The Rendezvous (26 page)

‘Sorry to disturb you, Joe. Any news?'

‘Yes, we've got a new lead. At least we think so, and we're checking on it fast; we've had quite a number of false trails, you know; this could be another one. How are you?'

‘I'm fine. I'm at home tonight, so I thought I'd call. I tried to talk to Bob, but he won't speak to me. He isn't talking to Ruth either.'

‘I know,' Joe said. ‘I'm sorry for the poor guy. He's got to defend her, and he's not had much help from any of us.'

‘Maybe that's because there's not much of a defence; I keep seeing those pictures, Joe, and I'm on sleeping pills right now. How's Vera?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘She's left me, but I guess she's all right. I'm sorry about those photographs; you'll forget them after a while.'

‘Maybe. I'm sorry about Vera. I didn't know. What happened?'

‘Too many things,' he said. ‘She couldn't take them all at once. I don't blame her. What are you doing now, Julia?' He hadn't realised how lonely he was until she called and he began to talk to someone. It was still early and he hadn't eaten. ‘Why don't you let me take you out for dinner?'

‘Why not?' she said. ‘I'm not doing anything, you're not doing anything either. Come on over, Joe, and we'll have a drink first. I'd like to hear about this lead you think you've got.'

‘I'll be round in fifteen minutes. Where would you like to eat?'

‘Somewhere quiet,' Julia said. ‘I don't think either of us feel like El Morocco at the moment.'

They sat on in her living room, drinking until they discovered it was too late to go to a restaurant, so she made an omelet and they ate together in the kitchen.

‘You really think they've gone North?'

‘I just don't know. But it could be right. The descriptions fitted, the initials on the suitcase, even the car make. Bob keeps a Ford in Boston and that's what they drove off in. I think we're on to them, Julia. I think the bastard's making for Canada, because we expect him to go south again. And they can get across. We'll probably lose them if they do. It's a big country and it's sparse; there are thousands of miles and Christ knows how many routes to be covered. We're just not that organised.'

‘You seem pretty well organised to me,' Julia said. ‘Joe, how does this thing work? How did you get the tip that they might be on Lake Itasca?'

‘It's not too difficult,' he said. ‘I'm a little high, Julia, and I'm talking too much. But I'll tell you this. We have a system, and it works through ordinary people – people like this guy with the garage. They don't go round with guns or codes or anything like that; they just get a word now and then to keep their eyes open and call a certain number. Maybe nobody contacts them in years. But if the need comes up, like now, we have people all over the States and they have friends. It's one of the great complaints about us. We're everywhere, like bad weather.'

‘The woman noticed her suitcase,' Julia said. ‘What a bloody stupid thing to overlook.'

‘About as bloody stupid as taking her with him,' Joe said. ‘But he did. Do you still feel bad about him – about yourself and him, I mean?'

‘I don't think about it,' she said. ‘Funny thing Joe, I don't want to go out with men, or anything. I think of that bastard and everything in me goes cold. I feel thoroughly dirty. I won't feel clean until he's dead. I'm high too, or I wouldn't have said that.' She lit a cigarette and drew on it. ‘I wanted to marry him. Did you know that? I really wanted to marry him, and I kept asking him and he wouldn't. Jesus, when I think of it. What was wrong with me, Joe? Are women really that blind, that they could go to bed with a man and not sense
anything
about him? I don't count her – she knows, she knows he's a killer and she doesn't mind, but I didn't. I slept in that bed through there with him for two years – I even cooked breakfast for him right here and ate it, sitting like we are now, and I never noticed anything about him. And there must have been something. Nobody can do that and stay the same as other people. I just don't believe it!'

‘If you're looking for an answer from me, I haven't got one,' he said. ‘I spend my life looking into people's motives, digging into the dark places. I'm not prepared to dig for Brunnerman; I don't know whether he's like other people or why he murdered a lot of men, women and children, and I tell you, Julia, I don't care. I just want to see him get it, that's all.'

‘You used to be fond of her,' Julia said. ‘Like a kind of Dutch uncle. Do you care about her now?'

