The French Kiss (7 page)

“As an undesirable guest?”

“Yes.”

“And you would arrange it yourself if need be?”

“Personally,” he affirmed.

Neat, like I said. So neat that it irritated me. As it happened I liked Paris, liked it very much.

“I'd feel a certain obligation to consult my client first,” I said.

He shook his head. “Of course I'm sure I don't need to explain …” he began.

But at this point the minister cut him off with a wave. He leaned forward impatiently out of the shadows, the light shining on his sharp Gallic features.

“You are referring to Bernard Lascault,” he said, making a statement out of the question.

“That's right.”

“Then I'll have you know I talked to him, just a few minutes ago.”

I didn't say anything. He stared at me, his eyes black and quick. Then he added, in a definitive tone:

“Bernard Lascault has informed me categorically that he has never seen nor heard of you, nor engaged you to work for him in any capacity whatsoever.”

FIVE

The paris gallery of Arts Mondiaux, S.A., was in a homey vault in one of the arcades off the Faubourg St. Honoré. It was all glass and high ceilings and tony recessed lighting, and though you couldn't see a sign of security, you got the feeling that if you so much as blew your nose in front of one of the paintings it would set off an alarm in the Elysée down the street and bring the President of the Republic on the double. As it was, no sooner did I set foot inside than one of those high-shouldered, power-driven manikins came pirouetting out between the partitions.

“Monsieur?”

“I'd like to see something about
this
big by
this
,” I said in my best French. “It has to be green and blue predominantly. It's to go with a rug.”

This broke his stride momentarily.

“Would you just care to look around?” he recovered in English. “If you have any questions, I'd be more than happy to answer them.”

“Some other time,” I said. “In fact I'd like to see Mr. Lascault.”

“Mr. Lascault?” One eyebrow went up. Eyebrows must have been in that season. “Mr.
Bernard
Lascault?”

“That's right. Are there any others?”

The second eyebrow joined the first, followed by the shoulder pads. There seemed to be some connection, though you couldn't see the wires.

“I'm sorry. I'm afraid that would be quite imposs …”

“Look,” I broke in. “Suppose I came in here with a certified check for a million dollars and said I was ready to buy, say, Blumenstocks, what would you do?”

The shoulder pads dropped, followed by the eyebrows, followed by that bored expression he must have used on tourists from Dallas.

“I'm afraid Bernard's not here. He's very seldom …”

“But this is Arts Mondiaux, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid we're only the gallery. The offices aren't here.”

“Where are they?”

“It's in the Bottin.”

“The Bottin?”

“The directory.”

“I don't happen to be carrying one around.”

“Then you could ask for directory assistance,” he said, topping me.

I smiled at him, most winningly. I was from out of town, I said, and an old friend of Bernard's, and what with my ineffable charm, I wormed it out of him. He wrote out the address on a gallery card, and I even got my palm tickled in the bargain.

I'd had a long night's sleep, a long bath, and a longer trans-world conversation with an old soak called Freddy Schwartz, who, drunk or sober, is the best source of information I know west of the Rockies. After that I'd had breakfast in the hotel garden, and then I'd picked up the Giulia by the Canal St. Martin. The sun was out, so were the fishermen, and I was off to discover why someone who headed such a farflung organ-eye-zation had hired me to find out what Freddy Schwartz had dug up on the spot in a single afternoon. And then why he'd fired me before I'd had a chance to show him half my stuff.

Call it curiosity if you like. But I had some other things in mind too.

