Harlequin Page 8

  ‘We’re being pressed hard.’

  ‘I guessed as much. I’ve just read the news item. If you need help on the Coast. I’m at your service. Vaya con Dios!’

  I hung up, blessing him for the decencies he affirmed in a dog’s world. Then I called Basil Yanko. He was, for a few moments at least, almost human.

  ‘Thank you for calling, Mr Desmond. I was anxious for news of Mr Harlequin.’

  ‘He’s done some work today; but he’s very tired this evening.’

  ‘That’s only natural. I had thought of calling him to pay my respects.’

  ‘I’d suggest you leave it until mid-morning tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. Madame Harlequin is well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You read our press announcement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any comment?’

  ‘None. My principal has taken over the situation.’

  ‘Very proper; but you did make some rather improper comments in your Club today.’

  ‘What I say in my Club, Mr Yanko, is no bloody business of yours.’

  ‘I quote, Mr Desmond: “We’re not accepting and we think it’s dirty pool to publish the offer before it’s been discussed with the parties.” In fact, the offer was discussed with you as a Director of Harlequin et Cie. Your statement could be considered actionable.’

  ‘On the hearsay of an informer? I doubt it. But if you like to give me his name, I’ll be happy to confront him before the Club Committee. Anything else, Mr Yanko? I have a dinner engagement.’

  ‘One small matter, Mr Desmond. Harlequin et Cie handle some of our investment funds.’

  ‘Very profitable, I believe.’

  ‘Indeed, yes. But transactions on those funds have been charged with a fraudulent commission. Our attorneys advise that grounds exist for civil and criminal action.’

  ‘Then, no doubt, you will discuss the matter with Mr Harlequin tomorrow. Goodnight, Mr Yanko.’

  I slammed down the receiver and cursed him to hell and back. Then I was furious with myself. Here was I, veteran of a hundred forays in the market, with scars on my back, and profits in the bank, jerking about like Pavlov’s dog when Yanko pushed the shock button. It was the simplest of all the techniques of terror: the ever-present informer, the swift admonition from the great master, the threat of doom round the next comer. Suddenly, I dissolved into laughter, threshing about the apartment like a schoolboy, juggling cushions, yelling for Takeshi to fix me a drink, draw me a bath, lay out my best suit, call the Côte Basque for a table, order a limousine from Colby Cadillac, have roses delivered before eight o’clock to Miss Valerie Hallstrom. It was all wrong, wrong, wrong in a hungry world; but if I saved the money and put it through Yanko’s creative computers, would there be one grain the more in an Indian rice-bowl? I knew there wouldn’t be. I told myself, I didn’t care. Yet, rock bottom, under it all, was the conviction that if a man on a telephone could send me cowering to bed, it was time, thank you very much, to toss in the cards and blow my brains out in the first convenient alley.

  I was in the middle of shaving when I remembered I had to call Bogdanovich. For a moment, I was tempted to let it slide; then I thought better of it. I dialled the number, introduced myself as Weizman and, a moment later, Bogdanovich was on the line.

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘My apartment.’

  ‘You were told to use a pay phone.’

  ‘I know. It’s late. I almost forgot to call.’

  This time you’re lucky. I was just about to contact you. There’s a man watching your front door!

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Mine and another. He’s parked on the left side in a green Corvette.’

  ‘That’s awkward. I’m going out to dinner with the lady we talked about.’

  ‘What’s the programme?’

  ‘I have a limousine calling here at seven-forty-five. I pick her up at eight. We’re going to the Côte Basque.’

  ‘Reverse the order. Telephone her and say you’re detained. Send the limousine to pick her up and deliver her to the Côte Basque. You walk to the St Regis and go into the King Cole Bar. You’ll get a message. After that you can move across to the Côte Basque. Clear?’

  ‘So far. What about going home?’

  ‘Which home are you thinking of?’

  ‘Hers, I hope.’

  ‘If there’s a problem, we’ll get word to you. If not, act normally.’

  ‘That’s a nice open brief.’

  ‘It isn’t open at all. That apartment’s enemy territory until we’ve had time to go over every inch of it.’

