The Venetian Affair (15 page)

Fenner was shocked into silence.

“I am not playing wild hunches, Bill. There was a guy in the lobby whose eyes popped when he saw you were checking
out. He made a quick dash to a telephone, a very quick call, and another quick dash outside just in time to note the Citroën driving off. Fortunately for us, taxis are scarce at this time of night. Since honking was banned, I guess cab drivers have lost some of their incentive. Anyway, our pop-eyed friend couldn’t quite reach us by the time we changed cars. A taxi did chug past at full tilt, though, before I switched on our engine.” Carlson began humming again. This time it was a neatly ordered snatch of Bach.

“And who the hell is Kalganov?” Fenner asked angrily, transferring his annoyance on to the strange name.

Carlson finished humming the last line of
Sheep May Safely Graze
. “Soothing,” he said. “Encouraging, too. Just kill all the bad wolves, and you can eat in peace.” Ahead of them was an avenue of giant movie houses, neon lights as bright as day, broad sidewalks with innumerable cafés and tables and people gawking at the slowed automobiles. So they swung left from the Champs-Elysées, and travelled gently through quieter, residential streets in a leisurely detour back towards the Seine.

“Who is Kalganov?” Fenner asked after a silent five minutes.

“A name to remember,” Carlson said briefly. “Not to repeat, not to say aloud, just to remember.”

“Was Kalganov your business in Paris?”

“And not to ask questions about, either,” Carlson told him sharply. “Sorry, Bill—I’ve got a load on my mind. I’ve been spending the last hour talking about Kalganov. It’s a name that has haunted many of us for years. There isn’t an allied Intelligence unit that hasn’t been interested.”

And in the last hour, Kalganov was no longer a name but a man, to be found right here in Paris? Fenner studied the small
smile on Carlson’s lips. “Is he another of those terrorist types?” he asked most innocently.

Carlson’s smile broke into a laugh. “That’s about it,” he said noncommittally. “By the way, how much did Vaugiroud tell you?”

The question was not as idly curious as Carlson’s voice made it. It had purpose. Two purposes, Fenner decided: one is to find out what I know, the other to get me off the subject of Kalganov. I’ve had a quiet warning about that name—why else the calculated indiscretion on Carlson’s part? All right, I’ll tell him what I know. That may be the quickest way to get back to Kalganov. Any man who thinks he could forcibly kidnap and question me is slightly more than a name to remember, as far as I’m concerned.

Fenner began his answer. He kept it as brief as he could, but factual. Carlson listened intently. By the time they had crossed the Seine, and were heading back to the old centre of Paris, the story of Jacques who became Fernand Lenoir was completed. “I still don’t know how Lenoir got away with it for all these years,” Fenner ended.

“Not too difficult. He has always been Fernand Lenoir except for the three years he worked as Jacques in the Resistance. All he had to worry about was any ghost from that period of his life returning to haunt him. He thought there were none.”

“He was born Fernand Lenoir, built up his life as Fernand Lenoir?”

“And a very pleasant life, too.”

So Lenoir was not the puzzling Mr. Kalganov. “Does the same go for his friend the film producer?”

“Robert Wahl? He is a very different pattern from Lenoir.
He wasn’t born here. Didn’t grow up here. He arrived in 1946, a survivor from a Nazi concentration camp in East Germany.”

“Whose records are all in Russian hands. No family, I suppose?”

“All died in the camp.”

“Where was he born and brought up?”

“Leipzig, supposedly.”

Also in Russian hands, Fenner thought. “No questions ever asked?”

“As far as many Frenchmen are concerned, a man’s life only begins from the instant he arrives in Paris. Besides, he was clever enough to work his way into the intellectual camp. He was interested in writers, started a little magazine.”

“That takes money.”

“His family had money. Deposited safely in Switzerland, it seems. And everything he touched seemed to make just enough to let him branch out farther.”

“One of those lucky guys.”

“One of those well-provided guys.”

“Subsidised?”

“Must have been. Wahl’s projects weren’t as successful financially as people think.”

“So he began with a little magazine—” Fenner waited. No response. He said jokingly, “You know, I could find out all about his career, as far as my friends in Paris know it.”

