There Fell a Shadow (22 page)

I reached up and took her hand. “Sorry I'm late, kid,” I said. “Hard day at the office.”

She stood on tiptoe. Kissed me.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Are … are you all right?”

“Yeah, I guess. How'd he get in?” I nodded at Paul.

Paul had taken the coffee mug from the table. He lifted it to me now in salute.

“Don't blame the lady,” he said. “I was here when she arrived. I told her I was a friend of yours with the
Post.
”

I shook my head at Chandler. “You know I don't have any friends at the
Post.
”

She did her best to smile. “I'll try to remember.”

“Do I need a gun to get a drink here?”

“I thought the doctor told you not to drink. I'll make you coffee.”

With another wary glance at Paul, she returned to the kitchen.

Standing alone in the center of the room, I lit a cigarette. Paul sipped his coffee, watching me over the top of it.

I smiled. “Good coffee?”

He lifted out of it with a loud “Ah!” He touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, considered. “No. Not really.”

My smile widened to a grin. “If I'd known you were coming, I'd have poisoned it.”

“Oh now,” said Paul in his deep, foreign voice. “So unfriendly.”

“Not at all. I just want to show my appreciation for your giving me a lift into Central Park, that's all. That Szechuan murder-fellow chased me way the hell over to Fifth Avenue. With a goddamned gun.”

Paul tilted toward his mug again. “How unpleasant for you.”

“Yeah. And I was spotted with you, too. I got picked up and given the third degree.”

That got him. His lips had just touched the white mist floating atop the black surface of the coffee. He recoiled suddenly, as if scalded. “By the police?”

“They don't hand out third degrees in college, man.”

“Did you … tell them anything?”

I took a long drag of smoke, let him sweat. “Nah,” I said, the smoke rolling out of me. “I told them you were a source. They've got your plates, though.”

“That is no longer a problem. I have gotten rid of the car.” One eyebrow raised, he cast me a shrewd glance out of those sunken eyes. “I take it you have come to the conclusion that I did not kill Timothy Colt,” he said.

“Have I?”

“When I pointed my revolver at you just now, you did not seem quite as … what?—nervous?—as you did in the park.”

“Why should I? You're the only person in town who hasn't tried to kill me this evening.”

He lowered his face to his coffee. “The night is young,” he said.

The scotch bottle and glass were on my desk. I went to them, poured myself a shot. I turned the desk chair around. I straddled it, the drink and cigarette dangling over the back.

“You're dropping ashes on the floor,” said Chandler. She had come in, carrying another mug for me. She set it on the desk.

“Thanks,” I said. I sipped my scotch.

“I thought the doctor told you not to smoke, too,” she said softly.

“The doctor talks too much.”

Chandler didn't answer. The butts have always been a sore point between us.

There was a hard wooden chair at the end of my desk. She moved to it, sat. She was wearing a long pleated green skirt and a white turtleneck sweater that showed off her figure. Paul eyed her as she arranged herself. She noticed it and flushed. She folded her hands in her lap, the fingers moving nervously. She sat silent, serious, prim, and erect. She listened, moving her eyes from one of us to the other.

“So,” I said to Paul. “Aside from the. chance to point your gun at me again, what brings you to these parts?”

He smiled charmingly. “In fact, Mr. Wells, as you have decided I am not a killer, I have decided you are not a traitor.”

“Do tell.”

“When I left the park unmolested by the police, I knew I had made a mistake in thinking you had alerted them to our meeting.”

“So you retraced your steps and rescued me from the murder-man.”

“So I wished you well in my heart,” said Paul, “and came here to tell you my story in the event you returned alive.”

“What a guy.”

He smiled again, his scarred face wrinkling. No matter how he smiled, though, the haunted look in his deep eyes never left. He said, “My apologies, Mr. Wells. I am wanted in too many places to act carelessly, even in the aid of others. In one or two countries, I have even been sentenced to death in absentia, a fact which could make deportation very unpleasant.”

“Okay. I forgive you. I'll name my children after you. But as you can see, I've made plans …”

“And may I say that it is really too bad of you to leave such a charming young lady waiting.” He nodded at Chandler. She gave him nothing, an empty stare.

