The Venetian Affair

  Claire had been watching a round-bottomed two-year-old, well padded under his short white trousers, ankles stoutly held by short white boots, ending his dash for independence in a trip and plump, right at the feet of two tall Municipal Guards, with sashes and epaulettes, cocked hats, swords, and white-gloved hands clasped over the tails of their dark-blue coats. The child yelled as his buttocks and pride were jolted, fell into open-mouthed silence as his eyes travelled all the way up to the cockades on the hats. His father rushed in, to bend and pick up and solve a problem for uniformed dignity. There were smiles and bows all around. Claire’s own smile widened, and she laughed. And like the child, she fell silent, staring at Fenner. “I laughed,” she said in amazement, “I actually—” She halted, her eyes observing a distant table. “What was that you said about Mike Ballard?”

  “He’s late, blast him.”

  Her eyes veered slowly away from what she had noticed. She said softly, “He’s here. He was early, I think. And someone joined him. No, don’t turn around, Bill.” Her hand had touched his arm before her warning ended, stopping the involuntary movement. “His table is at the back, near the arcade, just two rows behind Chris.”

  Laughter might be a limited weapon, Fenner was thinking, but it was good medicine. Claire was no longer remote, withdrawn; some of her vivacity had returned, and all her quick intelligence. “Who is with him?” he asked.

  “A man with very broad shoulders.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Give me a cigarette, Bill.”

  “And Chris hasn’t recognised him?”

  “I wouldn’t have,” she reminded him, “if you hadn’t pointed him out today.”

  He sat quite silent. At last he said, “We’ve got to make Chris notice. He’s a bright boy. He won’t need much of a hint.” He lit her cigarette carefully, and his own.

  “But how?”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Bill—” she pleaded.

  “Nothing to it,” he reassured her. “All I need is a chance to turn around and see Ballard quite naturally.”

  She looked at him. “All right,” she said, and let the cigarette slip from her fingers onto her lap. “Oh!” She half-rose abruptly, brushing the burning ash from her dress. He had risen, too, his chair toppling back with his speed. “It’s all right,” she assured him, her voice at its natural level. “I jumped just in time.” So they could laugh, and she sat down again, saying, “How silly of me!” He turned to pick up his chair and put it back in position. He looked at the curious and amused faces which glanced in their direction. And at the back of the row of tables, just behind Chris, as she had warned him, he saw Ballard and Jan Aarvan.

  “Why, there’s Ballard!” he said clearly. “I think I’ll let him know we’re here. Won’t be a minute, Claire.” And there wasn’t even a minute to waste: the band was tuning up again. Soon, voices wouldn’t carry two rows of tables. He made his way quickly toward the arcade. He passed Chris Holland, didn’t even glance at him. Aarvan was talking quietly, his back turned to the Piazza. Ballard, lost in his own world of trouble, could only stare blankly at Fenner as he approached them.

  “Hello, Mike!” Fenner said. “We found a table at the front, just over there.” He gestured toward Claire. “Thought I’d let you know in case you didn’t see us arrive.”

  Aarvan had turned. It was a quick aggressive movement, from a man who thought in terms of danger. Rosie, playing with the view finder on his camera, had noted it. Chris, two rows to the front, could not look around. But he could hear.

  “Say, haven’t I seen you before?” Fenner asked Aarvan. “On a raft?”

  Aarvan’s brief show of interest had reverted to a cold stare.

  “Yes,” Fenner continued cheerfully, “that was it—out at the Lido today. Well—” he looked at the unhappy Ballard who had made no offer of an introduction—“see you later, Mike.” He walked briskly away. Chris was examining his cheque and counting out some lire. Rosie had shut his camera and was waiting for the music to start.

