The Venetian Affair (42 page)

He stayed with them, and regained a steady pulse. The two men didn’t follow. They might be waiting, but he wouldn’t give
them another chance to find him alone on a narrow dark terrace, three hundred and twenty-five feet above marble pavement. As for Robert Wahl, he wouldn’t wait to be tagged and trailed by Holland’s friends—he was probably reaching the Piazza at this very minute. Aarvan’s two men had not known who Wahl was, far less Kalganov. In any supersecret organisation like theirs, working in enemy territory, the chain of command was carefully concealed. Kalganov’s talent for elaborate precaution had saved his own life a hundred times and more. Tonight, thought Holland, with a grim smile, it saved mine.

The students moved off. He kept with them, talking about Vienna, all the way down, all the way across the Piazza San Marco to the labyrinth of narrow streets that spread out behind the clock tower. As they echoed his “
Auf Wiedersehen!
” he had already stepped into a side alley, and was lost in the shadows.

Sandra Fane was ready. She carried her handbag, a scarf to cover her head, her darkest coat. And that was all. She combed her hair, made up her face quickly, distributed some of the pieces of jewellery from the bulging bag to her coat’s pocket. As for the map—she’d need that to get out of this rabbit warren of a city. A bus or a train? Padua or Milan? And the letter, still secure within the map—she’d throw that into the nearest canal once she was well away from this house. It would take minutes to destroy it here, and there could be scraps of evidence left. Nothing must connect her with that letter. And every second was precious. Every second...

At her door, she paused only long enough to make sure that none of the servants was wandering around. (There were three of them, two men and a woman, whom Lenoir had installed, bringing them mysteriously from nowhere: they seemed dull and stupid, but they were no doubt extremely dependable.) But
there was no sound. She locked the bedroom door behind her, slipped the key into her pocket, and took off her shoes. Quickly, with sure footsteps and a fluttering heart, she started her silent journey down the curving staircase. Lenoir’s door was shut. Thick walls, dim lights, deep shadows... The hall below was as empty as a tomb. Her pace increased to a silent run.

She reached the foot of the staircase, and started around the side of the circular hall, using the pillars that supported its dark vaulted ceiling as shelter. She flitted from one to another, passing several ornate doors, all deeply shadowed, all firmly shut—there were several rooms on this floor, but apart from the dining-room, the kitchen, and service quarters, no one used them any more. They were too close to the canal level for any comfort. Down here, she could feel the chill of the cool waters outside, even within these thick walls. The flagstone floor turned her feet to ice.

She had half-circled the hall. The heavy wooden door that led to the little street was only a few yards away. From the comforting darkness of the last pillar, she glanced back up the staircase. She could see Lenoir’s sitting-room, closed and quiet. Now! she told herself. She stepped out of the pillar’s shadow, her eyes on the street door, studying its massive iron decorations. Which bars locked it, what ones were only part of the elaborate design?

Sharply, the hall’s deep silence shivered into fragments. A bell’s clanging tongue railed at the house. She jumped. Almost cried out. She retreated behind a pillar, sagged against it for a long moment. Slow, heavy footsteps had come out of a room near the street door as the angry echo died away. That was the servant called Martin, the stupidest of the lot, thank her luck.
But she had been stupid herself: she ought to have known that the door to this house would be guarded.

“I have an appointment with Monsieur Lenoir,” a man’s voice said. “I am early, but I—”

(Whose voice? She knew it. Her thoughts were as jangled as her heartbeats. Whose?)

“—hope he can see me now. Tell him that—”

Lenoir’s voice interrupted, from the top of the first flight of stairs. “Who is that? Who is it?”

She did not move. It’s Mike Ballard, she thought in amazement. Ballard—here, in Venice?

Footsteps entered farther into the hall. “It’s Ballard. I am a little early, I know—”

“A little?” Lenoir was furious. “Forty minutes, to be exact.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I—I had to see you as soon as possible.”

“I am busy.”

“I’ll wait. I have some questions to ask you.”

Lenoir’s voice changed. “If you don’t mind waiting downstairs for half an hour, I’ll be able to talk with you. I am engaged at present. You see my difficulty?”

“I’ll wait.”

“Martin! Make Mr. Ballard comfortable. Take him into the dining-room. Give him a Scotch and soda.” And stay with him, the words implied. Lenoir’s door closed angrily.

