The Venetian Affair (17 page)

“Spitzer will handle his report on the French reaction to the breaking of the moratorium exactly as Lenoir would like him to. Play it down, muted key. Show no alarm, suggest understanding
for Russia’s mistrust which makes her sometimes so ‘difficult,’ drop a reminder of Hiroshima, pull out every psychological stop in the organ accompaniment to the neutralists’ hymn.”

“Does he think Walt Penneyman is a fool?”

“No. He knows that Penneyman, like the rest of us, will be shocked and bewildered. And angry. Angry, too, with the French, who—from Spitzer’s report—seem to equate Soviet Russia and the United States as two similar nuisances. By the time your New York office gets in other reports from Europe, and starts evaluating the news properly, Spitzer’s suggestions will have entered into a lot of subconscious minds. Second reports from France, however corrective, won’t entirely blot first impressions out of some minds. And in Spitzer’s creed, every little helps.”

Fenner nodded. He had seen that happen before. It was one of the nightmares of newspapermen: the dishonest source, the unsuspected twist. The Nazis had been expert at that. There was one major news source in Europe that had scarcely recovered yet from that duplicity. “How the hell did Spitzer ever edge his way into the
Chronicle
?”

“Ballard needed extra help, and Lenoir recommended Spitzer. He has an enormous capacity for work. Most obliging, and no complaints. So promotion came. He is now second to Ballard. He also introduced Ballard to his mistress. What you might call the generally useful type.”

“He will be out on his ear after his handling of today’s news.”

“Will he send it under his own name?” Carlson asked with a most disarming smile.

Of course he wouldn’t. He would send it under Ballard’s name, with the friendly pretence of covering up his boss’s
absence. And Ballard would either have to stand by the report or give himself away.

“Where is he this week-end? Could you reach him?”

“I’d have to ask Spitzer for his address,” Fenner said. He swore under his breath. “Damned if I don’t spike Comrade Spitzer’s little gun.”

“How?” Carlson was suddenly and most cheerfully interested.

“I’ll cable a report to Penneyman myself, say Ballard’s in bed with grippe—”

“Sweet Mademoiselle Grippe,” Carlson said reflectively.

“You’re recovering fast.” And Carlson did look more like the Carlson of that morning.

He said, “It’s pleasant to spike a gun now and then. Perhaps that’s all we can do: keep spiking, until they get good and tired of loading.” Carlson thought over that. “Yes, when our policy is to prove that defence is superior to attack—a most original policy, which would certainly have lost us the American Revolution—the only thing we can do is to keep spiking, call their bluff from the big to the small, let them get away with nothing, wear the bastards down. Bill—thank you! You’ve put life in these old bones. You’ve inspired Carlson’s Doctrine of Peaceful Persuasion, or Co-existence without Burial.” He watched Fenner searching for some writing paper in the desk drawer. “You really are going to cable Penneyman?” he asked delightedly. “What authorities have you interviewed, Mr. Fenner?”

“What authorities has Spitzer interviewed?”

Carlson’s old grin was back in place. “Well, you could guess the official French reaction easily enough: De Gaulle vindicated in refusal to hold conferences with Russians. As the old Cross
of Lorraine proverb runs, ‘He who sits in a bed of poison ivy will sleep facing down for a month.’
Vive la France! Et les pommes de terre frites!
”

“You just go home to bed and leave me to work out a short cable to Penneyman.”

“And how are you going to send it? The transatlantic wires will be crowded out.”

“All right; stay. And take the cable with you. You have ways and means.”

“It seems to me I’ve been doing a lot of work today for Walt Penneyman and his New York
Chronicle.
What would a Congressional committee say?”

“It could be that a Congressional committee may owe him a vote of thanks.”

“He certainly started something when he asked Vaugiroud to analyse a planted lie,” Carlson conceded, and wandered off in the direction of the bathroom as Fenner sat down at the desk. By the time he came back, Fenner had finished wording the cable. It was brief: Ballard was ill and could not make a full report until Monday; Penneyman was to disregard any substitute report meanwhile which did not emphasise official French justification of De Gaulle’s policies or did not credit the French people with the same shock and outraged concern that all free men must feel everywhere.

“Discreet,” was Carlson’s comment as he pocketed the message. “Can’t do anyone any harm except Spitzer.” He started on his way to the door. Casually, he looked at Fenner; most casually, he said, “Talking of discretion—does this project of yours on the national theatre have to deal solely with France? There are other national theatres in Europe, you know.”

