like a habitual, disfiguring tic. “She’s a great lay, isn’t she, our little Veronica?” With an abrupt movement, he tore back the covers of the bed with the knife. “Right here, in this bed,” he repeated. “In this bed.” His eyes filled with tears, and the tears, instead of reassuring Jack, made the boy seem more dangerous than before. “Not a bad sight for a man to see in his bed, is it?” Bresach demanded, “Veronica, with her legs apart.”

“Stop that,” Jack said, but without hope that his words would have any effect on the weeping boy. “What good does it do to talk like that?”

“A lot of good,” Bresach said. Now he waved the knife aimlessly, in a stiff oratorical gesture. “I want to get the picture, see? The exact picture. I’m interested in the girl and I like to know exactly what’s happening to her. When you put it in her, did she whisper, ‘Oh, God’? Did she? Am I being a cad when I tell you, she always does it with me?” He grinned crookedly, weeping. “It’s her strict Catholic upbringing. Sanctifying the union.” The grin, the tears, broke into a tortured laugh. “Did she? Did she say, ‘Oh, God’?”

“I’m not going to talk to you,” Jack said, steadily, “until you put that damn knife away.”

“I’ll put the knife away when I’m good and ready.” Bresach waved it again, crazily. “And I know where I’ll put it.” He leaned down and ran his left hand caressingly over the creased sheet of the bed. “Right here,” he whispered, “right here.” He raised his head, fixing the swamped blue eyes on Jack. “Did she put her tongue in your ear while you were doing it to her? Do you know the word for fuck in Italian? Where is she?” Now he was shouting. “She’s left me, where is she now?”

He moved closer toward Jack, the handsome bony face wet with tears, and Jack took a half step backward and put his hand on the handle of the leather valise, prepared to grab it and swing it.

“You must have been awful good in there this afternoon,” Bresach said. “You must be a godamn wonder, because she couldn’t wait to get her clothes on and come home and start packing her bags to leave me. She couldn’t wait…” he whispered. “What are you, you bastard, a bull, a stallion? You pick up a girl at lunch and you give her a casual roll because you have an hour to waste in the afternoon, and it changes her whole life. Love, she says, love, love, love. What’ve you got in there?” The knife suddenly dropped below belt level and Jack could feel his testicles pulling up in tight, electrical spasms. “It must be a wonder, the godamned eighth wonder of the world. Open your pants; I want to see it, I want to pay homage to the eighth wonder of the world.” Bresach was gasping for breath now and his lips were pulled away from his teeth in an animal-like snarl and his whole arm was shaking and he kept half opening his hand and then closing it convulsively, so that the knife jumped erratically.

Jack tightened his hand on the grip of the valise. He kept his right arm crooked in front of him protectively and his eyes on the knife. If the boy moved, he was going to go into him, swinging the bag and trying for the wrist of the knife hand with his own right hand.

“Listen,” Jack said soothingly, “you’re all upset now, you don’t know what you’re doing. Give yourself a little time to think about it, and then…”

“Where is she? Where’re you hiding her?” Bresach looked around him wildly. With a violent movement, he threw open the door of the big wardrobe, as though a sudden conviction had hit him that the girl was secreted there. Jack’s suits swung on their hangers. “Come on, Andrus,” Bresach said, pleading. “Tell me where she is. I’ve got to know where she is.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Jack said. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I knew. Not while you’re waving that knife at me.”

“There’s no sense in talking to you,” Bresach said, thickly. He took off his glasses and wiped his wet eyes with the sleeve of his coat. The stiff cloth made a grating noise against his forehead. “I don’t know why I bothered this long. Why do I waste my time? I should’ve jabbed you the minute I came through the door. Well, it’s never too late.” He smiled convulsively. “Never too late for a good deed.”

Here it comes, Jack thought. His hand on the grip of the valise was slippery with sweat. He waited tensely, waiting for the boy to start his move.

Then the telephone rang.

They both stood there, motionless, the sound freezing them.

The phone rang again. The boy looked uncertainly at it. He’s had no practice at murder, Jack thought, inconsequentially. Like me. We’re two novices. This is no job for amateurs.

“Answer it,” Bresach said finally, his voice trembling. “It’s probably her. Tell her to come up. ANSWER IT!”

Jack moved over toward the bed table, past Bresach. He picked up the phone, holding it close to his ear, so that Bresach wouldn’t be able to hear the voice on the other end. “Hello,” Jack said. He was surprised at the calmness of his voice.

“Delaney,” Maurice’s voice said. “Where the hell have you been all night? I thought you were coming to the party.”

“I couldn’t make it,” Jack said, conscious of the boy’s eyes ranging him suspiciously. “I’m sorry.”

“Is it her?” Bresach whispered.

Jack hesitated. Then he nodded.

“Tell her to come up. Right away,” Bresach whispered.

“Listen,” Delaney was saying, “there’re some people I want you to meet. We’re down in the lobby. You got anything to drink up there?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Come on up…” He looked across at Bresach. “Darling.”

“What? What did you say?” Delaney asked irritably and Jack was afraid that the loud voice could be heard in the room, even though he was pressing the instrument tight against his ear.

“I said come on up. You remember the number of the room,” Jack said clearly. “Six fifty-four.” He hung up and turned to face Bresach.

“Now,” he said calmly, sounding much more confident than he felt, “now, maybe we can settle this like sensible human beings.” He brushed past Bresach, standing irresolutely next to the bed, the knife dangling loosely in his hand, and walked collectedly into the salon. Bresach jumped after him and ran toward the door leading to the corridor, blocking it. “No tricks,” he said.

“Oh, shut up,” Jack said wearily. He sat down in the easy chair next to which his shoes were lying. He put on his shoes slowly, having difficulty because they fitted snugly and he didn’t have a shoehorn. The back of the right shoe kept bending over and it took him almost a minute, scraping his finger, to get the shoe on. He tied the bows neatly, tight, and stretched low in the chair, regarding the shoes, which were heavy, with double soles, and which might prove useful later on. A well placed kick with those thick shoes would take the fight out of any man.