Destiny (60 page)

Christian looked at Edouard apprehensively. For years he had heard much gossip about the ruthlessness of Edouard de Chavigny. Since he had never encountered it, he had discounted the stories, and attributed them to envy. Obviously, Edouard was not a saint in his business dealings—what man as successful as he could be? But Machiavellian, devious, with a killer instinct for the jugular of his opponents and rivals? No, Christian had

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always thought such claims exaggerated. Suddenly he was not so sure, and his new doubts made him fearful.

"Edouard—I've heard of your vendettas," he began lightly. "I hope you're not going to allow this to become one. Lewis Sinclair has done nothing wrong. ..."

"A vendetta?" Edouard looked at him coldly. "A vendetta implies passionate emotion, surely? I feel nothing for Lewis Sinclair. Sinclair is purely and simply a means to an end."

Christian looked at him doubtfully. He felt sure Edouard thought he was speaking the truth, but he wondered if that was entirely the case. If Edouard were jealous—and Christian could imagine his being intensely and frighteningly so—then his attitude to Lewis Sinclair could hardly be as coldly logical as he claimed. Edouard, of course, would never admit to himself that he was jealous: he despised all petty emotions, and Christian felt sure that Edouard would classify jealousy as petty. Christian, who knew very well what it was to be eaten alive by that emotion, to feel, day by day, its corrosive effect on the mind and soul, did not share that valuation.

"It is possible, Edouard"—he leaned forward—"it is possible that Lewis Sinclair might be trying to help Helen—isn't it worth remembering that? If there is a connection between them now, she may be grateful to him. . . ." It was the wrong thing to have said: he reahzed that the moment the words were out. Edouard's eyes became even more stony in their regard. He looked at Christian, and then away.

"Yes, well, as you say. That could be the case. I will bear it in mind." He paused, and Christian saw some struggle take place within him. When he looked back, the mask of cold efficiency had slipped just a httle, and the emotion beneath it showed through.

"I have to do this, Christian. I have nothing else to go on. The reports from London are complete, and ..."

"No Helen Hartland?" Christian said gently.

"No birth record for anyone of that name who is conceivably of the correct age." He paused. "No record of any books by an author called Violet Hartland in the British Library. No pilot by the name of Hartland flew with the RAF during the war." He aligned the pen on his desk with the folder in front of him.

Christian looked away. Edouard had admitted before that Helene might have hed—but not about anything important, he had felt. Christian sighed: was a name not important, or her parentage?

Edouard cleared his throat. "You remember—she said she had been brought up in Devon. In a village also called Hartland. She continued to hve there, after her mother died, with an aunt. ..."

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"I remember, yes. She mentioned it to me, too, at dinner."

"There is a village called Hartland in Devon. A small place, quite remote, on the north coast. My aides . . ." He paused. "I'm having checks made now. I expect it will come to nothing, but—if I did decide to go there myself, I wondered. Christian, would you come with me?"

The appeal in his eyes was naked. Christian felt a rush of affection for him.

"Of course I will," he answered quietly. "You know that. And meanwhile?"

"Meanwhile, I shall trace Lewis Sinclair. I shall find out where he's gone."

Christian looked at him in bewilderment. Edouard sounded so very certain.

"Can you do that, Edouard? I'd have thought that if a person wanted to disappear for a while, it would be quite easy. After all, Sinclair could be practically anywhere in Europe by now. For all we know he could have gone straight to the airport, and taken a plane to New York, or Boston, or . . ."

"He didn't do that. My aides have checks on all the transatlantic flights out of Paris. The minute Lewis Sinclair gets his passport stamped, or makes a plane reservation, I shall know about it."

"And if he doesn't? If he takes a train? Or a car? If he hitchhikes? If he just holes up in Paris? Edouard—it's impossible. How do you trace him then?"

Edouard stood up. "It's very simple." He shrugged. "In the modem world there is one almost infallible way of tracing anyone. ..."

"And that is?"

"My dear Christian. Money.'"''

When Christian had left him, Edouard picked up his private-line telephone and put a call through the operator to a number in New

York. His friend on Wall Street, a man of power and influence whose

investment bank was a household name, came directly on the line.

