French Kiss, page 30
Time crawled by, barely breathing. It was her constant companion, as it had been when she was a child. It mocked her during the day with its slowness, and jolted her awake in a sweat at night. Memories were her only surcease, but soon these, too, became a source of torment, reminding her of what she no longer had, and never would have again.
Oh, dear God. Where was Christopher? How she wanted him here, just to hold his hand, to know that he was watching over her and Danny. But this wasn’t Circleville, and her grandfather was dead many years. That kind of protection was gone forever.
But knowing that did not stop her from wishing for it with all her might.
Christopher, where are you now? Are you coming home soon?
And sometimes I wonder
Just for a while
Will you ever remember me.
“The fact is,” Chris said to Soutane, “my brother never meant to mail this postcard.”
“Then what—?”
The sun had already set in the narrow streets of Tourrette-sur-Loup, leaving the stone facades of the houses in a false twilight. The cobbles were as dark as night.
“It was a kind of insurance for him,” Chris said, “and a kind of legacy for me.”
Soutane looked at him. “What are you saying? That he knew he was going to die?”
Children, on their way home from school, ran past them, laughing and calling, their backpacks thumping as they coursed down the steeply twisting street.
“Not exactly,” Chris said. “But, considering the danger he must have been in, I think he knew it was a possibility. This postcard was a safeguard. See, he knew that in the event of his death, it would find its way to me. Either you’d give it to me—as you did—or the police would.”
A mother was calling to her daughter from an open doorway, and the scent of a freshly baked apple tart spiced the air. As they went past her, they could see in a flood of light the spectacular waterfall from which they had come.
“When we were growing up, we were both crazy about puzzles. Terry loved a maze game called Labyrinth. He especially loved to beat me at it. I, on the other hand, preferred more intellectual puzzles, like cryptograms. I always used to leave notes for him in code. It drove him nuts trying to figure them out.”
The cascade, now partially in shadow, had taken on a truncated, almost sinister aspect, as if not being able to see clear through to its depths created a danger, dictated caution.
“Then,” Soutane said, “the postcard is a puzzle.”
Chris nodded. “In a way. Yes.”
“But, if you’re right, where in Tourrette did Terry hide the Doorway to Night? I don’t see any kind of clue on the postcard.”
“You wouldn’t,” Chris said, examining both sides carefully. “Because if you could find it, others could, too, and Terry wouldn’t take that chance.” There was no mark on the photograph side, no extra lines on any of the letters in his message on the reverse.
“There’s also the question of what he was going to write as the postscript,” Soutane said.
Chris, looking at the P.S., smiled and nodded. “Exactly. Is there a toy store here?”
“Yes. I think it’s down this way.”
She gave him a puzzled look as she led him left, then left again. As they went, she glanced in shop windows, but not, Chris saw, as if she had any interest in the goods displayed there. All at once, the street began again to rise. On their left was a shop of handmade children’s clothes and toys. They went in.
“Bonjour.”
The shopkeeper was a portly, beery-faced woman in her fifties. She smiled at them from her corner perch.
“Bonjour, madame,” Chris said.
Chris inventoried the shelves of tiny shirts, trousers, jackets, stuffed animals, and porcelain dolls. Soutane, glancing now and again over her shoulder toward the open doorway to the street, said, “What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, isn’t here.” Back in the narrow street he said to her, “Years ago, when dirty words were forbidden and, therefore, fun, I made up a shorthand for the one that excited me the most. I used to use it around my folks, and Terry was the only other person who knew what it meant. I used to say p.s. when I meant pussy.”
“Then the P.S. on the postcard was never meant as a postscript.”
They began to walk again. “No.”
“But what does it mean?”
Chris laughed. “It’s American slang.” He told her what it meant.
Soutane’s puzzlement deepened. “I still don’t see the connection between the word and where Terry might have hidden the dagger.”
“Whatever form it takes,” Chris said, “knowing Terry, it’s sure to be a joke of some kind.” It was odd, but in discovering the meaning of the postcard, in pursuing this quest for a talisman in which he did not even believe, Chris found himself feeling closer to his brother than he ever had while Terry was alive. This both pleased and saddened him. Pleased that he could feel this way at all, sad that it had not happened while Terry was alive.
This connection, he was certain, stemmed in part from the knowledge that all of this was meant for him. Terry had left it in his hands, as if Chris was the only person he could trust to continue what he had begun.
But what, precisely, was that? Chris experienced some fear as he drew closer to the solution to Terry’s cryptogram and the recovery of the Doorway to Night. What if Soutane was right, and Terry had been involved in the opium trade? But why? For the money? Terry had never been much interested in money, Chris knew, otherwise he would have stuck close to their father, joining the family multimillion-dollar import-export business.
What else would control of the opium trade provide? According to Soutane, there was money… and there was power. But why would someone interested in power willingly allow himself to go to war, to kill, to possibly be maimed or be killed himself?
