Agent in Place (28 page)

Thoughtfully Tom crossed the street and entered the
Commissariat
.

He was politely received, with just the right touch of official sympathy. They would know more about his brother’s unfortunate death by tomorrow. Yes, it did seem as though it possibly might have been a most regrettable accident, a tragic error on someone’s part, responsibility still to be allocated. Meanwhile, Monsieur Kelso might consider what arrangements he would desire: cremation or burial here, or perhaps he would prefer transport to the United States and interment there? There were local
agences
who were fully capable of handling such matters.
De rien, monsieur
. But one thing more: he could now take possession of the suitcase that held his brother’s belongings, including his wallet, cuff-links, engagement-diary with addresses, wrist-watch, travellers’ cheques, keys and key-chain, air-flight reservation for tomorrow to Switzerland, Hotel Post booking in Gstaad—all intact, all carefully listed in triplicate on this official police form of inventory. Be so good as to examine them, and then sign here.
Merci, monsieur. A demain
.

“Until tomorrow,” Tom echoed. His voice was flat, unnatural, his movements slow and uncertain. He stood at the doorway, Chuck’s case in his hand, hesitating. Something else, he kept telling himself, something else... “Mr. Nealey was here, wasn’t he? From Shandon Villa.”

“But yes—the Assistant Director. Naturally, he wanted to hear about the results of our investigation. He had the fear that your brother’s death might have been suicide. But with your brother’s plans for travel tomorrow—” A Gallic shrug indicated suicide was not a likely theory. Then the hint of a tolerant smile covered the next remark: “Perhaps Monsieur Nealey was also afraid of the adverse publicity that Shandon Villa might receive. But he can rely on our discretion. There were two visitors at the villa today, and he was worried about how they might talk. However, he was happy we could provide their names and addresses. He intends to visit them and make a friendly explanation about the necessity for restraint. Shandon Villa, after all, is beginning its meetings next week.”

Tom asked bitterly, “Did he not want to view the body?”

A small shocked silence. And then a mild reproof. “Monsieur Nealey wants only to help, in any way he can. He offered to take your brother’s suitcase to your house, spare you the trouble.”

“But naturally,” said Tom, mastering his French, “that was impossible. My signature was required.”

“And you yourself were coming here. So Monsieur Nealey left.”

I bet he did, thought Tom. He knew better than to meet me here tonight. But at least this proved that the police were efficient: they had removed Chuck’s belongings from Shandon before Nealey could examine them, make sure there was nothing to endanger him. What the hell had he expected? Or was it just part of his training that he always must make sure? “Thank you very much,” he told the police sergeant, a round-faced middle-aged man with a drooping moustache and kindly brown eyes. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

“
De rien, monsieur
. And we regret—”

“Yes,” said Tom, and left.

* * *

He locked Chuck’s suitcase safely inside the trunk of the Fiat before stepping into the driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition, and then turned it off. For fully ten minutes he sat there, his head bowed, thoughts giving way to grief within the darkness of the car. At last he raised his eyes, looking along the bright street. There were people entering the Casino now. Not many. But enough. He wouldn’t be too noticeable.

Pocketing the car keys, he got out, and began walking. Remembering the meeting between Nealey and his contact which he had witnessed tonight, Tom sensed urgency. Nealey’s moves had been too quick, too immediate, not to convey a warning. Okay, thought Tom, I’m taking it. He entered the Casino.

It was almost eight o’clock. The main hall of the Casino was brightly lit and practically empty. Seven people, all told, and employees at that: a woman, behind a glass-enclosed booth at the far end of the hall beside the cinema; a young usherette, arriving for duty; four croupiers—young, tall, lean, dark-suited—paired off at the two adjacent gaming-tables; a fifth man, similar in dress and manner, on duty at the
Salle Privée
. The dining-room, facing Tony as he took brief inventory—a natural pause after mounting the stairs that led up from the foyer just inside the front entrance to the Casino—was equally lethargic: three tables occupied. And the bar beside him? He turned and entered, dismay rising. Empty too, except for an attendant polishing glasses and a couple of men—one at the bar, the other at a corner table. Two: count them. Tony almost exploded in a laugh.

