The Venetian Affair

  It was an elderly shirt-sleeved man, suspenders undone and flapping. He crushed past them, with unsteady legs and sleep-heavy eyes. “Scusa, scusa!” he said irritably, and lurched on toward the lavatory.

  “Night traffic begins,” Fenner said. “Let’s move.” The train’s speed was tapering off.

  She nodded. “When you next see Aarvan, point him out. Talk about shoulders, if he is close to us. I’ll get it.” As a woman, clutching her tweed coat over her slip, poked her head into the corridor and hesitated, Claire raised her voice to normal again. “You’re right—it’s chilly. I suppose we ought to start thinking of sleep, like everyone else.”

  “Forms to be filled out,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, heavens!”

  “Sh!” said someone angrily from a darkened compartment.

  The brakes were on. The express was beginning its long slide into the station of Dijon as Fenner left Claire in her compartment. “See you in five minutes,” he told her. “I’ll get those forms. And a nightcap.”

  “Yes, darling.” She smiled as he glanced sharply at her. You never know, her eyes seemed to say as she gestured comically at the four small walls around her.

  He entered his own compartment, and pulled up the window shade. The station was modern; the platform was long and broad, brightly lighted. He forced his window down from the top and looked out. Neither Carlson nor Jan Aarvan appeared, so they were both still on the train. But three men, waiting quietly on the platform, caught his eye. They were dressed in civilian clothes; they carried no bags, not even a briefcase. And they were the only people on that long platform to board the train. They moved in a tight little group, as if they knew exactly what they wanted. Well, thought Fenner as the minute’s stop at Dijon was over, it seems as if someone did get a message to the Sûreté from the Gare de Lyon. He pulled down the shade, thoughtful, but somehow reassured by his guests.

  Claire had made good use of those five minutes. He found her standing on her bed, the pillow pushed aside, reaching up to one of the heavy brackets on the wall just under the high luggage rack. She gave him a smile of triumph. She had found what she had been looking for. But what do we do? he wondered. He suddenly felt useless and stupid, just standing there speechless.

  Claire moved silently back from the luggage rack, and lowered herself carefully to sit on the bed. “Darling, how wonderful, you did find your flask! I’m completely refrigerated. It wouldn’t really be much fun to arrive sneezing in Venice.”

  “Better put more clothes on, honey.”

  She gave him an indignant look, and said nothing. Let him get out of that one, she thought.

  “You have the prettiest legs, even when they are turning blue. Here, drink this—” He stepped over her shoes and reached for the tumbler on the washbasin.

  “Bill—please—stop that! How can I drink if you—I’ll spill it, Bill. Bill!” She began to laugh.

  Perhaps it was the astonishment on his face that amused her so much. Her laugh sounded merry, carefree, happy. All is jollity, he thought grimly as he went on pouring the drink. Silently, he offered it to her. She shook her head. So he swallowed it himself, and looked bitterly at the bracket, high on the wall, above the pillow. I’ll yank it out from its hiding place, he thought, and let us talk naturally. No, I can’t do that either: it’s the proof of our innocence. Who was going to listen to its recording, and judge? Robert Wahl? Fernand Lenoir? Lenoir was the expert with words, wasn’t he? Damn him, damn them all, damn—

  Claire had caught his hand, tugging at it gently to bring him back to the present. “Dear Bill,” she said quietly, and she wasn’t acting.

  He sat down beside her. “Claire, I’ve been thinking about us.”

  “Don’t! Just let’s enjoy ourselves—”

  “Yes, that too. But when Venice is over, what then?”

  “What then...” She repeated, at a loss for words.

  “Would you throw up your job and come back to New York? With me?”

  She stared at him, his grey eyes widening. She had almost believed him. Why, she thought as her alarm subsided, he can act my head off! “Bill, you promised me—you said you would give me time. That’s why I’m going to Venice with you.” She glanced up at the hidden microphone. “You know that, darling.”

  He said nothing.

  Again she felt that strange alarm.

  He was smiling. “Yes, I know. I’ll wait.”