  Fenner dropped quietly into his seat as the first bars of Sicilian Vespers sounded over a silenced Piazza, noted with thankfulness that the waiter had brought their drinks, and gave Claire a reassuring smile. Why, he thought, in amazement, she was actually worrying about me. About me. Not about the job. About me. And he could calm down, forgetting the nervous tension that had tightened his stomach as he had faced Aarvan. That hadn’t been as easy as he had pretended it to be. Now, he could admit that. It was one thing to be an actor, he decided; quite another to make up your lines as you went along. He had to wonder, of course, whether his action had been necessary. Or had he been foolish, had he made a mistake? Some men, judging from their assertions in newspapers and on television, always seemed to believe they were right, knew everything, and had chosen the only intelligent approach to any situation. Fenner could only hope that, out of the several approaches he could have made to this particular situation, he hadn’t taken the worst one. It had been an instinctive action, arriving out of nowhere, startling him now as he had time to think about it.

  “How was Mike?” asked Claire softly.

  “Hopeless.”

  “If only he would stand up and fight—” She shook her head sadly. “There’s no disgrace so great as the one he is heading into. Can’t he see that?”

  So she knew about Mike Ballard’s particular mess of potage. No need to avoid the topic any longer. “If we could make him see—” He paused, thinking over that, wondering if it could be possible and how.

  “If he comes,” she suggested.

  “Sh!” said a music lover near them, ending their murmuring.

  If he comes, Fenner thought morosely, Ballard will be one step farther into the net that Fernand Lenoir has spread for him. He began wondering how Jan Aarvan had entered this picture. Aarvan was Kalganov’s man. Was Kalganov in Venice, taking full control?

  The band was packing up, dusk was beginning, the balls of light suspended from each arch in the long arcades were being switched on, the crowds were having another stroll before they went home to supper; and Mike Ballard arrived. He had had one drink more than necessary. His manner was too jocular, too determinedly confident. “Well, well, well—” he began, pumped Fenner’s hand, kissed Claire on the cheek and patted her arm. “Good to see you. Pretty picture you make, sitting there with Bill. Been admiring you from a distance.”

  “We thought you had forgotten about us,” Claire said. She looked at him anxiously. He wasn’t drunk. He could be, though, if he ordered anything more.

  “Forgotten you? Never, my love.” He pulled a chair over, and sat down. He glanced around him: the tables had become less crowded. Nearby, there were only two smartly dressed girls, with heavy bracelets that jangled as they talked with precise gesture. “French,” Ballard noted. “You can always tell. Nothing like the French for that extra je-ne-sais-quoi touch of what-you-call-it.”

  Fenner looked at Miss Bikini and back at Mike Ballard. Let’s get down to business, he thought. “What’s the trouble, Mike?”

  Ballard’s eyes flickered away. “Trouble?” he asked vaguely. “Who hasn’t got troubles?” His voice became louder. “Where’s a waiter—what are you drinking?” He snapped his fingers furiously.

  “We’re all right,” Fenner said. “You order some coffee, and we’ll listen.”

  “Coffee? You sound like Eva.”

  “How is she?”

  “And the children?” Claire asked, pressing Fenner’s point still farther.

  “Fine,” Ballard said, avoiding her eyes, “just fine.” The bluster left him. He stared down at the table. “They are good kids,” he said dejectedly. He let Fenner order coffee without any further resistance. “Well,” he said, trying to get back his first burst of enthusiasm, “and how is Venice treating you? Having fun?”

  “Everyone has lots of fun in Venice,” Fenner said. “Except you, seemingly. What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Ballard tried a smile. ?
??Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Just over an hour ago, I had a telephone call. Remember? The man who made it sounded pretty worried, worried enough to make me invite him to join us here. But when he arrives, he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s here on false pretences.” Ballard looked at Fenner quickly. “Scram,” Fenner told him with a smile. “Blow, disappear, vanish. Two’s company, didn’t you know?”

  Ballard stared at him, completely off balance. For the last twenty minutes, since the stranger had left, Ballard had sat swallowing three double Scotches, working up his courage, his story and his bile. He had been tempted to walk right past this table and keep Claire and Fenner out of this mess, or—if he did sit down—to forget that warning that had been sent to him through that cold-eyed stranger, and tell Fenner his troubles. As he had meant to do when he first walked into this Piazza. But that impulse must be choked back. He could sense the stranger’s eyes still watching him from some safe distance. Who was he, who were the people who had sent him here? Friends of that beggar Spitzer, certainly. How else could a stranger threaten him so completely? Blackmail. It was blackmail, a quicksand with slobbering lips already sucking at his ankles. He had a return of the impulse to rise and walk away, saying the hell with all their threats. And then he thought of the kids, his job, Eva—and he sat still, trapped and helpless.