Martin’s heavy footsteps led Ballard toward the arch at whose side Sandra Fane was standing so still. She slipped on her shoes and off her coat, dropping it out of sight at the base of the pillar, and stepped out to meet them. “Hello, Mike,” she said, “how nice that you could come! That’s all right, Martin—
I’ll entertain Mr. Ballard until Monsieur Lenoir is free. Go and have your supper.”

The idea attracted Martin. “But—” he began, reluctantly thinking of his orders.

“I am here with Mr. Ballard,” Sandra said sharply. She calculated a neatly placed indiscretion. “There is no need for two of us to stay with him.”

Martin nodded, and left. She noted that he entered the door leading to the kitchen quarters. That’s that, she thought; there remains only Ballard to deal with. Where does he stand, I wonder. Why should he have been invited to Ca’ Longhi if he wasn’t another Sir Felix Tarns? Yet, as she took him quickly into the dining-room and closed the door, his face was a study in amazement.

“Stay with me?” he repeated. “Was that fellow supposed to
watch
me?”

“Fernand trusts no one. Not even me. Why are you here?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Then I’d better not,” he said, with a touch of humour. He looked in the direction of a chair, but she made no move, simply stood staring at him. She seemed tense; her face was pale, almost haggard. “Are you all right, Sandra?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you one of—of us?” Keep the words safe, she told herself: use nothing that he could repeat against you, if he is a secret Communist. And if he is, she thought, he certainly took me in.

“What do you mean?”

“I never guessed you were a sleeper. You really are skilful, Mike.”

He repeated, very slowly, “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to keep up the pretence with me.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” he said angrily, and made a move toward the door.

She had her back against it. Her voice dropped. “Sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. You see, there has been such a parade of secret visitors all day.” She watched him carefully. “An Italian Communist from Milan, some Cuban on his way back from Moscow—all so important, so secret. And there was Sir Felix Tarns here for luncheon.” There was no doubt that she had shocked him. “Robert Wahl, and Jan Aarvan, and—”

She didn’t have to go on. He was a man stupefied. He shook his head. Disbelief gave way to anger. “And you have been a Communist all along,” he said slowly. “You were the pretender. My God—” He gripped her arm, tried to pull her aside from the door.

“Where do you think you are going?” she asked.

“To see Lenoir—”

“That isn’t very smart. You’ll blurt out what I’ve told you, demand an explanation. Either he will have you silenced or—if he can persuade you to do what he wants—he will let you stay alive. Why did you come here, anyway?”

“There was some information, an inside story—”

“So that was the bait to get you hooked. But what brought you here ahead of your appointment?”

“I—I had some questions. Some thoughts I had this evening—” He paused, remembering Fenner and that quiet Englishman. “They kept bothering me. I—I just wanted to see Lenoir, ask
him—” He looked at her, his eyes suddenly desperate. “What do I do, Sandra? They’ll blast my career to pieces.”

“Blackmail?” she asked, her voice sad, sympathetic. The stupid, bumbling oaf, she thought. “There is one way to deal with blackmail of that kind, and that is to know more about them than they know about you. I’ll give you an inside story that would blast more than their careers.”

He stared at her.

“If,” she added, “you will help me.”

“How?”

“Come,” she said quickly, “come!” She tugged at his sleeve.

He wasn’t moving. “How do I help you?”

“I’ll tell you when we get outside. If Martin stops us, say we are taking a short stroll—that we’re freezing to death in here.” We could get away with that, she thought. Martin was a servant, after all, and a dumb one, too.

But Mike Ballard was still wary.

“Please help me, Mike! They are sending me back to Russia. There’s a freighter sailing early tomorrow, and I have to be on board at midnight. All I want you to do is to get me out of here. Hide me. Find Bill Fenner and tell him where I am. He knows where to get help. You won’t have to do anything more—except write your story. Look—” Her voice and face had become tense as he stood there, silent. She opened her handbag and pulled out a folded map and thrust it deep into his jacket pocket.

“Half of your story is in there—the other half is in what I can tell you. You see I mean what I promise.” She took a deep sigh of relief. She felt better, somehow, that she no longer carried that damned letter.