Edouard went straight to the point.

"You've spoken to your contact in the Internal Revenue Service?" "Yes, I have. And he's come through. Well, he owes me a favor. He can

start monitoring the details of all Lewis Sinclair's accounts by tomorrow.

Possibly later today. But you have to realize, Edouard, this is against just

about every state and federal regulation there is. It's highly irregular. I had

to lean on him hard, and I didn't like doing it. ..."

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"I appreciate that. Thank you. However, we both know that this can be done, and is done—whatever the laws. ..."

"Yes, but Jesus, Edouard. I just hope there's a really good reason for this. I mean, Robert Sinclair is an old friend of mine. We were at college together. God, when I go up to Boston, I stay at his place. We play golf together. Emily Sinclair and my wife are Uke that. They've been friends since Chapin. ..."

"There is a good reason. I can't say more than that. I give you my absolute assurance, my word, that any information I receive will not fall into the wrong hands, or be used to the detriment of Lewis Sinclair or his family in any way. ..."

The banker sighed. "All right. Consider it done. Now, tell me what you'll want to know."

"Everything. I am interested in his checking accounts, you understand. I want every withdrawal monitored. I want all details of moneys taken out: when, how much, and where. I am particularly interested in any moneys transferred abroad, to Europe for instance, no matter how small the amount. Transfers to foreign banks. Checks drawn at shops or hotels. Do you have the details of any credit cards?"

"I have the numbers in front of me now."

"Excellent. Then I should like those accounts monitored also. Plus any addresses with which the card companies or his bank correspond. If Lewis Sinclair writes a check to a drugstore for a bottle of aspirin, I want to know about it." He paused. "Is that enough for you to go with?" There was a chuckle at the other end of the line; the grudging admiration of one ruthlessly thorough man for another.

"I guess it gets us started. And you want this information when?"

Edouard smiled. "We know each other," he said. "By yesterday." And he hung up.

In the silence that followed, Edouard felt, as he always felt at moments of great stress, very calm. He looked around his office, at the cool understated room, the austere furnishings, the paintings. He looked at the turmoil of paint in the Pollock, and quite suddenly, as the pain came back, the pain and confusion of her leaving, he bent his head and buried it in his hands.

Why? A voice cried in his mind as the images flashed across the dark retina of his closed eyes: his father, Gregoire, Jean-Paul, Isobel, their baby, Helene: the people he had loved, the people he had lost, one after another. Why, why, whyl

378 • SALLY BEAUMAN

In 1959 the district of Trastevere in Rome had yet to become fashionable. Trastevere was then much as it had been for centuries—a poor area of the city, its narrow streets and beautiful piazzas, its ancient churches and its palaces penetrated by very few tourists. Located on the left bank of the Tiber, well away from the expensive shops, smart hotels, and most visited sites, Trastevere was raucous, crowded, cheap, and very beautiful.

Thaddeus Angelini, whose ancestors came from this part of Rome, looked at the narrow shaded passageways, at the balconies hung with cages of songbirds, and at the wash strung across the streets like flags, and thought it was the perfect place in which to film. Lewis Sinclair looked at the crowded street markets, the inexpensive cafes and restaurants which hummed with life day and night, and thought it was a perfect place in which to disappear. Helene's opinion was unheard: it occurred neither to Thad nor to Lewis to consult her.

They had arrived there the previous night, after a long and circuitous train journey. Now, it was mid-afternoon, the sun was warm, and Lewis Sinclair had left in search, he explained to the others, of a headquarters for them. A luxurious headquarters, he had added with a smile. Trastevere was picturesque, but he did not intend to spend the next two months sleeping in that flea pit of a pensione.

Helene sat alone with Thad at a cafe in the Piazza di Santa Maria, opposite the church that was said to be the oldest in Rome. In front of her was a small cup of espresso, untouched. Thad was talking, a low monologue which had already continued for some half an hour, and Helene, hardly hearing him, was looking at the beautiful mosaic that ornamented the fa§ade of Santa Maria, and which depicted, on either side of the Madonna, five wise virgins, and five foolish ones.