‘No,' he shook his head. ‘I don't give a damn about her either. I better be getting back, it's late. Thanks for dinner, Julia. It was nice.'

‘It was nice for me, too,' she said. ‘Don't sit alone, Joe, just call up and come round any evening.'

‘I will,' he said. ‘Good night.'

‘That's a nice car,' Leo Hyman said. He was standing in the foreground of a garage ten miles away from the Lake. He had phoned every garage in the area asking if they had a Ford convertible in good condition as he might have a customer. The fourth call brought him out to the small place on the road to Park Rapids. The Ford stood out in the front; it had been polished and it shone in the bright sunshine; it was getting really warm and the trees were coming into flower.

It was one year old, and the number plates were the same as the ones on the car he had been told to look for; the numbers were on a piece of paper in his pocket. ‘The condition's perfect,' the garage owner said. ‘Hood, inside fittings, engine, automatic windows, every god-damned thing. It's like a new auto – I guess it's hardly been on the road at all.'

‘What's the mileage?' Leo asked.

‘Twenty thousand – Boston registration, here, I'll show you the papers.'

They went into the little office at the back beside the petrol pumps and Leo looked through the insurance certificate for the car. It was insured under the name of Robert Garfield Bradford of Boston, Mass.

‘How much?' Leo asked. He gave the papers back.

‘Fifteen-fifty to you. Trade price,' the man said.

‘Okay, I think we'll make a sale,' Leo nodded. ‘I'll have to bring my customer out to see it first. He's a fussy bastard, but if he likes he'll pay. Say two thousand to him, uh? You give me four-fifty bucks and we're all square. Say, what did you trade the owner in exchange for this?'

The man laughed. ‘A Chev,' he said. ‘A nice black Chev; they must have been crazy. I offered them the Chev for a thousand two fifty bucks and the Ford, and they didn't even give me an argument!'

‘How do I know you did a straight trade?' Leo said. He had a square stony face and he watched the man out of eyes like pebbles. ‘I want to see the bill book, bud. If it's okay, maybe we can raise your piece to two thousand. Otherwise, no deal.'

The bill counterfoil was genuine; it gave the same description of the car the man and woman would be travelling in as the man said. A black Chev. But he couldn't remember the number plates and Leo decided not to press it.

‘I'll bring the guy out this afternoon,' he said. ‘I think we'll make the sale.'

When he got back to his garage, he put the call through to the Detroit number again. ‘It's the Bradford car, no doubt about it. Yeah, I saw the papers. It's them, for sure. A Chev, black, a newish model, saloon. No number plate, couldn't get it. He thinks they were headed west. Okay. They should be about five hundred miles on by now. Sure. Macht gut.' He hung up, and went back to his business; there was a car in front waiting for petrol.

The highway stretched in front of them like a broad concrete river, which never seemed to turn. Cars and lorries flashed past them, horns whining and dying away as they disappeared in front. Amstat drove at a steady seventy, which was the minimum speed allowed on the highways; the one thing they couldn't afford was an accident. It was monotonous and nerve-racking; there was a radio which they switched off, because the combination of pop music and the endless traffic noises made it impossible to talk. In the evenings, they stopped at one of the big, brassy motels along the way, booked a room for the night and slept, exhausted.

The relationship was changing between them, subtly, so that they were unaware of the alteration; it had seemed impossible to him that he could feel any deeper for her, both mentally and physically, but this was happening. It gave him a sense of peace which was extraordinary. Love didn't consist of the high peaks of pleasure; it was more potent in him when she was fast asleep beside him, one arm curled over his body, and he tried to shake off her mood of optimism and see the truth of what their life must be. It was his last run. He had said that and he meant it. He could never do this again, whatever the consequences; he had lost the impetus. It was Terese who kept him driving on, studying the maps, encouraging and making light of the situation. It was easy to talk about Portugal and a new life. She, in her sweet ignorance, had no idea of what life meant without the cushioning of a million dollars.

She and he both talked as if Portugal meant safety. He had said that to himself about New York, and seen that it was no safer than Buenos Aires. Nowhere was safe for him. He could make one new life after another, think up a new name and start again, but at any time the façade could collapse, with Brunnerman standing naked in the public view.

