But wherever she is, he would go privately, secretly. Without the publicity of a formal visit. Whatever her reasons for not having found a safe spot in Maritania, Garvin will humor her notions. Out of respect to Alexander and to her. You see, he’ll be concerned about her security, and so he’s likely to neglect his own. Concerned and careless.”
“Very good,” the komissar agreed. “But your work here with me is more important. You’ve told me that you are running out of time. So is Garvin. I cannot have you jeopardize your very real value to carry on with this personal vendetta. While he is getting acquainted with the son he has never seen, an accident could be arranged. Run down by a drunken driver, for instance.”
“Logical, a good idea! But not in France. The guillotine is working again. The French Sûreté is a nasty outfit, and French legal procedure is different. A criminal resisting arrest and foolishly killing or even wounding a peace officer is never brought to trial. He is beaten and kicked to death, trampled to pulp at the police station.
“Comrade Igor, you do not understand the American system. Martial law is effective: execution before arrest. But once civil law gets a criminal—with the jury, of course, favoring the underdog—the penalty for a bit of income tax fraud is more severe than for rape with torture and murder for trimmings. Over the years, my appearance has changed. The old-time “WANTED” posters make that clear. And I have learned some tricks meanwhile. North America is the place to get rid of Garvin. And that will finish the security that is keeping us out of Maritania.”
The komissar sighed. “Our counterfeit document and money department will miss you. And your message analyses. But if you succeed, I’ll see that you get our highest decoration.”
“The Red Star of Sainte Veronique? If I wanted one, I’d make a counterfeit better than the genuine. It’s that damned Garvin I am after.”
Chapter 3
A few years before falsifying his age to do a hitch of military service sooner than the law required, Felix Garvin had given his mother a bit of general information in words that evoked memories of his father:
“I’ll show these Basque sons of bitches that they do not have a monopoly on flipping a ball against a backstop with a long wicker scoop like a pelican’s beak!”
The Low Garvinese was English he had learned from a Hollander who, toward the end of his world hiking, cycling, and busing tour, stopped in Bayonne to visit relatives. Having added to his fluent English in North America, he shared those improvements on the language of Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen.
The ball game to which Felix had referred was pelota. With so many Basques in Bayonne, each taking pride in his national sport, Felix had been oversensitive. Being in no position to tell those fellows, “My dad can beat your dad,” he’d had to prove his worth by performance. The game had finally hooked him.
And now, in an indirect way, his father’s impending visit teamed up with his feud with the pelota sharks to give him a logical escape from another of Mommie’s million unreasonable whims. Flora wanted him to sweat out the current Sudzo program.
“Sweet weeping Jesus!” Felix protested. “I do not have her shape, but I couldn’t sing much worse than her best!”
“And that is exactly why I want you to tape the whole show. Right after that lousy imitation of my act, there is going to be a historic number. A playback of my very first Sudzo show.”
Felix guessed that Flora wanted to tape the show to add long-ago memories to the sentimental richness of the family reunion. There was also another answer: Flora, as filmed a quarter of a century past, was expertly made up for facing the lights. She had the shape and the sparkle: nothing to do but transpose TV color to home lighting. What Flora did not know about makeup could be engraved on a pinhead, using a jackknife.
Felix had a very special date with Diane, the live-in housekeeper who was on vacation with pay until after the Governor-General quit Bayonne to head for North America. Before breaking out in a cold sweat, he got the answer from the hereditary built-in computer: “I’ve been working out for qualifying for a pelota match, my ass is dragging, and I couldn’t stay awake for that show to start. But I’ll help you connect the recorder.”
“I can do that myself! I really wanted you to see some family history.”
Felix retired to his quarters, the top floor of what had been carriage house and, later, garage and chauffeur’s apartment, until women and children could cope with things automotive. A head taller than the Old Man, he resembled him in temperament and facial expression; two years of military service had given him an appearance of maturity somewhat beyond his age. However, there was a difference: Instead of the Governor-General’s trick of leaving people wondering whether bawdy laughter or cold ferocity would take command, the son was never as explicit in either direction. His veneer of urbanity and the suggestion of “presence” must have been his mother’s contribution from the Helflins, as exemplified by Flora’s fifth cousin, the late Imperator.
Diane supervised the domestic help, managed the ménage, and could be considered the feminine equivalent of the Chinese “Number One Boy.” Except to another woman, Diane looked a dozen years younger than she actually was, and in any event she was a long day’s march from the barmaids near the barracks and the two or three whores who served a platoon or a company of recruits. She had class.
When the coast was clear, Diane, wearing nothing but woman under her dark robe, would edge into the young master’s apartment, slip out of that garment, and into bed.
“For a good-nighter. We’ll both sleep better,” she had said the first time. “No lights. Jamais! Madame your mother might wonder, and I’d be looking for another spot.”
He learned enough about Diane to develop fantasies and cravings and curiosities. What would she be like, dressed and with lights, and bit by bit, very deliberately, undressed, perhaps with his assistance. And then, pillow talk not whispered. And even waking up before dawn to fondle her before going home. Maybe not even going home for a few days or more...
Felix left the walled villa by the tradesman’s entrance. He walked briskly townward until, skirting St. Leon and the Parc des Sports, he came to the avenue that led to the Gate of Spain and into the walled city. Finding the pie-slice building facing 43 rue des Faures was no problem: Between pelota games at the sports park near the oak-shadowed spring of St. Leon, he had reconnoitered by daylight.
The ground-level épicérie was dark, as it should have been. Light leaked past the shades of the upper floor. The new duplicate key fitted smoothly, as Diane had assured him it would. Being sworn into the army had done much for Felix. Having a key to a woman’s apartment was the thirty-third, though there really should be a thirty-fourth, degree in machismo.
Felix was not sure whether he ascended stairs or walked the most ethereal of air.
Out of deference to Diane’s job and his mother’s prissy notions, he would have to leave well before dawn. Naturally there would be a lot of talk about meeting the father he had never seen. And then the door at the head of the stairs confronted Felix.
Before he could fumble for the evasive bell button, the bolt slid aside, a muted metallic whisper, the voice of romance, of intrigue. The door opened on bewilderment and total dismay. The pint-size, black-haired girl who faced him—
Christ on a life raft!
The key had worked, but this was the wrong apartment.
The dainty package laughed softly, caught