“Sure, you can say that,” I said. “Or you can say what you have to say. Whatever you say, say it fast and get out.”

He took a long swig of his coffee and, with a flourish, plunked the mug down on the table. He reached into his jacket. I tensed in my chair. He pulled out an elegant black cigarette case. He removed an unfiltered job and lit it with a silver lighter. The smoke drifted toward me. It smelled like perfume.

“A fair request,” said Lester Paul. “I have detained you long enough.” For another moment, he smoked and gathered his thoughts. Then, at last, he began: “I wanted to tell you about the source of the conflict between me and Timothy Colt. What accounted for the scene you witnessed in the Press Club. I cannot tell my story to the police—as I say, I am wanted already and prison would not agree with me at all. I had hoped that if you wrote about it …” He shrugged, his cigarette smoke tracing a spiral in the air. “Well, let's just say I am planning to leave your lovely country soon; when I do, I would like very much to be free of any suspicion of murder.” The hand holding the cigarette kept moving. The tendrils of smoke unraveled along with his story. “There was, as you might suspect, a woman in the case. A woman named Eleanora.”

Without thinking, I glanced at Chandler. She, of course, had not reacted to the name. I said quickly: “Yeah, the missionary. The underground worker. I've heard of her.”

“You could not have heard everything,” said Lester Paul. “You could not have heard everything she was. She was the most beautiful and courageous lady it has ever been my honor to meet. She had the face of an angel and the soul of one. She was …”

“You did meet her, then.” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “You met her in person.”

He inclined his head once gravely. “I did.”

We both fell silent. There were plenty of things I wanted to ask him. I wanted to hear again about how she looked. About her golden hair, her high, proud cheeks, her graceful neck. More than that, I wanted him to describe how she moved, how she spoke, how she smelled. Had he touched her? That white skin that Colt had said looked like marble—did it feel like marble, too? Cold and smooth. Or did it soften at the touch and give off the heat of her? I wanted to ask a lot of things.

I glanced back at Chandler. She remained as she was: quiet, stiff, watchful. She was looking at me, waiting for me to speak.

“Go ahead,” was all I said to Paul.

“Earlier this evening, we discussed Sentu and the murder-men. Do you know the country's history?”

“I know there was a revolution there. And the rebels won.”

“Yes. It was during their final advance on the capital city of Mangrela that I first made the acquaintance of Timothy Colt. He had contacted me through a journalist of our mutual acquaintance. An Englishman by the name of Robert Collins. I liked Collins a good deal. He was … jolly. He knew how to wink at what was none of his business, how to do a favor for a friend. And at the same time, he was very dedicated to his profession. A serious journalist. And a brave one, as you will hear. When Collins came to me and asked me to talk to Colt, I was happy to oblige. We met in the bar of the Hotel Victoria, late at night. The rebel shells were falling closer and closer to the city limits, and already an exodus of civilians had begun. Collins introduced me to Colt and we sat together at a table. Colt was always, as you know, a charming and persuasive man. But just then, there was a fire burning in him just beneath the surface. I diagnosed it immediately as a fire of desperation. He spoke calmly enough, but the sweat rolled steadily down the crags in his cheeks and as he leaned toward me across the table, his eyes seemed to grow bigger and brighter with every passing moment.”

Paul paused just a moment to let us appreciate his description. Like every great con artist I've ever met, he loved to hear his own voice creating a world. He went on: “I had heard of Eleanora, of course. She was legendary. So much so that I was somewhat surprised to learn she was real. But Colt assured me she was real indeed, and he said she needed my help. With the city near collapse, those who knew where to find her had come to her and begged her to take their children, to insure their escape even if the parents were killed. Eleanora declined. Her network was collapsing. Everywhere, her people were being captured and killed. Not only by the government, which looked upon her as an arm of the rebellion, but by the rebels, too, in those cities which had already fallen. The rebels, indeed, were the fiercer enemy. Eleanora had given refuge to their intended victims, too. And in the panic of the nation's fall, those who hoped to buy their lives by betraying a friend's had done irreparable damage to her. Those underground workers who were not dead were making their escapes as best they could. Eleanora could do nothing for the children of the refugees who came to her. But some would not take no for an answer. They left their children on her doorstep, as it were, and snuck away into the night.”