After I left the gallery I pointed the Giulia up the Champs Élysées and sat back and admired the view. It's something to admire too on a day like that: the façades sunning themselves in even gray lines, and the clouds chasing each other eastward across that wide and horizontal sky, and the Arc de Triomphe presiding over it all. Not that it's the Paris Hemingway saw. When you look up toward the Arc now from that angle, a trick of perspective makes the towers seem to be rising right behind it, and you get one of those weird shrinking-world sensations, like they'd dried up the ocean to save space and that's New York City just over there, folks, where Paris ends. Only once you get up to the Etoile, which has been renamed Place Charles de Gaulle, you've still a chunk of the city to cross, followed by Neuilly, followed by the river, all on a broad straight avenue, which has been renamed Avenue Charles de Gaulle, and by this time you're thinking: that's not New York over there, that's Moon City, and that they could have fit Manhattan in between the skyscrapers if they'd wanted to. Maybe taken by themselves the new towers are only dime-a-dozen modern, but the ensemble is worthy of the mad old Caesar who thought it up, and I still haven't figured out why they haven't changed that name too.

As it is, it's called La Défense, and there are only two troubles with it. One is that it's still not finished, the other, that whoever laid it out forgot that mere humanoids like you and me were going to use it. Following the signs, I ended up parking the Giulia in some sixth sub-basement down below the sewer line and picking my way through a couple of miles of construction sites, all this without a miner's helmet. The moles who were doing the digging didn't speak any language known to mankind, and it was sheer luck that I found the tower I was looking for. But then an elevator zoomed me up like a Minuteman missile shooting out of a silo, and in no time at all I was back in the real world of soft carpets, Mantovani, and pushbutton phones, and doing my million-dollar certified-check bit for a frosted blond robot seated behind a kidney-shaped reception desk with nothing on it but her fingernails.

Not that it worked any better on her. No, I didn't have an appointment, but wouldn't she tell Monsieur Lascault I was there? Monsieur Lascault wasn't in his office. Was Monsieur Lascault simply having an early lunch and would he be back later? Monsieur Lascault wasn't expected in at all. Then what about tomorrow? She didn't know about tomorrow. Then what about next week? month? year?

At each of these questions the frosted blond thought a minute, then tapped out a combination on her console and checked at the other end. I kept at it until the computer itself came out to see who was crossing all the wires.

The computer's name was Madame Ducrot, and she had steely gray hair. She was Bernard Lascault's private secretary. She even had an office with a window in it and a view of another tower, although I didn't get to see it right off. First we parleyed back and forth a while in the reception area, until I pulled his check out of my pocket, a little frayed around the edges but none the worse for wear.

It wasn't made out for a million dollars, much less certified, but Bernard Lascault had signed it and it was drawn on an Arts Mondiaux account.

“This is highly irregular,” said Madame Ducrot.

“On the contrary, it looks very regular to me.”

“But I know nothing about it.”

“Even so,” I said, “you ought to be able to claim it as a business expense.”

“But you haven't deposited it. Why haven't you deposited it?”

“Well if I'd deposited it, I wouldn't be having the pleasure of chatting with you now, would I?”

This seemed to melt a terminal or two. She flustered and simpered and patted her hair and glanced at the blond receptionist, and she didn't recover till she was safely in her office, with her desk between us and the check and my card spread out in front of her.

“Now Monsieur Cage, what exactly is it you want?”

“I want to talk to your boss.”

“I've already told you: that's impossible. He's not in.”

“When will he be back?”

“I don't know. He left no instructions.”

“I think you should call him then.”

“Impossible. Quite impossible.”

“Really?” It was my turn to try the eyebrow bit. I guess it was contagious, and to judge from La Ducrot's reaction, I wasn't half-bad at it for a beginner. “An executive secretary who doesn't know where her boss is? Come come, Madame.”

“But why is it so imperative that you see him?” she persisted. “Isn't it something we could help you with?”

“Normally I'd be delighted by that. But you see, Bernard Lascault retained me to get some information for him. I gather he didn't see fit to tell you about it, but by his own admission, he went to some considerable trouble to hire me. Not to say expense.”

“Are you a private investigator, Monsieur?”

“Something like that.”

Involuntarily her hand started up toward her hair.

“Well why don't you just make a written report then? I'll be glad to bring it to his attention.”

I shook my head. “It occurs to me he might not want it in writing,” I said, leaning forward. “Lest it fall into the wrong hands.”