  ‘Two way mirrors and bugs in the cocktail olives, eh?’

  ‘I’m glad you can laugh. Now hear this joke. The man in the green Corvette is Bernie Koonig. He has already killed two men and a woman. Enjoy yourself, Mr Desmond.’

  It is a measure of the madness of America that the news frightened me considerably, but caused me no real surprise. When a respected sociologist can write glibly about ‘acceptable levels of violence’, when a television personality can interview a man in a mask who claims to have killed thirty-eight people on contract and with impunity, there are no surprises left, only a pervasion of terror, as if the palisades have been breached and the jungle beasts are roaring through the human enclave. So I did as I was told.

  When I left my apartment, I saw that the green Corvette was blocked against the kerb by a squad car, and two patrolmen had the driver braced against the hood. I, wise ape, saw nothing, heard nothing. I walked to the St Regis, sat at the King Cole Bar and waited until a newcomer pushed a bowl of peanuts under my nose and murmured the news that I was free to leave.

  When I reached the restaurant, Valerie Hallstrom was already seated, with a cocktail in front of her, chatting to the maître. She gave me a warm smile and a hand’s touch of welcome. She thanked me for the flowers; she was gracious about my late arrival. We made small talk over the drinks and the menu. By the time the meal was served, we were comfortable together, I working through my repertoire of travellers’ tales, she amused and interested, grateful, she said, for a respite from the conventional invasions of business life.

  ‘ …After a while, Paul, this town closes in on you. It’s all so urgent, so impersonal – and, then, so meaningless. I was a country girl. My father still breeds saddle-horses in Virginia. I couldn’t wait to get away and make my mark in the big city. Well, I’ve done it, and now I’d like to go home again. But you can’t, can you? Home hasn’t changed, but you have. What about you, Paul?’

  ‘Home for me is where I hang my Kanji scroll.’

  ‘You haven’t told me about that.’

  I told her. I told her the old legend of the women who changed themselves into foxes, leaving their lovers maimed and desolate. I talked about the printmakers and the potters and the loving handcraftsmen of Japan, and the river-people of Thailand, and the man in Rangoon who taught me to read good rubies from bad, and the haunting beauty of the Arnhem jungles, with the dark people chanting around the campfires.

  Then she asked, ‘And what are you now?’

  ‘A trader, a money-man.’

  ‘Not only that.’

  ‘No. But if I hadn’t traded, I wouldn’t have travelled. If I hadn’t travelled, I wouldn’t have had all the rest.’

  ‘And your friend, Harlequin, what’s he like?’

  ‘George? Oh, George is quite different. He knows. He has the kind of learning I’d give my arm for – languages, history, pictures… When we travel together, he’s immediately on the inside. I have to think my way in or let him lead me. Last year, we sailed the Greek Islands. Me, I’m the sailmaster; but the moment we touched land, George was chattering away with the fishermen and the priest and the local antiquary. I envy that.’

  ‘But you love him?’

  ‘Like a brother.’

  ‘Yet you’re sitting here with me.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘I’m the enemy. I work
for Basil Yanko.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘Even when you go to Gully Gordon’s?’

  ‘No… not there.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Not now. Tomorrow, maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘Does Yanko know you’re dining with me?’

  ‘No. If he found out, I’d lose my job.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘It’s true and I’d never get another one in this industry. Wherever I went, he’d still have a hold on me.’

  ‘You’re on file in the system?’

  ‘We all are. That’s the way Yanko works. That’s the way all big industry works. The record follows you around; but you never see it. And while it exists, you’re never free.’

  ‘That’s blackmail, tyranny and enslavement.’

  ‘I choose to submit to it.’

  ‘What for? Seven-fifty a week and fringe benefits?’

  ‘I’m safe where I am.’

  ‘Are you sure? There was a man watching my apartment tonight. I have reason to believe he was employed by Basil Yanko.’

  The colour drained from her face. She dropped her fork with a clatter. For a moment I thought she was going to faint. Then, with a great effort, she recovered herself. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Relax, woman! I wasn’t followed here, neither were you. That’s why I changed the arrangements. You sec, we have our own protection, too, day and night. Drink your wine!… That’s better! Whatever Yanko holds over you, can’t be worse than this constant terror.’