Carlson shook his head. “I bet you would, too. All right. First, the magazine; a few years later, a small radio station; after that, controlling interests in two provincial newspapers; next, two short films with excellent photography and despairing themes; and now, he wants to make another movie. Scene: American
Zone in West Berlin. He has applied for our permission. He has even sent us a copy of the shooting script to show us the story is nonpolitical, harmless.”

“West Berlin? Why didn’t he choose East Berlin?”

“That is what interested us. We knew Wahl was far to the left. That’s no secret. He doesn’t like Americans. That’s no secret, either. And there are several anti-American Leftists among the French intellectuals: that’s their normal conformity. Only, why should one of them choose to make a film in West Berlin?”

“Perhaps,” Fenner said, with a grin, “he is a reforming character. Wants to make up and be friends.”

“We thought of that. We also knew that if we refused him without adequate reason, we’d have his friends chanting about American intolerance and hysteria.”

“So you came to Paris to find out more about Robert Wahl?”

Carlson nodded. “And kept running up against the same blank wall. Even non-Communists would say, ‘Yes, he is obviously in sympathy with the Communists, perhaps he is even a party member. But that isn’t against the law. Besides, you know our Communist intellectuals: they talk ideas, make propaganda, but they aren’t militant. They may be annoying, but they are harmless. They want peace, not war. They quote
Izvestia
, but they weren’t trained under Beria. They don’t torture or kill.’ Yes, that was always the reaction. Robert Wahl was honest because he did not disguise his opinions. He was sincere. Therefore, he was pure in heart.” Carlson’s laugh was brief and bitter. “Not trained under Beria! My—” He concentrated on the curve of the Seine, its black waters gleaming in golden streaks under the lights edging its banks.

“So until Vaugiroud identified Wahl today, he was in the
clear?” That was a depressing thought.

“Not quite,” Carlson said sharply. He spoke like a man who had done a good deal of work and saw the credit being taken from him. “I had already made out a report against his project in West Berlin. My reasons were valid. Not based on his opinions, either.”

“On what, then?”

“You want to know everything, don’t you?” Carlson was amused.

“Not everything,” Fenner said, very gently. “Just enough to flesh out the skeleton. If Wahl is as dangerous as Vaugiroud implied—I’d like to know what league I’m playing in.”

“You aren’t playing in it any longer.”

“Who is to decide that? You or Robert Wahl? You know, his name is familiar.” Then Fenner remembered, at last, the article that the honest and sincere Mr. Wahl had written. On Cuba. And one some years ago, when Fenner had been interested in the Far East, on Indochina just before the French backed out. “He travels, doesn’t he?”

“He gets around,” Carlson said. He glanced sharply at Fenner: how much did he really know? Was that only a harmless question about Robert Wahl’s travels? “We’ll make a little detour here,” he said, and swung the car away from the Seine. At this moment, he was a sorely tried security officer, whose own hard-earned triumph of the last few weeks had consisted of a detailed study of Robert Wahl’s journeys abroad. Their reasons were always admirable: a search for new talent among foreign writers or actors; original backgrounds for movies (which never got made); material for travel articles; attendance at some international conference. But Wahl’s visits abroad, when examined closely,
formed a disquieting pattern. He arrived in a time of mounting crisis, and just after he departed there had always been some unexplained troubles added to the general strain: riots which erupted violently, bombings, assassination attempts. Situations always deteriorated after Wahl came on the scene, whether it was to attend a student peace conference or give a series of lectures. This could be coincidence, Carlson had noted in his report. But regularly occurring coincidence deserved closer examination. Until that was made, he advised against any visit by Robert Wahl to West Berlin. Period. Triple period, in fact.

“Lots of detours,” Fenner observed caustically. And the biggest one, so far, had been around Kalganov. “If we make a left turn here,” he suggested humorously as he looked out at the busy boulevard, “we can drop in at the Café Racine for a nightcap.”

“No more visits for you there, my friend,” Carlson said warningly. “And we’ll postpone that left turn for another block. I’m taking you to the Ile Saint-Louis. Any objections?”

“Not to that.”

“To what?”

“To being kidnapped.” Fenner’s grin was wide. “Even one of the best views in Paris won’t compensate for a locked door.”

Carlson looked shocked. “We’re only keeping you safe—”

“Sure. That’s easier than telling me what’s going on.”

“Do you really enjoy making my life miserable?”