  “And no more thinking about us?”

  “Just occasionally.”

  “Kiss me, Bill.” She was lighting a cigarette. She offered him one from her case.

  He pushed it aside, took the cigarette away from her lips, tossed it into the hand basin, and kissed her. Her body went rigid; she tried to push him away, but he kissed her long and hard. “There!” he said softly, as he let her go. “Feeling warmer, honey?”

  She just kept looking at him. He was very careful not to touch her again.

  “Hell!” he said. “I’ve just remembered—we’ve got these forms to fill out. Come on, my pet, duty before pleasure. Sit up and start reading the questions.”

  “Must we do it now?”

  “Now,” he said firmly. “Or do you want to be stuck at the border in a black chiffon nightie? It would be much admired, but—”

  “That’s what I like about men,” she murmured, pulling her grey wool jacket neatly into place, “you can always depend on their taste: it’s so catholic. All right, darling. If I tell you the facts, will you be the recording angel? Claire Connor Langley—is there room for all that? Born: May 20, 1933, Sheridan, Wyoming. Father and mother: John and Agnes Connor. What next? Heavens, they want just about everything. When did I leave the US? When was my last visit to Italy? Why am I going there? Oh dear, would they accept the truth? For the purpose of making up my mind.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “What’s that you’ve written? Pleasure.”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  “I also have a little job to do.”

  He looked up, shook his head even if he was amused. She enjoyed sailing close to the wind, this girl. “I thought you were leaving your work behind, just for once. Don’t tell me a client wants a copy of Saint Mark’s horses for her front gate in Beverly Hills?”

  “My client is a very impressive and well-known magazine, Mr. Fenner, and it wants some details on the upper hall of the Scuola di San Rocco. Do you know it? It’s the large building put up by the Venetian guilds, decorated by Tintoretto, just to show that the trade unions could keep up with the Doges.”

  “Sounds a pretty big job to me.”

  “Darling, don’t look so upset. This is only a small assignment: it won’t take long. I have just to make some suggestions, as a guide for the photographers who will be arriving in October. Of course, if the Editorial Brains like my ideas, that could lead to something bigger—Bill, please don’t look so depressed. You have a job to do in Venice, too. How long will your interviews take?”

  “Not so long, once they are arranged.”

  “You see? Arranging them might take you two or three days. And what would I do meanwhile?”

  “Just sit around and look beautiful, my pet. Besides, Penneyman has probably made most of the arrangements. His cable sounded as if everything was all laid on.”

  “You used to do some good interviews,” she said. She was serious again. “You know, I think Mr. Penneyman is trying to entice you back into news reporting.”

  “Could be. But I have a book I want to write.”

  “Why don’t you write a play?”

  He stared at her.

  “You could, you know,” she said.

  He tried to laugh the idea away. “And what shall it be—comedy or tragedy?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re essentially an optimist, Bill. But you wrap yourself in pessimism.”

  “Just an old cynic,” he agreed.

  “No, no. Not that. You are a romantic with your guard up aga
inst the realists.”

  “Just an old battered, beaten-up idealist?” he asked with a grin.

  “Do you always underrate yourself, Bill?”

  “I think I’ve overrated myself with you. I ask the prettiest girl I know to come jaunting in Venice. And what do I find? Does she want to be kissed or cajoled? No. She’s too busy analysing my psyche.”

  “Darling,” she said softly. “I’m just helping you fill out forms. Oh, let’s finish them, shall we? And after that’s over, we can—” She yawned.

  “Don’t fall asleep!”

  “Of course not,” she said drowsily. It was a good act, a nice prelude to his departure, a reasonable explanation for the microphone when all sounds ceased. “Where do I sign? Oh lord, so many places. You know, Bill, there’s one aspect of the population explosion that has no solution.”

  “Only one?”

  “Where are they going to file the forms that everyone will have to fill up?”

  “There’s always outer space,” he suggested, trying to concentrate on his own answers. Date of birth: December 17, 1923. You’re old, Father William. You’re thirty-seven, and she is twenty-eight.