“That’s for next year, and the year after that. I’m an optimist, it seems. Even in spite of tonight’s news—” Fenner shrugged.

“I’m with you there. Keep on planning: it’s one form of survival. Provided we keep on spiking those guns, too. But frankly, do you have to stick closely to your plans? Why not switch to England this year? Or Greece? September’s a good month there. Sea is fairly flat; sky is cooling off. Or what about Sweden? Have you seen the girls in Stockholm?”

“You sound like a travel folder.”

“I can’t be a very good one. No interest, Bill?”

Fenner thought of a slender girl with fair hair that fell softly over her brow at the brush of a breeze. Would she wear a little black dress and short white gloves when she sat in the Piazza di San Marco? Whatever she wore, he’d know her. He said, “I wouldn’t mind a trip to Venice.”

Carlson’s slow walk halted. He stood very still. “Venice. Why Venice?” His voice was guarded.

“I like it. September’s a good month there, too. The tourist invasion is just about over; the Fenice opens up.” He was almost talking himself into a visit to one of his favourite places. He grinned, and clamped down on the idea. “Next year, with luck,” Fenner said. “I’ve planned out this September too well to change now.”

“And if you had slipped coming off the plane and broken your leg? What would have happened to your darned plans then?”

Fenner’s answer was to clap Carlson’s shoulder reassuringly. “Again, where do I leave that key?”

“Anywhere you like. The door’s self-locking.” Carlson held out his hand. “Good luck with your book.”

“Good luck to you. And thank your friend for putting me up for the week-end. I’d like to have met her.”

Carlson looked at him.

“Blue-edged writing paper in the desk drawer with blue-lined envelopes, flowered cap behind shower curtains, a scent of jasmine and roses in the closet that took several months to build up. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Elementary, hell. You are at least high-school level. I guess old Rosie was right about you.”

“And what did Rosie have to say?”

“You’ll find out if you don’t take my advice and clear out,” Carlson said blithely. “I tell you, Bill, there are times when the only way to deal with a threat is to run.”

The phrase had an echo of Claire Connor. Fenner’s thoughts were too easily pushed in her direction. He was both amused and disturbed by that admission. It seemed as if everything she had said, everything she had done—the simplest word, the smallest movement—had struck deep into his memory.

“What’s wrong?” Carlson asked.

“Relax, Neill, I was just thinking of the Café Racine.”

“I told you before, and I meant it: keep clear of that place. Keep clear of Proprietor Roussin.” Carlson guessed Fenner’s thought from the unexpected shock in his face. “No, no,” he said quickly. “Roussin isn’t the one who betrayed Vaugiroud’s past. It’s the woman, Angélique, who told her fascist friend, the industrialist, who told his new Communist friends about Roussin and Vaugiroud.”

“But how did she learn?”

“From her late husband, Roussin’s brother. Vaugiroud’s unit helped him to escape to North Africa in 1943.”

So Roussin had thought that the secret between him and his brother was buried in his brother’s grave. “You’d better warn Roussin,” Fenner said.

“Vaugiroud is going to do that tomorrow.”

That was best. Roussin was not an easy man to persuade.

Carlson was saying, “So you know why I’ve been losing my sleep over you. Angélique is watching every contact Roussin makes. What do you think she has reported about you, sitting alone, waiting for Roussin to talk to you? No more of that, Bill. Leave—”

“She has reported that I was waiting for a girl.”

“And when the girl didn’t turn up? Nice going, Bill, but not good enough for Angélique.”

“But the girl did turn up.”

“You
were
meeting someone?” Carlson’s eyes were wide. He had a smile of relief spreading over his face.

“Not exactly. But a pretty girl did join me. Most enthusiastically, I might say, although I’m still wondering why. It would look perfectly natural, even to old hawk-eyed Angélique.”

“You have the devil’s own luck.”

“The trouble with the devil’s luck is that it doesn’t last long. Instead of a pleasant evening with a beautiful blonde, I’ve been talking with you.”

“Well, well.” Carlson was at ease again, his hand reaching to open the door. “I’m glad to hear she was beautiful—while she lasted.”

“You saw her today. Outside the Crillon. Remember the girl I wanted to give a lift—”

“Yes,” Carlson said, looking at him, “I remember.”

“But I saw her first. Remember that, too.”

Carlson half-smiled.

“She’s a pretty high-powered little package in her sweet little way.”