And she would share this with him, this anxiety, this uncertainty which he felt would never end except in death. And that was when he discovered the extent to which he really loved her. He had lost hope for himself; he didn't want to die, but she was the one thing that made living worth the trouble. And the same dark red Pontiac had been following them for two days. He had noticed it soon after they left the Stay Way Motel outside Bismarck; he remembered seeing it in the morning, and after they pulled off the highway and ate the packed lunch supplied by the motel, he noticed it again in the afternoon. It was still with them when they stopped for the night; the place was smaller and less brightly decorated; it had a seedy look about it and the cabin wasn't very clean. He suggested they eat in the diner, because the room was so depressing, and there were two men sitting there, already eating. They looked up and stared at him for a moment; then one said something to the other. He hadn't felt fear like that since the retreat from the Eastern Front. She sat opposite him, touching his hand and talking, and he said yes and no, while he watched the two men at the other table. Neither looked up again. When they went back to the cabin, he saw the Pontiac was in the parking lot.

They left at dawn the next day; he paid the bill to the clerk who was half asleep, threw the cabin key down, and got the Chev out and on to the road before it was completely light. All night lorries went down the route like clumsy rockets; there was hardly a private car in sight. He turned to Terese, sitting dozing beside him, and pulled her closer into his side to keep her warm. He kept his foot hard down on the accelerator and by ten o'clock they had covered over two hundred and eighty miles. Traffic was normal now and he had to slow down; he had been driving at a lunatic pace for almost five hours. By noon, he saw the red Pontiac in his rear mirror.

‘Darling,' Terese said. ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing, sweetheart.'

‘You keep looking in the rear mirror – what is it?'

‘There's a car behind; I think the driver's been drinking. I'm going to pull into the next lay-by and let them pass us. We don't want any accidents if they try and overtake. Light me a cigarette.'

She did as he had done that day at Chapaggua, when it was just beginning between them; she put the cigarettes into her mouth and lit both. For some reason, she remembered it though she had lit his cigarette in that way since they left Boston. It made her feel the physical pain of her love for him, that memory and all the memories that came after it. When they pulled into the lay-by, he took her in his arms, and kissed her; holding her close to him he watched the Pontiac with the two men in it flash by them. In those few seconds, he made up his mind what to do, and in the hours before they reached another overnight stop, he thought out how it must be done.

‘Is that Dr. Kaplan?'

‘Speaking,' the voice said on the line.

‘This is Karl Amstat here.' There was a pause and he thought they had been cut off. ‘Hello? Dr. Kaplan – are you there?'

‘Yes. Who is calling again?'

‘Amstat, Karl Amstat. You remember me, we've met often in New York.'

‘Sure, of course I remember you. You were coming to dinner one night, and the next thing we heard you'd left.' Even over the telephone line, Amstat could hear the excited undertone running through the banal half-phrases, so typical of telephone conversations. His instinct had been right; he had picked the only Jew he knew, and it was going to be easier than he had imagined. Kaplan was one of them. He couldn't quite hide the emotion in his voice.

‘I need your help,' he said.

‘Sure, anything I can do at any time. What's your problem?'

‘My real name is Alfred Brunnerman, and your people, the Israelis, are going to kill me. Does this make sense to you?'

‘Yes.' There was no insincerity in the voice now. It answered shortly and it was as curt as his own. ‘It makes plenty of sense. Why are you calling me? What are you asking – mercy?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I've many things to be ashamed of, Kaplan, but being a coward isn't one of them. I have Terese with me, and I want to make a deal. Can I make it with you, or can you make it for me? You're the only Jew I know.'

‘You couldn't know a better, as it happens,' Kaplan said. ‘I can make the deal so long as it doesn't include you.'

‘Your people are after me,' Amstat said. ‘They've been following me for two days. If they come in after me, Terese will get hurt. I don't want that, you understand? I don't want anything to happen to her. You haven't any quarrel with her – I want her safety guaranteed.'