“What is this map?” he wanted to know. He tried to take
it out and look at it, but she pushed his hand back into his pocket.

“Oh—of Venice,” she said impatiently. “It’s only cover for a letter. Keep that safe, Mike. And help me escape. I’ll tell you enough to outblackmail any blackmailer.”

“What letter?” he asked.

“I’ll explain it. I’ll tell you its whole background. Come! Hurry!” She was opening the massive door, slowly, just one careful inch.

Ballard stayed where he was. He watched the concentration on her face. I believed her once, he thought; I liked her. I was sorry for her. And all the time she was playing a part, making fools out of all of us. I never would have trusted Lenoir if I hadn’t trusted her. And now—she may be telling the truth, but I don’t give a damn. They can ship her off to Russia, and good riddance, I’d say. Good riddance if the whole pack got shipped off to Russia, the lying and cunning sons of bitches, all of them, blackmailers and cheats.

“Please, Mike!” she begged quietly, from the door. Her voice trembled, her blue eyes were large and pleading. “This means so much—”

Lenoir’s voice asked, “What means so much?” With one arm he thrust the door wide open. In his other hand, he held a dark coat. Behind him was Martin, and the other manservant. He looked at Mike Ballard, who was standing well back from the door, and then at Sandra. She couldn’t speak. She only kept staring at the coat.

She told me the truth this time, Ballard thought, she actually told me the truth. The way she stood there, white-faced and hopeless, was too much for him. He said, “Why—Sandra was
only trying to get me to take her out to dinner.”

“Was she?”

Sandra clutched at Ballard’s excuse, even if he had got it wrong. There was some of the old sharpness in her words, but her voice was faint. “I wanted to walk in the fresh air. I wanted to get out of this horrible, hideous house.”

“And after dinner? What then?” Lenoir’s controlled fury began to slip its leash. He pulled a handful of jewellery from her coat pocket, almost threw it in her face. He looked at Ballard. “Where were you taking her?”

Ballard didn’t have to pretend amazement. He stared unbelievingly at the glitter of diamonds and emeralds. “What the—?” he began. “Have you two gone crazy or something?”

Lenoir accepted his astonishment. He dropped the coat and the jewels at his feet. He nodded to the two men behind him. “Take over here,” he told them. To Ballard, he said, “Come.”

Ballard stopped to speak to Sandra. “We’ll have dinner another time,” he said gently. “I wasn’t being ungallant—I just couldn’t make it tonight. I’ve got to take a telephone call at nine-thirty. From New York. Can’t miss it.”

Lenoir said coldly, “You had an appointment with me at half-past nine.”

“This one is with my boss.”

There was a slight flutter of Lenoir’s eyelids.

“That’s why I dropped in early. Just took a chance—”

“Well, come upstairs.”

“There’s scarcely time.” Ballard was beginning to enjoy himself. He glanced at his watch. “It’s five after nine.”

“I ended my other appointment quickly—” began Lenoir angrily.

“Sorry, Fernand. These things happen. Can’t stand up old Walter Penneyman. I’ll come back after his call. Good night, Sandra.” He took her hands, and they were ice cold. “Have lunch with me tomorrow?” Perhaps she got his message, perhaps she grasped that he was going to get out of this house and find help, and let her be free to walk away, have lunch with him or anyone, as she pleased. Or perhaps not. Her eyes were looking past him at the two men who had entered the room.

“Come,” Lenoir said, and gestured to Ballard impatiently. He closed the door behind them. As they walked into the cavern of a hall he was saying unhappily, “Sandra hasn’t been at all well. I am sorry you had to witness that little scene.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do, frankly. She—she keeps stealing things. You saw the jewels—they are mine, you know, belonged to my mother. Do you know what she was going to do with them? Sell them to anyone she could find. Believe me, my dear fellow, she has done this before. I’ve had the most enormous trouble getting them back again. Last month, in Paris—oh, well, why bother you with my worries?”

They had almost reached the street door.

Lenoir, still speaking in the same friendly voice, said, “What happened in the Piazza San Marco this evening? I heard there was a small sensation at Florian’s.”

“A man was arrested.” But he knows all that, Ballard thought. Whoever telephoned him the news in the last fifteen minutes gave him all the details. Perhaps that telephone call was the real reason why he had cut short that interview upstairs: suddenly, I was important.