  “Hold it, Bill,” he said, feeling the sickliness of his forced grin after his long silence, “you don’t chop off an old friend like that. Do you?” He turned to Claire. “By the way, you seem to have done well with those fashion drawings.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said.

  “Not at all. Glad to get you the job. Any time.” His coffee arrived, and he gulped it down, scalding as it must have been. He drew out his cigarette case. His lighter matched it. Cuff links for his white silk shirt were of gold, too. Shot-silk tie from Florence. Silk tweed suit from Rome. Shoes, carefully displayed with a crossed leg, from London. Lenoir had supplied Ballard with more than a pretty mistress. Fenner and Claire exchanged a brief glance. He misinterpreted it. “So you are wondering why I’m in Venice? That’s easy. There’s a story to be dug out. I’m here to dig.”

  “And who is minding the store meanwhile?” Fenner asked. “Surely not that fellow Spitzer?”

  “Oh, I’ll be back in Paris tomorrow.”

  “You left Spitzer in charge?”

  “Why not?”

  Fenner just shook his head. Perhaps Ballard really did want to commit suicide.

  “He’s a bit too eager, that’s all.”

  “Yes, eager for your job.”

  Ballard finished a second cup of coffee.

  “Hadn’t you thought of that?”

  “No,” Ballard said shortly. Spitzer and his friends weren’t going to take away his job as long as he listened to them. That had been made quite clear. He added, “If so, he isn’t the only one.” He looked at Fenner.

  Claire said, “Nonsense, Mike. You’re an awful fool.”

  There was a pause. “I hope that was a joke,” he said. So that’s all the thanks I get, he thought bitterly.

  “At present, you don’t amuse me one bit,” she said coldly. “You aren’t the Mike Ballard I used to know.”

  He almost rose, hesitated, tried to laugh it off. “She’s spoiling for a fight,” he said to Fenner. “Have you been telling her tales about me?” Women always closed ranks against men. Claire was taking Eva’s side. As if he hadn’t been a good husband, a good provider, when he was in the money. Was all that to be forgotten because of one mistake?

  “No need,” Fenner said, glancing at the gold cigarette case. We’re wasting our time and sympathy on this soft slob who’ll persuade himself into believing anything just to hang on to his comforts. “Let’s take a walk,” he told Claire quietly. She didn’t move. Her eyes seemed to say, “Wait, Bill, wait a little...”

  “Say, what’s come over you two?” Ballard was really worried. Three questions, he remembered in immediate panic, and he hadn’t even asked the first one.

  “What has come over you?” Fenner asked bluntly.

  “But—nothing.”

  “Why did you call me?”

  Ballard saw an opening, and plunged. “I’m worried. And I think I’ve good reason to worry. Bill, tell me—why did you come to Venice?” And I’m not just asking this for the stranger, he thought. I want to know the answer to this, too.

  “You know why.” Fenner was looking at him curiously.

  “Those interviews? Bull—Sorry, Claire.” He patted her arm and turned to Fenner again. “Does it matter a plugged nickel what a couple of neutralists think? You could write those interviews sitting here, or in Paris.”

  “I’d rather let them speak their little piece. Much more telling.”

  “You could have refused this assignment. You’re not under any contract to write—”

  Fenner cut in. “Who would refuse a week in Venice?”

  “You’re staying a week?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Ballard looked at Claire. “She’d fight with me,” he said with a sudden grin.

  Fenner picked up the tab that had been left tactfully under a saucer.

  “Hey! What’s the rush?”

  Fenner said, “Your problems are over, aren’t they? I’ve solved your worry. I’m not in Venice to take any story away from you. It’s all yours, Mike. We’re off to dinner.”