And then Chris remembered what Marcus Gable had said about the war: It was all a matter of power. Those who understood the essential nature of it made sense of it, and survived. Everyone eke was, in one way or another, destroyed.
Terry had survived the war. Even more, he had prospered. Had Vietnam warped his sense of morality as it had Marcus Gable’s? Had its sere breath even destroyed whatever honor and decency human beings could claim?
Standing now in the center of this ancient town, reminded of a simpler but no less violent age, Chris felt a terrible fear creeping up his spine, threatening to paralyze him. It was not only for his brother—of what he might have become—but for himself as well. For in following this path, limned for him by his dead brother, was he not putting his own sense of morality to the test? What would he do once La Porte à la Nuit was in his possession? What if in order to discover what Terry had been, he himself was required to—
To what?
Chris had no idea, but he had an intimation that merely finding the Doorway to Night was not an end in itself. Where would it lead? What was he about to become? He had an acute sense of stepping out of one life and into another, the fear vitiated somewhat by a keen sense of anticipation, as if he had been waiting all his life for this precise moment.
“Chris?”
“What?”
“Are you all right?” Soutane said, squeezing his elbow. “Your look was as blank as that black cat’s over there.”
“I was just lost in th—” He stopped, abruptly. He found himself staring into a display window draped with black velvet. In its center was a female harlequin in red and white. Her head was cocked to one side. Her arms were upraised, her legs, clothed in high boots, seemingly moving, so that in her pose there was a sense of flight. Behind her, the devil, arms opened wide, was poised to engulf her in his dark cape.
“Chris?”
“Wait a minute.” Staring at the rhinestone tear stitched to her diamond-patterned mask. And beneath the mask… were those whiskers, was that dark fur? Those were triangular cat’s ears! Puss ‘n Boots! Pussy!
“What is this place?”
“An art gallery,” Soutane said. “They’re known for their marionettes. Aren’t they magnificent?”
Chris laughed, staring at the Puss ‘n Boots in the window. “I’m willing to bet that one of them is much more than that.”
Inside, at the top of the stairs, a gentleman marionette in medieval dress regarded them with his superbly rendered cock’s head. Chris was about to go down the stairs into the gallery when Soutane took his elbow.
“I’m going back outside for a minute.”
He saw the concern on her face. “What is it?”
“I want to make sure of something. Improbable as it seems, we may have been followed here.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“That’s just what you won’t do,” she said quickly. “Please. I know what I’m talking about. Besides, if La Porte à la Nuit is here, you’ve got to protect it.” Then she laughed. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” she said seriously. Then she gave him an all too brief smile. “Don’t be so disapproving. You’re as much a traditionalist as Terry was.”
Chris didn’t like it, but what she said made sense. Terry had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide the Doorway to Night.
“All right,” he said, “but let’s at least agree to meet somewhere.”
“Why not the church?” Soutane said. “It seems an appropriate place, don’t you think?”
Downstairs, in the well-lighted gallery, he could see that all the marionettes were human figures with animal heads. There was a jolly macaw, a macabre owl, a greedy-eyed pig. But the only cat was the harlequin in the window.
The walls were hung with paintings by two or three contemporary artists. They were oils, richly patterned, deep colored, reminding him of Persian carpets. Their subjects were lush, magnetic, voluptuous.
The middle-aged man greeted Chris as he came down the stairs. There was no one else in the gallery.
“I’d like some information on the harlequin in the window,” Chris said.
“Ah, the harlequin and the devil are the two marionettes not made by me or my partner,” the proprietor said. “I am afraid there is not much more I can tell you. The artist has told me these pieces are not for sale. They are to display his work only.” He gestured, smiling. “Perhaps you would be interested in my macaw or my owl?”
“My interest,” Chris said, “is in the harlequin. Is there some way I can get in touch with the artist?”
“Well, normally we don’t encourage—“
“Please,” Chris said, “it’s important.”
The man contemplated Chris for a moment, as if he were sizing him up, or estimating his net worth. Then he nodded, and disappeared behind a black velvet curtain behind the corner of the gallery where his desk was.
Chris, alone in the gallery, save for the exquisite marionettes dressed in medieval attire. The owl, arch and forbidding, was mute, but the macaw seemed on the verge of divulging a dark and ironic secret.
Hearing the rustle of the velvet curtain, Chris turned back, expecting to find the proprietor. Instead, he was confronted by a man, slender and pale, with eyes that seemed vague behind black, thick-framed glasses.
“How can I help you, monsieur?”
“You made the Puss ‘n Boots?”
“Out, monsieur. Je suis Monsieur Asprey. Le artiste c’est moi. But the harlequin is not for sale. If you want one, it will take—“
“I want this one,” Chris said.
“Pardon, monsieur, but I told you—“
“I’m Chris Haye,” he said. “Terry Haye’s brother. You made that Puss ‘n Boots for him, didn’t you?”