  “The brakes are going on,” Claire said. “Another station so soon?”

  “Probably Dôle. There’s a six-minute stop there. Would you like some hot coffee?” He was already on his feet. The train gave one last lurch and came to rest.

  “It might be one way to keep me awake,” she said with a low laugh, and made a comical face up at the hidden microphone. Fenner was smiling broadly as he entered the corridor: that’s the idea, he was thinking, don’t let the beggars grind us down.

  The attendant blocked the door to the platform. He wasn’t enthusiastic about anyone leaving the train. There was no food cart in sight; the station café was distant and possibly closed. Fenner didn’t argue with these suggestions: he had a good-enough view of the platform from the door. Some people got off, some got on; a few people in more countrified clothes still sat on bulging suitcases, hugged paper parcels, waited for other local connections. Two policemen in dark-blue uniforms walked smartly along the train. Abruptly, they halted, as if they had seen someone at one of the carriage doors, and climbed on board.

  The attendant had been watching, too.

  “Looks as if somebody is going to be arrested,” Fenner said hopefully.

  The man shrugged his shoulders; his white, tired face was blank. Perhaps he was unwilling to admit to any foreigner that anything could be wrong. He stared along the platform. The policemen did not get off.

  “They’re travelling with us,” Fenner said, taken aback as the train’s wheels started moving again.

  The attendant said, “You’ll have no trouble, monsieur. If you hand me your documents and passports, I shall answer any questions. You will not be disturbed at the frontiers, either.”

  That was as close as Fenner would get to an admission that the train might be searched. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re going to have a sleepless night.”

  “The documents are all ready?”

  “I’m just completing them. You’ll have them in ten minutes.” Fenner went back to the compartment. He was making no more guesses about the Sûreté having been alerted just before the train left the Gare de Lyon. If they had been, wouldn’t Jan Aarvan have been hauled off the train at Dôle? After all, plenty of criminals travelled: trains and liners and airplanes carried them. Ordinary travellers forgot that. There could be others on this train who were wanted by the Sûreté. “Disappointment,” he told Claire. “No coffee. Our attendant wouldn’t trust me out on the platform. He has lost some passengers that way, I gather. And I’ve got to get these forms ready.”

  If he was disappointed, she thought, it wasn’t about the coffee. What is puzzling him? But she sighed deeply and said, “Red tape is very hard on romance.”

  “Shan’t be long, honey.” He began printing his name, et cetera, et cetera. Red tape was strong on et ceteras.

  Claire let the magazine she had been reading drop on her knees. She curled her legs under her thighs for warmth, pulled over the pillow to soften the hard wall for her shoulder blades. She yawned again. She had never been more wide awake.

  She watched him as he worked on the small folding table near the window. Intelligent eyes, lips serious in concentration, a well-shaped head; no flabbiness, either physically or mentally. The movements of his hands with paper and pen were neat and capable. Capable—yes, he was all of that. She remembered Rosie’s words when he was persuading her into this trip: “Fenner is all right. I wouldn’t send you with him if he wasn’t on the beam. Just get to know each other before you arrive in Venice, so as you’ll feel natural. No strain. You can’t be stiff or stilted. Don’t worry, Claire, he’s a dependable guy.” Yes, Rosie had been right: she could always work with someone she liked, someone she trusted. She had liked Bill from the very first meeting. (That would have startled Rosie. It had startled her.) Now, on this strange journey, she was learning to trust him. Or why should she be feeling more confident? We’ll make a good job of this little assignment, she thought happily. Little? Only her part in it was small, and so was Bill’s. How many others were converging on Venice, each with his own job to do? Add up all those assignments, big and small, and the sum total must be enormous. And all this effort, which she could sense but not see, all this for one letter? A letter, one faked letter—could it really pack so much possible destruction within one page? Rosie had told her the minimum, naturally, but there was no law against thinking. The letter was only one part of the problem; why else would the French be interested? Why else was Rosie asking for the Italians’ help? And the English were involved, too. This was going to be quite a party in Venice. A surprise party. This was going to be her only chance of success, Rosie had said: complete surprise. Keep them unsuspecting, she told herself, and glanced defiantly at the bracket overhead.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, “you are taking forever.”