  Ballard’s grin had faded. “So my problems are over.” He looked at the lighted Piazza, at the men and women who walked and talked together, at the laughing children, at the crowds now gathering at one of the cafés opposite where a jazz band was stomping out a new version of Tiger Rag. “You two don’t need to look so god-damned happy,” he said bitterly. “It might do you more good to start looking for that story, Bill. Because you’re in it. Somewhere, you’re in it.”

  “In what?”

  “You haven’t an idea?” Ballard was incredulous.

  “Not one.”

  “Why did Spitzer telephone a report on your plans? Yes... just after you left the office yesterday, he picked up the telephone and called Venice.”

  “He did that, in front of you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You caught him at it?”

  “I’m not such a fool as some people think.” Ballard glanced at Claire.

  “And you let him get away with it?”

  Ballard said testily, “Let me handle Spitzer my way.”

  “What way is that?” asked Fenner sharply. Ballard fell silent, his false confidence slipping. He looked the unhappiest man in the whole Piazza di San Marco. Which might be true, Fenner thought, and relented. Sympathetically, he added, “Who’s behind Spitzer, Mike? Who got him into the office?”

  “I hired him. He was highly recommended. Good qualifications, languages, all that. He’s thoroughly capable, no doubt about it.”

  “Recommended by whom?”

  “A friend of mine. You can take that look off your face, Bill. My friend had no personal interest in Spitzer, just heard about him. He will be as shocked as I am—”

  “Who is this friend?”

  “An important guy. Carries a lot of weight, has contacts. Will you listen to me? He’s reliable. He has too big a career ahead of him to get mixed up with men like Spitzer. He has got brains, he has got standing.”

  “Hasn’t he got a name? All right, all right. Your friend is an honourable man. He isn’t trying to crucify you, in order to keep Spitzer planted in the Chronicle office.”

  Ballard’s eyes widened. His lips closed tight. He said angrily, “My God, Bill, if we can’t trust our friends, where are we? Look—this man has done a lot for me. He has done a lot for other people, too. You don’t believe me? How do you think your wife stayed alive for those last three years? She was a refugee, no money, no friends—”

  “Sandra Fane is not my wife.”

  “That’s right.” Ballard’s eloquence went into high gear. “You and all other Americans were to
o good for her. When she needed help, did any of us give it? No, it was Lenoir who had the guts to help her start a new life. Would a Communist have done that?”

  Claire asked, “Where do Communists come into this, Mike?”

  He knitted his brows, tried to pour another cup and found the pot empty. “Perhaps Spitzer—” he began slowly, hesitated. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.” He looked at Fenner bitterly. “You don’t have to go running to old Penneyman with reports that I’m doing nothing. I’ll handle this—” He stopped, seeing the anger in Fenner’s eyes. His voice eased. “I’ll handle this, my way. The Chronicle won’t suffer.”

  “Mike!” Claire said. “Of all the spiteful, unfair things to say!” Her eyes still told Fenner: “Wait, Bill, wait a little...”

  For Ballard was sorry, and didn’t know how to express it. Fenner had his faults, but talebearing wasn’t one of them. “I guess I spoke too quickly there,” Ballard said at last, flicking his lighter off and on, off and on. He tried to laugh. “I really get her riled when I criticise you, don’t I?” He saw the opening for that second question. “Say, how long have you known each other?”

  “I know Bill better than you know him,” Claire said. “That’s obvious.”

  “But you never mentioned him to me. Funny, isn’t it—you knew Bill, I knew him, and—”

  “What’s funny about that?” Claire asked. “Why should I tell you about my—” She paused delicately, looked embarrassed and amused. “Really, Mike!”

  Fenner had dropped enough money on the table to take care of drinks and tip. He pulled the coat around Claire’s shoulders. He hadn’t looked at Ballard for the last minute. He didn’t look at him even as Claire slowly gathered her bag and gloves.

  “What have I got, leprosy or something?” Ballard asked angrily. “Why the hell did I bother to telephone you?”

  “I keep wondering about that,” Fenner said.

  “Well—I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “About what?”

  “You know damned well.”

  “I don’t. I don’t even believe there is any story—”

  “Isn’t there? If not, why was Neill Carlson coming to Venice?”