“Now, Colt had fallen in love with Eleanora. And indeed, she appeared to return that love, although perhaps she was only using him for the help he could offer her noble cause, sacrificing her own flesh, so to speak …”

His voice trailed off. He stared into the smoke that swirled around him. I straightened a little in my chair. “Why do you say that?” I said. I could not hide the tone of eagerness now. “What proof have you got?”

“Hm?” Paul smiled at my hopeful expression. “Proof? None at all. None at all, really. Perhaps it is just difficult for me to believe that a woman like Eleanora could commit herself to any man. Any
other
man.” He cocked his head. He gave me a long, speculative glance. “You know,” he said, “I do believe you understand me, Mr. Wells.”

I snorted at him. I looked at the floor. “Keep going,” I told him.

Paul chuckled nastily. “Yes. Yes, well, at any rate, Colt was desperate to get Eleanora out of the country before the rebels descended. But the great lady herself—she would not leave until she had found a way to get the children out of the city to safety. That was where I came in. I am, as you know, a … trader of sorts. Colt hoped I would be able to secure a boat of some kind to transport the children up the coast, possibly as far as Morocco, and so out of harm's way. I agreed.”

Chandler coughed. I had lit another cigarette by now. So had Paul. The whole room seemed to have sunk beneath the haze of smoke.

“Sorry,” I said. I got up and opened the window behind my desk. The air rushed in with the rushing sounds of the night traffic. I poured myself another slug, replanted myself in the chair. “Why?” I said. “Why'd you agree to do it? Colt couldn't have paid you much.”

Paul made a grand gesture with one hand. He was really enjoying himself now. “In the country of the blind, Mr. Wells,” he said, “the one-eyed man is king. Exactly so, in a nation of corruption, not the official, not the soldier, not the populace, but the trader, the man who will deal in anything for a price, has the reins of power in his hand. If on occasion I chose to use that power for my own aesthetic reasons and without thought of gain … well, it was no one's business but mine.”

I remembered how he had rescued Holloway from Imperial House. I nodded.

Paul continued: “I won't bore you with the details of how I managed to secure a small trawler in the midst of all that chaos. Suffice it to say that I did. I paid the captain to lie under anchor in the gulf on which the city sat. At a prearranged hour, he was to send a lifeboat into shore to meet with us. The children would be rowed out to the trawler and then taken out to the Atlantic and up the coast. Would you mind?”

He held out his mug to me. I grabbed my scotch bottle by the neck, dashed some of the liquor into the mug.

“Thank you,” he said. He took a sip. He nodded, satisfied. “I met with Colt and Collins at a prearranged hour. They took me to a small, unprepossessing house in the suburbs of the city. There, I found Eleanora.…” He took another shot, shivered as it went through him. “She was surrounded by children when I saw her first. The house was full of them. Maybe thirty of them, one-year-olds, near-adolescents. All of them looking up at her. All of them trusting her to see them to safety. Well …”

He waved away the image. I didn't ask him to go on. I clenched my jaw so I wouldn't ask him.

“I suppose,” he said, “I was most impressed with her calm, brisk, businesslike manner. It was heroic, but there was not a touch of charade about it. It was very unaffected and real. Very British, too. She described to us the route we would travel—a route designed to help us avoid both the soldiers and the panicked populace. And a route, clearly, which she had made use of many times before. She insisted on coming with us, on leading the way. Nothing either Colt or I could say would dissuade her. As midnight came, we set out into the darkness. The muffled thud of the rebel shells was close enough now to make the ground beneath our feet tremble. The flare of the explosions lit the night sky red. All around us in the blackness was the sound of weeping as refugees prepared to begin the trek out of the city. Eleanora led us creeping along alleyways, through windows into cellars with holes smashed in their walls, through these holes into the next cellar and the next, out finally onto some byway until we reached a fire escape, up the escape to run, bent over, across the city's rooftops.”