  “Won’t be long, pet.” Fenner seemed a little amused by the warmth of the interruption. “Just four last questions, damn them.”

  “What was the colour of your grandmother’s eyes?” she asked sleepily, still looking at the concealed microphone. And what do you make of that, Comrade Lenoir? Lenoir and Wahl: psychological warfare expert and organiser of terrorism. A very complete combination, a real threat. Yes, much more than a letter must be involved. This was something really big. Not that size mattered when it came to threats against peace. Even the smallest could grow... Again she remembered Rosie’s words: “Nothing is negligible, nothing—if it can shift the delicate balance of peace.” He wasn’t making a phrase to win some votes or impress a television audience. Old Rosie believed that. So did Neill and Chris Holland. So did Bill Fenner—or he wouldn’t be here. And so must I—or I wouldn’t be here, either.

  She looked back at Bill Fenner. He was reading over the four sets of forms with a strange smile on his face, as if to say, “How the hell do I get into this kind of situation?” What did he really think about her? Someone who made this kind of journey quite nonchalantly? Regularly? Some kind of a sublimated nymphomaniac, treating life as the great and gay adventure? Heavens, she thought in distress.

  Fenner turned his head to find her watching him, with her cheeks flushed, her eyes troubled. “Finished,” he said. “I’ll hand everything over to the attendant. He will deal with the—” He rose, and let his voice change. “Claire! Claire—wake up!”

  Had she been waiting for this one? The worry, certainly, vanished from her eyes. “I’m all right, Bill—all right, really—” Her voice drifted away.

  He wondered if they had play-acted themselves into a corner. How was she going to lock her door once he left? And how did he say an adequate good night? She was leaving it all to him, this time: no more invitations to a kiss. Just as well. When he kissed a girl like Claire, he stopped all pretending. “Good night, Claire,” he said gently. He ruffled her hair, raised her hand to his lips. Just a gentle
man of the old school, he thought wryly, and kissed her hand twice. Then, on impulse, he added, “Mes hommages.” His eyes were serious. So were hers. He remembered to switch off the main lights as he left.

  Claire cautiously slipped off her jacket and skirt. That was all she could risk. She’d have to go to bed half-dressed. She couldn’t risk any sounds of washing or brushing, either. She was fast asleep, wasn’t she? I’ll look awful tomorrow, she predicted as she slid carefully between the sheets. Her handbag was close to the pillow, luckily. Her hand searched quietly and found the small automatic. It reassured her, at least, about the unlocked door. Strange how people who thought they knew you understood so little. “Steel-lined nerves,” Neill Carlson used to tease her. And Rosie, in a moment of weakness, had told her that her strongest asset was her calm competence. Even Bill Fenner had said, “Mes hommages,” as if he had been saluting her. But this, she thought as she slipped the automatic under her pillow, is the real me: someone who is doing a job because it’s necessary, because she can do it; someone who feels so frightened that she is afraid to admit it, even to herself. Except now and again, in the lonely hours. The hours like those that stretched ahead of her, as cold and bleak as the mountain air whistling against the window.

  15

  Venice welcomed them with blue sky and high clouds, little trails and folds and careless gathers of white silk draped high above the fresh breeze that blew in from the Adriatic and set the waters of the lagoon dancing in the morning sunlight. In the Grand Canal, the ripples slapped at mooring poles and jostled the black gondolas, nudged cellar walls and dared to mount the green-stained steps toward a palace door.

  It was a city of contrast. Colours were bright, yet soft; gamboge, yellow ochre, raspberry, terra cotta were bleached into gold, pink, russet; faded, muted, and streaked. Shapes were large and bold, yet decorative, even fragile. Solid walls of high houses rose out of the canal; balconies and windows were carved and fretted, fluted and laced. Stone floated on water.