  ‘Please, I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘All right! Now, we play a little game. I say to you: “Valerie Hallstrom, tell me your dark secret and I will set you free and protect you.” Then you say to yourself: “See, he only wants to use you. You are safer with the devil you know.” Then, I try to persuade you. You refuse. And in the morning you go back to the office and tell it all to Uncle Basil, who punishes you a little and then consoles you and sends you back, penitent but happy, to write it all into a confidential report for the brain… So, let’s not play the game, eh? Let’s have coffee and Calvados and I’ll drive you home in my shiny limousine and leave you safe and innocent on your doorstep.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Paul Desmond.’

  ‘No, you’ve still got it wrong. That’s my twin brother.’

  Once again it raised a small, uncertain smile and we sat awhile holding hands and watching the eddy of waiters around the tables and trying to read the faces of our fellow guests before we dared, again, to read each other’s. They brought us the coffee and the Calvados and as we sipped the raw potent liquor, Valerie Hallstrom said:

  ‘Paul, I have to warn you. Basil Yanko’s a very dangerous man.’

  ‘That I know already.’

  ‘And George Harlequin is an obsession with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think for the same reasons that you admire him. He was born lucky; he’s highly civilised; people are drawn to him. Yanko dragged himself up from a Chicago slum. He’s a genius, a great genius – but he’s ugly and rude. He’s like a toad with a gold crown on his head; and he knows it. That’s what makes him cruel and perverse. I used to feel sorry for him. For a while I even thought I was in love with him. Romantic, isn’t it?… And the beautiful princess kissed the ugly toad, and lo I he turned into a beautiful young man.’

  ‘Only he didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, that’s why you sit in Gully Gordon’s, night after night? And you can’t fall in love, because the toad-king is always there laughing, because your life is locked up in his mechanical brain.’

  ‘It isn’t a joke, Paul.’

  ‘Do you hear me laughing?’

  ‘I think we should go now.’

  If this were a lovers’ tale – which, God help me, it is not! – I would recount how we drove to her apartment and she invited me in and we danced to soft music and then made love till sparrow-chirp in the morning, and when I left all Basil Yanko’s secrets were in my hands. In fact, it was not like that at all. A block from her apartment, she asked the driver to stop the car. She wanted to walk the rest of the way. I offered to walk with her. She refused with a smile and a single cryptic comment:

  ‘Sometimes God likes to know how his children spend their evenings. Thank you for the dinner. Goodnight, Paul.’

  She kissed me lightly on the cheek and got out. I made the driver follow her slowly home, so that she would be safe from muggers and junkies. When the door closed on her, we turned cross-town to Gully Gordon’s, where I sat relaxed among my peers, listening to the sad, sweet music, until one in the morning.

  Sometime in the small, cold hours, I had a dream. I saw a vast, circular plain, naked under a cold moon. In the centre of the plain, small and solitary, was a squatting figure, whether human or animal, I could not tell. I knew only that I felt drawn to it by a deep yearning, and held back from it by a visible menace. Around the outer rim of the circle was a multitude of horsemen, some black against the moon, some ghost-white in its glow. Beside each horseman was a hound, motionless at the point. They were immeasurably distant, yet I could see them plainly, as if they were a hand’s stretch away. The horsemen had no faces, only masks, blank as egg-shells. I tried to distinguish the features of the squatting figure, but it was as if my eyeballs were compressed and I could not focus.

  Then, the horsemen and the hounds began to move, slowly, at a funeral pace, converging inexorably on the lone figure. The horsemen were silent. The hounds were dumb. There was no sound of harness or hoof-beat. The figure moved, stretched, stood up and revealed itself as a nude woman who turned slowly, gyrating like a manikin on a pedestal, until her face was visible to me. It was Valerie Hallstrom, smiling, seductive, oblivious of danger.

  I felt an enormous surge of sexual desire. I called to her, but no cry would come. I reached out to her, but was held back by giant hands. Then the cavalcade broke into a gallop and the hounds loped at their flanks and I felt, rather than heard, the wild halloo and the baying and the ground shaking under the hoof-beats as they charged to trample her down…

  I was groping through the first rituals of the waking day when Saul Wells called. He was excited and voluble. I could almost see the cigar stuck in his mouth. I could hear him chewing on it. The smell of it was like a ghost-mould in my room.