He halted just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust from the hall’s brilliance to this small room’s imitation moonlight glow. Très chic, très moderne, but mostly disconcerting: it had taken him half a minute at least to see that Georges was the man seated at the bar. And shall we remain aloof, keeping that promised eye on each other, for the benefit of one stranger and a bartender?

The subdued lighting was evenly spread, giving twenty-twenty vision a chance to reassert itself. Tony could soon recognise the man who sat at the corner table and faced the room. He might now be wearing a grey lounge suit instead of this afternoon’s work-clothes, but he still had the same fair hair, sharp features, and slightly popeyed look of the electrician, climbing up through the gardens of Shandon Villa at Boris Gorsky’s heels. And, thought Tony, he has recognised me. Probably Georges as well.

“Hello there!” he said as he joined the young Frenchman at the bar. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. Had a hard time parking the car.”

Georges turned his head to stare in amazement, perhaps in disbelief.

Unperturbed, Tony ordered a Tio Pepe. “Do you want to perch, or shall we lounge? More comfortable over here.” He led the way to one of the low tables flanked by four squat armchairs. It provided, as he had hoped, an excellent view of both the bar’s doorway and, beyond that, part of the main hall—the most important part as far as Tony was concerned. It lay at the head of the stairs leading from the foyer: arrivals and departures easily noted. “Much better,” Tony pronounced, flopping into the chair that faced the bar’s entrance—and indicated, with an almost imperceptible nod, the chair close to his left elbow. From there Georges could watch the man in the far corner as well as observe the doorway by a turn of his head. Just as necessary, they could talk at close quarters and yet look natural, no table between them. “Now let’s relax and have a couple of drinks before we move in for dinner. There’s nothing like sightseeing to exhaust a man. Any ideas for tomorrow? But some place, I beg of you, where we don’t have to walk and climb.” He rattled on until his sherry arrived, but his voice was dropping gradually until it would reach a level that neither the barman nor Popeye could hear.

Georges caught on to Tony’s stratagem quickly enough. But he still hadn’t recovered from his first shock. “You’re crazy, Tony,” was his low-voiced comment. “Here we are, like two sore thumbs, as noticeable as hell.”

“We’d be more noticeable if we were sitting apart. Have a look at that man in the corner. He probably saw you passing through the Shandon pool area.”

“He and Gorsky—they were together?” Georges asked softly.

“Very much together.”

Georges’s eyes were grave, his lips tight. Gorsky was a name he knew only too well. The man himself he had seen only once. But there was enough in the Gorsky file to make that face memorable.

“Let’s laugh it up a little, shall we? Heard any good stories recently?” That’s better, thought Tony as Georges produced a convincing smile. “What did you find down at the beach? Can a boat dock safely there?”

“A rowboat. Not much more. There’s only a small jetty. The water is shallow at the shore-edge.” As he talked, Georges’s eyes had followed a couple coming into the bar—a nice chance to look at the man in the corner. It was a quick but thorough study. “Rocks on either side of the beach. Property boundary, as it were. The beach itself is stony, a romantic but uncomfortable place to swim. The jetty is in shallow water—no good for diving.”

So, thought Tony, anything larger than a rowboat would have to lie offshore; and anyone—if Shandon was his target—would use a dinghy to get to the beach. But would Parracini really take all that trouble to get at Shandon? And he couldn’t be too much of a sailor; he had been landlocked all his life. Nor did he have enough cash to let him hire a boat and a crew to manage it. And, Tony concluded, I just don’t see Parracini rowing all the way around Cap Martin to reach his objective. So he’ll have to reach Shandon by car, and that isn’t such a simple operation either: too many restrictions on free access. Perhaps he’ll give up his whole idea; or perhaps I was wrong—he never had it. Just an unnecessary fear on my part. And yet, his hatred for Shandon must be real enough: he has a large score to even out with Nealey. “Did you reach Brad Gillon in New York?”

“All taken care of. I also got in touch with Brussels via Lyons.”

“You did?” Tony was impressed. “So you’re all set up? Quick work.”

Georges nodded. That morning he had transferred all his special equipment from the
Sea Breeze
to his new room in the Old Town: good and safe communication with Brussels was a first necessity. He eyed two more couples entering the bar. “That’s a smasher,” he observed of one of the girls.