“Oh?”

God knows what seamy area of Bernard Lascault's life, public or private, she thought I'd been digging into. I didn't elucidate. I simply narrowed my eyes a little the way you're supposed to, and let her imagination do the rest.

She hesitated.

“I think you should call him, Madame,” I said quietly. “Now. I'll take full responsibility for it.”

By this time I had worked my way around to her side of the desk.

“It's not that …” she began nervously. But then, changing her mind, she took her receiver off the hook and quickly punched out a combination of her own.

“Please!” she said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “Please be seated!”

Even computers, it seems, have lurid imaginations.

I retreated and sat down.

There was no answer at the first number she tried, and whoever answered the second time wasn't on for long. La Ducrot announced herself, and then another voice broke in, and it wasn't Bernard Lascault's either in pitch or decibels. I couldn't make out the words, but it was one of those voices that don't need the telephone system to be heard. I caught it across the desk—loud, shrill, and angry—and lest there be any doubt in my mind, the secretary's expression did the rest.

“Who was that?” I said once she'd hung up.

She kept her hand clasped to the receiver. The backs of her knuckles had turned white.

“Madame Lasc …” she started, then jerking her head furiously in my direction: “That's none of your business!”

“What's the trouble?” I asked mildly. “Things aren't so hot at home?”

Her lips tightened. She started to retort, but her emotions caught her before a word got out. Then suddenly her whole face seemed to disintegrate. She blubbered. She stared out at me through squinting eyes, knowing it wasn't a pretty sight but helpless to do anything about it.

I reached for a handkerchief, but waving me off with her head, she opened a desk drawer and pulled a handful of Kleenexes from a box. With one wad she blew her nose, hard, then wiped at her eyes with another.

The storm blew past.

“I'm sorry, Monsieur,” she said. “I …” She hiccuped, then mastered her hiccups. “I can do nothing more for you. I have your card. If you'll give me your address and number, I'll tell Monsieur Lascault you were here.”

She reached out, but you've got to get up pretty early in the morning to beat me to the draw. While her hand was still in mid-air, I had the check folded in mine and halfway into my pocket.

“Never mind,” I told her, patting her knuckles. “He knows where to find me.”

As it was, she'd given me something to go on. Not a lot maybe, but you learn to make do. And more, as it turned out, than I'd bargained for.

The principal actors in the situation had all gone to ground. Before picking up the Giulia that morning I'd made a run past the studio. The downstairs door had been wide open, but there wasn't a sign of life on any of the landings. The studio itself was locked. I got the door open with my trusty hairpin and walked in. The only thing missing from when I'd last seen it, as far as I could remember, was William Rillington's work-in-progress. The Law, I figured, had gone in for art collecting.

Now, after leaving Arts Mondiaux, I drove back into Paris and over to Al Dove's. A gendarme was standing duty downstairs under the glass canopy, a real one this time.

He unfolded from the wall as I approached and blocked the entrance. At the same time he touched two fingers to the bill of his kepi.

“Stand aside, my fine fellow,” I said. “I've an appointment with Alan Dove.”

“No one's allowed in, Monsieur.”

“Not allowed in? What do you mean, ‘no one's allowed in?' I've got an appointment.”

“Monsieur Dove's not here, Monsieur.”

“Not
here
?” I glanced impatiently at my watch. “Well? Where is he? This is absurd! I'll have you know I've got an appointment to see his collection!”

The gendarme shrugged, but he stood his ground. I tried to maneuver around him but his body cut down the angle. We bumped.

“No one's allowed in without special authorization, Monsieur.”

“Special authorization? But this is an outrage! I don't need special authorization, my good man, don't you know who you're talking to?” He didn't seem to at that. “Well? Where do I have to go to get this special authorization?”

“To the police, Monsieur.”

“The
police
? But you're the police, aren't you? Say, but nothing's happened to him, has it? What's happened to him? I demand to know what's happened to Alan Dove!”