“She is, is she?” Carlson shook his head. “I still think you’d be safer in Copenhagen. By the way—Rosie may drop in to see you.”

Fenner came out of his dream. “Why?”

“Heavens knows. He has, as they say at Harvard, his own thought processes. Just keep refusing all his bright ideas, and you’ll get that book written.” He opened the door abruptly to cut off any further questions. “See you, some day. But not too soon, I hope.” He looked out at the landing, nodded, gave Fenner a broad grin and another handshake. The door closed gently, surely, and locked automatically.

Bill Fenner went slowly to bed—ten minutes spent wandering restlessly through the apartment; five minutes at the window with its view; some scattered minutes opening his suitcase to free his clothes from creases, searching for toothpaste and hair-brush—not only because he was so exhausted that every movement had become the semiparalysis of a dream, but also because his mind, tired as it was, raced and jumped. He had plenty to think about. Carlson had told him far too much. Why? To impress him enough to lie low, clear out? Carlson wanted that, obviously. Or had Carlson been following orders to put him in the picture as much as was feasible, to give him some ideas to sleep on, to prepare him—for what?

At two o’clock he gave up, stripped off his clothes, fell into a bed that was nicely firm and yet yielding. Linen sheets, no less, ice-cool, smelling of sunlight and clover. Bliss, he thought,
the kind of bliss that women think up when they put their minds to it. The owner of this apartment had the right ideas for living, certainly. For a few moments, he wondered what she looked like. Brunette and fastidious, as cool and smooth as this pillow... And then there was the beginning of a deep slide, steady and gentle, down into the dark caves of sleep.

Far away, a small bell rang. And kept ringing. Nearer, louder, nearer, until it echoed at his ear. Fenner came out of his deep sleep as smoothly as he had entered it. Time to wake anyhow. It must be noon. The narrow strips of sunlight stretched from the shuttered window across the floor, a golden ladder pointing to the chair with his tumbled clothes. God, I was tired last night, he thought, as he stretched his spine. The ’phone rang again on the table beside the bed. As he reached for the receiver, he was astounded to see that his watch said only ten o’clock. He had gained two hours on this day, after all. “
Ici Fenner. Parlez!
”

“You amaze me,” Frank Rosenfeld said. “Such geniality at this hour! Had breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’ll bring the
croissants
, and you put on the coffee. Fair division of labour.” In spite of the sociable phrases, Rosie sounded sharp-set. He hadn’t slept so well, obviously; or, he
meant business. He must have telephoned from around the corner, for he arrived in less than five minutes, neatly dressed in a dark-grey suit and a crisp white shirt,
croissants
in a string-tied parcel dangling from one curved finger, an amused smile on his amiable lips, a quick all-over glance from his sharp brown eyes. First they took in Fenner, who had just had time after the brief telephone call to pull on pyjama trousers, start the coffee percolating, open shutters and curtains. “Had a good eight hours, I see,” Rosie said approvingly. His eyes travelled around the cool, shadowed living-room, which faced west toward the towering walls of Notre-Dame, and rested on the vase of white roses. “A House of York sympathiser?”

Fenner hoped he had hidden his flicker of astonishment. It never was very flattering to let a man see you had underestimated him. And why shouldn’t an Intelligence agent be interested in history? He helped its shaping, one way or another, just as the soldiers who won, or lost, a battle helped to decide the kind of future their country would face. “She has everything cosily arranged. There’s a small table for breakfast set up at the bedroom windows.”

But his remark led nowhere. Rosie did not even seem to hear his reference to a woman, far less explain her. He glanced in at the sunlit bedroom, discarded it, and returned to the cold living-room. He settled quite definitely in a green armchair by a coffee table, well away from the windows, and began opening the parcel of
croissants.
“These are the best in Paris,” he said. “But why the hell haven’t they got around to inventing paper bags?”

Fenner relinquished his hope for a pleasant breakfast in front of an open window filled with September sunshine. (The owner of this apartment and he shared some tastes in common,
it seemed.) He pulled on his pyjama jacket and dressing-gown, poured the coffee, found some sugar (she used several American brands, he noticed from his search among the cans on the pantry shelves), and hoped he would be at least granted a peaceful half-hour. He disliked any kind of serious politics before his third cup of coffee. Until then, back in his New York apartment, he looked over the theatre, book, and sports pages of the
Chronicle
,
Times
, and
Tribune
. And with food inside him, he felt fortified enough to face the news of the day with all its puzzles and frustrations, alarms and excursions.