  ‘What is it, Saul?’

  ‘Ella Deane.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, the dame on the computer. The one who left in January. Reasons of health.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Saul. Yes?’

  ‘Very sad. For us very bad. She died.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two weeks ago. Car accident. Hit-and-run.’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘Like always. They’re pursuing investigations. Convenient, huh?’

  ‘Like always. Anything else?’

  ‘Confirming cables. Our operators move into your other branches tomorrow.’

  ‘Fast work, Saul. Thanks.’

  ‘One other thing. Ella Deane died rich.’

  ‘How rich?’

  ‘Thirty thousand, give or take.’

  ‘Where did she get it – and when?’

  ‘I’m working on that. The impossible takes a day longer. I’ll be in touch. Ciao for now!’

  A little later, while I was dabbing the breakfast egg from my chin, Aaron Bogdanovich arrived, dressed like a delivery man, with a basket of fresh blooms and a salesman’s motto:

  ‘Flowers add fragrance to your life, Mr Desmond.’

  ‘And I didn’t think you cared, Mr Bogdanovich.’

  ‘Tell me what happened last night.’ The question was harsh, as though he hoped to surprise me into some damaging confession.

  ‘Nothing happened. We dined. We talked. She told me she would lose her job if Yanko knew we’d met privately. She told me she’d once been in love with h
im, but it ended badly. She warned me he was dangerous and was obsessional about George Harlequin. Then she asked me to take her home. She insisted on walking the last block alone. We followed her in the limousine. I went on to Gully Gordon’s for a night-cap.’

  ‘And how did you get home?’

  ‘In the limousine.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘One-fifteen.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Sure. I signed the driver’s log. Takeshi was up when I got home. I took a shower, got into my pyjamas and he served me a cup of tea before I went to bed. Why all the questions?’

  ‘Valerie Hallstrom is dead. She was killed just after she got home.’

  ‘God Almighty!’

  ‘I hope you can look just as shocked when the police give you the news!’

  ‘The police…? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You and I, Mr Desmond, were the last people to see her alive… Is there any coffee left?’

  ‘Help yourself… Look, you’ll have to start at the beginning. I’m lost…’

  He gave me that cold, graveyard smile, helped himself to coffee, cream and sugar, then told me:

  ‘While you two were at dinner, I went to Valerie Hallstrom’s place. You’ve seen it, from the outside. It’s an old brownstone with a basement and three floors. She owns it all and everything inside is very expensive. There’s a Matisse in the bedroom and an Armodio in the salon. There’s Dresden china and lots of what they call, I believe, bijouterie. There’s a wardrobe full of furs and high-fashion clothes. She has two telephones – one with an unlisted number. The listed one is bugged. The unlisted one is hidden behind the clothes in the wardrobe, where there is also a wall-safe, which I managed to open. I’ll tell you in a moment what I found. Now, that little inspection took me from about eight-thirty to nine-thirty. At nine-thirty, the listed telephone rang. I waited until it had stopped and then left, by way of the basement. I sat in my car on the opposite side of the street and waited. At about ten-thirty, a man, carrying a small briefcase, entered the house. He used a key. He didn’t come out. He didn’t switch on any lights. I waited until I saw Valerie Hallstrom come home. I saw you pass by in the limousine. I saw the lights go on in the living-room and in the bedroom, but I couldn’t see inside because the drapes were drawn. About ten minutes later, the man, still carrying the briefcase, came out. He walked westward, across town. I followed him. He flagged a taxi and beat the lights at the next intersection, so I lost him, although I did get the number of the taxi. I stopped at a pay-phone and called Valerie Hallstrom’s number. No one answered it. I went back to the house. The lights were still on. I let myself in and found her on the living-room floor. She’d been shot in the head… The epilogue is very simple. I went back to the pay-phone and tipped the police. They were still working when I drove past this morning, and I’m still wondering what would have happened if you’d gone home with her.’