“Things are looking up all over. Two sore thumbs begin to seem normal. Swelling much reduced.”

“I hope that guy in the corner is beginning to believe that too. An odd place to choose. Not much visibility from there.”

“My guess is that Popeye isn’t here to watch the hall.” And thank heaven for that: Parracini could arrive at any moment. A few people had already been drifting towards the cinema.

“Waiting for someone to make contact?”

“And keeping a low profile until he gets the signal. You know, he ought to attend to that thyroid condition before his eyes really bug out.”

Georges’s laugh was spontaneous. Interesting, he thought, how Tony’s attention never drifts far from the hall outside. “Expecting someone?”

“Any minute now. Our friend Jean is going to the movies tonight.”

Jean Parracini? Georges’s head turned casually towards the hall, as he lit a cigarette. “I don’t like it,” he said softly. Far too much risk, he thought, and stopped watching the hall. He’d have to keep the same balance as Tony, between looking and not-looking. No staring allowed.

“Oh, he won’t be alone. He’s bringing Bernard and Brigitte with him—Bill’s devoted cook and butler.” And devoted they were. Loyal and trustworthy. But the weakness was that they knew little. Only that Bill’s household, and Bill’s guests whenever they appeared, had to be safeguarded. Parracini was someone who spoke Russian and was learning French: that much was obvious. Parracini was important: that much they had been told. Palladin was a name they had never heard. Few had. “Keep smiling, old boy. We’re on camera.” More people had drifted into the bar. So far none of the tables near the entrance was occupied, but soon Tony and Georges might be surrounded, and that would make any further exchange of information a very tricky business.

“I still don’t like it,” Georges insisted. “Why couldn’t the damned fool stay at home? He’s safe there.”

“And getting bored. Wouldn’t you be? Besides, he’s quite confident he can fool anyone. His appearance has changed. Completely.”

“I see—he’s trying out the transformation on the moviegoers. But I wish—” Georges checked himself.

“So do I. Perhaps he’ll get more sense talked into him tomorrow. Is the boat ready?”

“Everything’s repaired. Emil is sleeping on board.”

“You’ve radio contact with him?”

“Of course. Weather reports aren’t too good for tomorrow, but improving on—”

“Here they come.” Tony’s eyes looked away from the three new arrivals in the hall and studied his sherry with disapproval.

Georges registered all three of them: a light-haired man, balding, of medium height; a woman with short red hair, a patterned dress and cardigan; a man, also of medium height, tanned face, thick dark brown hair, a black moustache. Both men wore blue suits, white shirts, black ties. Georges shook his head, finished his drink. “I give up.”

“The dark-haired one.”

Nothing like his photograph, thought Georges, remembering its details. Nothing. In Genoa, Parracini had been blond, thin on top, with a round fleshy face and a heavy body—corpulent, in fact. “He doesn’t even wear glasses.” Georges’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Contact lenses?”

“The miracles of modern science,” Tony said. “Why don’t you slip out, have a closer look at him? See they all get into the movie safely.”

“All the way?” Georges suggested.

“Might be an idea to mark their position. We may join them later.” And as Georges shot a quick glance at him, Tony said, “Why not? We have to put in an hour and a half until the movie ends. Better there than here, perhaps.” Then, very quickly, “Make sure no one is tailing them.”

So that’s it, thought Georges, already on his feet, excusing himself, moving into the hall. We’re here as added protection for Parracini. And for once, Georges didn’t think old Tony (nine years older than Georges’s thirty) was overworrying. Georges was still slightly shaken by Parracini’s self-confidence, even if an outing of the domestic staff from Garavan House would seem to be normal downstairs procedure: cook, butler, chauffeur out on the town for their night off. He caught up with them as they were about to pass the roulette and baccarat tables. (So far, no customers there.) Brigitte was already complaining about the coolness of the air, while the two men, in comfortably warm jackets, discussed the lighting overhead. Parracini seemed totally natural and quite oblivious to those who passed him. He put on a good show, Georges had to admit. Searching for the price of admission, he angled himself near enough to Parracini to have a front view of the new face. Totally unrecognisable. Reassured, Georges made his way just ahead of them into the cinema, felt its cold air strike the back of his neck, and wondered how long Brigitte in her thin dress and skimpy cardigan would last.