“At present,” Fenner said, “mine is no sweet-smelling bed of roses.”

“It could be worse.”

“I planned it quite differently. This, Carlson, is my first night in Paris.”

“And this is my last,” Carlson said quietly. “Helluva way to celebrate, I agree.” He was smiling though. Fenner’s complaint had been more cheerful than he had expected. Fenner would co-operate, he was sure. Fairly sure. But how much more will I have to tell him to keep him quiet for a week-end behind a locked door? Of course, it could be less time than that. The too long and happy career of Robert Wahl might be ending even now. The quiet hunt was on. Bernard, at the Sûreté, and his men were on the job. “You were only going to spend it sleeping. Alone, too. You can do that just as well here.”

Fenner looked around him with sudden interest. They were driving on to the peaceful island of Saint-Louis, turning into a placid street edged on one side by tall houses, silent and proud, and on the other by the quick dark current of the Seine. Across the waters lay a second island, where Notre-Dame rose with flying buttresses into the pale glow of a young moon lazing over a cloudless ink-blue sky. “Except,” he told Carlson, “this is the kind of place where a pretty girl should be more than a dream.”

“You’ll find everything else. Running water, electric lights, all modern comforts, monsieur will be happy here; cheap at the price.” He stopped the car, handed Fenner a key. “Top floor, front. Marked 4A. You can’t miss it.”

“Concierge?”

“Expects you. Won’t be visible. I’ll get the car parked away from here. See you in ten minutes.” As Fenner looked at him, he added, “Just want to see you tucked up for the night. I take my kidnapping jobs very seriously. Hey, don’t forget your coat!” He threw it over Fenner’s arm. “You’ll find the Scotch in the first cabinet in the pantry.” There was a small salute for
a laden Fenner, and the car moved off, smoothly, into the quiet and gentle shadows.

More than running water had been added to the apartment on the top floor. There was an efficient kitchen, a gleaming bathroom, a well-stocked pantry. A clutter of small cubicles had lost their dividing wall to form a pleasant living-room with three windows and a view toward Notre-Dame. The room had low, simple furniture, books and pictures on white walls, white rugs on polished wood floor, white roses in a green bowl on the desk. Fenner raised an eyebrow and removed his luggage, quickly, into the bedroom at the back of the apartment. It was marked by simplicity, comfort stripped down to the essentials, a place to sleep deeply with no intrusions except from the closet (cleared for his use and the only one left unlocked) which had a haunting scent, faint, delicate, lingering. Behind the shower curtain in the bathroom, he found a flowered cap, a charming piece of rubberised froth, forgotten on a faucet. The man who lived here had good taste in women as well as in pictures. But white rugs? Fenner raised his eyebrow again.

The Scotch, however, was authentic. There was ice, too, in the refrigerator. Standing at an opened window, looking at the view, he was a reasonably contented man.

When Carlson arrived, Bill Fenner was still standing at the window with the living-room in darkness. “Another admirer of the old lady, I see.” He groped his way expertly to a chair. “She’ll still be there tomorrow,” he suggested.

Fenner had a last look at Notre-Dame, switched on the lamp at the desk, and pulled the white tweed curtains together. “Big and black and impressive. The proportions never seem quite right, and yet there’s something about her... Why didn’t they add the spires, I wonder.”

“Spent too much on the gargoyles.”

“A couple of centuries to put together, and still here after eight hundred years.”

“That’s how to build,” Carlson agreed. “None of that planned-obsolescence stuff about her.”

“Nor was there for St Paul’s or Cologne,” Fenner reminded him.

“She was lucky. At a price though.”

Which is still being paid, Fenner thought. He poured two man-sized drinks in outsize glasses. “Hope your friend doesn’t object to having his Scotch vanish.”

“We’ll replace.”

“Who is he?”

“An illustrator. Good guy.”

“He does all right.”

“You like it?”

“I wouldn’t mind having an apartment on this island myself—” Fenner stopped. “Was that why you chose this place? So that I’d stay put for a couple of days without much kicking or screaming?”

“You might as well be comfortable.”

“Look, Carlson—”

“Neill is shorter. Saves the breath.”

“I’m not staying put.”

“Give me that drink, Bill. Thanks. Well—” He raised his glass. He began drinking, thirstily.