The change in the man’s face was remarkable. The pale eyes, so watery before, had turned shrewd and discerning. “You have something, perhaps, to show me?”
Chris brought out the postcard. “P.S.,” he said.
“Ah, bon,” M. Asprey said, nodding. “The bill of sale. Now we may proceed.”
“—ike—ird—tees—am—“
“Merde, can’t you do better than that?”
“Sorry.” The technician fiddled with a bank of dials and switches. “There must be a magnetic motor of some kind in the room. When they turn a certain way—in this case, I’d say toward the door—the audio dropout at five hundred hertz is appalling.”
“Just get it all,” Milhaud said, sitting on the edge of his chair. He was about to hear the portion of the taped conversation between Mr. LoGrazie and his unknown companion, and Milhaud could feel the flutter of anticipation in the pit of his stomach.
“Ready,” the technician said, punching a button. Through the speakers Milhaud heard the voice of the unknown man say, “—dislike involving third parties. Look at the damage Terry Haye caused. We have already seen that from a security point of view it stinks.”
“In this case I’m afraid it’s necessary,” Mr. LoGrazie said, through the soupy sea of tape hiss and white noise generated by the maze of filters the technician had used to amplify the voices. Sounds of cutlery striking china, so loud that Milhaud winced, and the technician hurriedly fiddled with the dials, “—you think that we can get into this line of business just by wishing it? We need Milhaud. Only Milhaud has the clout and the organization to muscle in on this territory. He knows it far better than we can ever hope to. And now that Terry Haye has been terminated, Milhaud has provided us with a clear field. In that sense, he has already proven his worth to us. Believe me, this is the only sensible way to approach the problem.”
“I make it a habit never to believe anyone,” the voice said. “Which is why I have just come from the Shan State. When the Old Man decided that I must return to, as it were, the fold, he made it quite plain to me that I should plunge in all the way.
“In fact, my own theory is that this was why he persuaded me to come back in the first place. You were in the process of being royally screwed by Terry Haye. The Old Man simply had had enough.”
“But without Milhaud we will have no access to Admiral Jumbo,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “Milhaud’s made it plain to me that because he has the Forest of Swords he can—“
“Frank, you aren’t listening to me. I have already been to
Burma. I have seen Admiral Jumbo. The result is, we’re in. As of right now, White Tiger has its product.”
Milhaud was in a rage. What did they think they were doing, cutting him out like that? Did these American Mafia bastards think that he was just another amateur like Terry Haye? If so, they were in for a surprise. And furthermore, what was this nonsense about making a deal with Admiral Jumbo? Milhaud knew the situation too well to believe that some Mafia type could just walk up to Admiral Jumbo and get his product at the source that had taken Milhaud years to painstakingly build.
His mind was buzzing. Right now there were too many unanswered questions. Composing himself, he signed for the technician to start the tape machine again.
“Jesus,” Mr. LoGrazie said from the speakers, “the stories about you are true. You must be some kind of magician.”
“That’s what they used to call me. But save the applause until later. You tell me that Milhaud has the Prey Dauw. I want it; it’s my compensation for starting up White Tiger. Get it from him.” The tape machine’s reels had stopped spinning.
The technician was grinning. “C’est assez clair pour vous?”
“Clear enough to hear every word,” Milhaud said, breaking his stunned reverie. Who was this unknown man? He was in a frenzy to know.
Then Milhaud felt his stomach turn over. Something, lodged in his memory like a pebble, broke loose, rising to the surface. A magician. That’s what they used to call me, the unknown man had said.
Milhaud had known someone named the Magician, long ago, in Indochina. This could not be the same man. No, he thought. It’s utterly impossible. He pulled out the surveillance photos from a drawer, studied again the movie star’s face—the unknown man on the tape.
The Magician. Impossible, he told himself over and over again until it became a litany. It’s impossible. I do not know this man. This cannot be the Magician. A hollow catechism disintegrating in the face of Milhaud’s mounting terror.
Because, already, at the base of his neck he felt the short hairs stirring.
When Soutane left Chris, she emerged onto the street and, without looking around her, turned to her left. She headed down the steeply sloping cobbles, turning right, then right again. She was, without knowing it, following the path Terry had taken on his way down to the Church of Our Lady of Benva.
Son et lumière, Soutane thought as she descended deeper into the heart of Tourrette. Sound and light are my allies here. The streets were so narrow that any sound echoed off the stone facades of the buildings, and light pouring in obliquely against the walls etched sharply denned shadows. Utilizing both, she could keep track of her tail.
She had spotted him in reflection while she glanced in a shop window. Standing at an angle, the plate glass served as a mirror, revealing the length of the street behind her. Then, again, in the toy shop, a shadow passing too slowly, then backtracking in order to keep her in view.
Who was following her? Not the Jesuit she had confronted in the toilet in Le Safari. Someone higher up? Had the Jesuit confessed his sins, or had he remained mute? Soutane guessed the former, since the Jesuit had not impressed her as having a particularly strong character.