Thad was describing, in detail, a dolly shot used by Hitchcock in Vertigo. Helene's head ached; she still felt sick, and the procession of virgins on the church facade seemed to mist, and then to clarify alarmingly, partly because she was finding it difficult to blink back the tears.

What she had done was irrevocable: so she told herself again and again. She had decided to do it, and she had done it—and there could be no going back.

It had been hard to leave. She had planned it all so very carefully and precisely, sure that it was the best way, because any other way would have involved explanations. She had packed her suitcase, and folded the Hermes gloves, and laid the ring on top of them, and then—when it was time to leave and to run away—she had stopped; it seemed so terrible to leave

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without saying anything. She wanted to leave him a note, a letter—something. But if she began writing, she might never find the strength to go.

So she slipped out of the huge house, feeling like a thief, and after that it was simple: one lift, all the way to Paris. In Paris, she'd gone back to Lewis and Thad, and slept in Sharon's old room, because she couldn't think, once she got there, where else to go, or what to do next. Lewis had wanted to ask her questions, but Thad had made him be quiet. He shoved Lewis out of the room, and looked at her for a long time, chewing on his beard thoughtfully. Then he said, "I knew you'd come back. You had to. We've got the money. We're going to make the movie. You can be in it, if you like. You know, the way I told you."

And it was true, he had talked about making a film, when she stayed there before. Then, Helene had believed him; you did, somehow, when Thad talked. Later, when she was in the Loire, everything Thad had said had seemed unreal—boasting, maybe. Things like that didn't happen, not in real life. And anyway, Thad wasn't real to her anymore, and neither was Lewis. Only Edouard was real.

Now, when he talked about the film, and explained that Lewis was helping to back it, Helene hstened, and felt she did not care very much. Thad and Lewis, however, were both very excited about the project, and they talked about it a lot.

"It's a small part," Lewis said.

"It was a small part." Thad corrected him. "It's getting bigger,"

"And it's low budget. Experimental," Lewis added.

Thad sucked his teeth. He said. "Oh, Jesus. Just shut up, will you, Lewis?"

Helene sat and hstened to them. Her head felt tight and hot, and all she could think about was whether Edouard would come after her, whether he would look for her.

She thought he must, and the second day, she slipped out of the house and sat near the Cafe Strasbourg. Every time a black car passed, her heart seemed to stop beating. But none of them was Edouard's car, and by the end of the afternoon, she realized he was not going to come. That was what she had intended, but the realization hurt her very much.

She went back to the roominghouse and tried to make plans. They were going to make the film in Rome; Thad was vague as to how long it would take. They would pay her some money, of course. Not very much, but as much as they could, and her expenses while she was in Rome.

"Don't worry," Lewis said. "You'll be with us. We'll look after you."

Helene wondered if she could do it; she wondered if there was time. Her body was still unchanged now, but what if the baby suddenly started to

380 • SALLY BEAUMAN

grow? What if she began to swell up like a melon when they were halfway through? What would she do then?

But no, she was almost sure that you could hide it, until the fourth month anyway, and by then they should be finished.

She said "yes" in the end, and Lewis was thrilled. Thad just shrugged; the possibility of her saying "no" had apparently never occurred to him. Helene shut herself in Sharon's room and told herself this was the best thing that could have happened. She would be earning some money; she would have somewhere to stay; she would be beginning her career. She began to cry.

That was the third day. Late that night, or rather, very early the next morning, Lewis came into her room and woke her up.

"We have to go," he said a httle evasively. "Split. You know."

Helene struggled up in bed, and stared at him uncertainly.

"Go? Go where? Why? What time is it?"

"Nearly five." Lewis smiled. "We're going to Rome. Thad's decided to get started—and we have to go anyway. Problems."

"Problems? What kind of problems?"

"Money. Rent. The usual kind. It's better if we leave now—can you get dressed quickly?"

Somehow, she hadn't quite believed him. Lewis, with money problems? It didn't make sense. But she couldn't stay here without Lewis and Thad; all her money was used up. She got out of bed tiredly, waited for the waves of nausea to recede, and then packed her suitcase.