House of Cards Page 2

  “No, why?”

  “Because of the way he was combing through them. Olympe thought you might be trying to sell them to him, and that he was making sure they weren’t stolen goods.”

  “Well, she thought wrong. Did he say anything about the books?”

  “Yes. He said, ‘So it seems our heavyweight favors the classics, no less.’ He sounded amused.”

  “Well, I’m not. What right did she have to let him into the room at all?”

  Louis shrugged. “He told her to. Look, kid, you’re not getting the picture. This Marchat could make even a waiter at the Lido hop to attention by wiggling a finger at him. Anyhow, there’s no need to stew over it. He gave me his name and address when I asked for them. All you have to do is look him up in the book and call him.”

  “Except that I already did and his phone’s disconnected. What I’m going to do is go over to his office right after breakfast and straighten things out in person.”

  “But not in this mood,” warned Louis. “At least, don’t get all heated up until you know the score. Tell you what. I’ll go along just to make sure you don’t.”

  The address on Marchat’s card was that of an old building in the Place Vendôme near its rue de la Paix entrance. Max Marchat, avocat, according to the brass plaque in the doorway, could be found on the second floor, so up the steep, creaking stairway we went, disregarding the raised eyebrows of the porter who sat behind his desk in the ground-floor corridor. There were two doors on the second-floor landing, and I tried each in turn, first tapping politely, then knocking loudly and rattling the knobs, but the doors remained closed.

  Then the porter, a stout, white-haired old man who looked as if he had been around as long as the building, slowly came huffing and puffing up the stairway and when he reached the top stood gasping for a few moments to catch his breath.

  “What’s all the racket about?” he finally managed to ask. “Who are you looking for? Marchat?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  The porter shook his head pityingly.

  “Well,” he said, “if you boys had bothered to ask about it at the desk, we could have saved ourselves this miserable mountain climbing. And no use banging on the door like that, because no one’s there to open it. The office is closed for good.”

  “Closed for good?” said Louis. “But where’s Marchat?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, little man,” said the porter. “Marchat’s been dead for a month.”

  3

  Rome had been my nesting ground when I first met Louis le Buc, but the meeting took place in the prizefight arena at Milan. After a bout I had there, Louis had hunted me out in the dressing room to shake my hand and remark what a pleasure it was to meet a fighter who could obviously fell a horse with one blow.

  “I didn’t know they made heavyweights like you any more, big boy,” he said. “Today, it’s all dancing around and shadow-boxing. It’s enough to make a man cry, watching those cream-puffs. Come on, let’s have a drink, and I’ll make you an offer you can’t afford to turn down.”

  He was a bright-eyed, big-beaked little gamecock of a man in threadbare clothes and an oversized beret, a would-be cynic whose acid manner could not conceal an immense good nature. The beret, I later discovered, was worn indoors as well as out for the same reason Caesar had always gone around wearing his laurels—to conceal a shining bald scalp.

  His offer, it came out over a succession of drinks in a caffé in the Galeria, was to take him on as manager, return to Paris with him, and settle down there in a city where the wine was drinkable, the food edible, and the women, whether willing or unwilling, at least vivacious. So, since I had few ties to Italy and some of them already had marriage on the mind, and since my American manager was homesick for New York and willing to cut me loose for a small payment, I became the protégé of Louis le Buc. It never dawned on me when I signed with him to ask if he knew anything about managing a fighter or if he even knew anything about fighting, which, I soon learned, he did not. But even if he had confessed this to me then and there, I would have signed with him. The best friendships are the ones where you meet someone by chance and intuitively know on the spot that here is a true friend. That’s how it was with Louis and me the instant we shook hands in the dressing room of the Milan arena.

  For a while things went well in Paris, although Louis’ innocence of our business proved a constant problem. I had a tremendous punch, it’s true, but I was a shade too slow to be more than a fairly good club fighter at my best, and a smaller, faster man might occasionally jab me dizzy before I could catch up to him. And Louis, who knew as little about match making as he did about a left hook, had a penchant for signing me up against small, fast men rather than dangerous-looking big sluggers. Then he would watch agonized from my corner, suffering every punch with me, and becoming a more sickly green each round.

  “That’s enough,” he would say while the seconds were repairing the damages. “You’ll be mincemeat before this is over. You’ll be crippled for life. I’m throwing in the towel,” and a couple of times did throw in the towel, thus turning a possible victory for me into total defeat.

  But, all in all, we did pretty well for a while, making fair money, spending it only a little faster than we made it, sharing the amenities of Madame Olympe’s pension where we were entirely at home among the cafe waiters, bookies, lottery ticket peddlers and bath-house attendants who occupied the place, until the day came when I started to lose fights more often than I won them. In the end, it was Louis who forced me to throw the towel in on my career.

  “You’ve had it, kid,” he said. “Maybe you can take more of this, but I can’t. Now is the time to quit and start writing those books you always wanted to write, while you’re still in one piece and I’m not a complete emotional wreck. And if you don’t make a big success out of writing books, we’ll still get along somehow.”

  We did, because Louis in a pinch always managed to come up with a way for one or the other of us to make a few francs. It was for good reason, he liked to point out, that his real name had long ago been forgotten by the Faubourg Saint-Denis and replaced by the title of le Buc. That had nothing to do with taking bets from local horse players, but came about when, as a bright young lad, he would stroll each morning of the tourist season to Brentano’s bookshop on the Avenue de l’Opéra which stocks a handsome collection of English-language pornography, buy a choice volume for twelve or fifteen francs, then walk over to the nearby Café de la Paix and sell the book to some evil-minded and uninformed tourist for fifty francs.

  “I might have cleaned up a fortune that way before the cops moved in and started grabbing all my profits,” he said wistfully, “but it was always one book a day and no more. I have your weakness, kid. Once I’ve got enough in my pocket to take it easy in the cafés the rest of the day, I figure tomorrow will take care of itself. Cafes have been my ruination. Cafes and idle talk and beautiful, avaricious women. But that book-selling business was what I call a good deal. A big return on a small investment, and everything strictly legal. Damn those grafting cops anyhow.”

  Actually, as I came to see, none of Louis’ women were much in the femme-fatale department, but were, one and all, hardworking, high-spirited salesgirls or secretaries, usually twenty years younger and a head taller than he, who would start off by being fond of him and wind up adoring him.

  “Because,” as he once pointed out to me, “they know I’m all ears when they talk to me, I’m interested in whatever they have to say. And of all things any woman wants from her lover once they’re out of bed, that’s what she wants most.”

  Which, of course, is very close to the truth.

  When Louis’ latest, a buxom redhead who worked as typist in the Ministry of Commerce and who was an avid reader of mysteries, heard about the Marchat affair, she told me eagerly that it would be no trouble at all for her to get me a dossier on the late Max Marchat. And since this meant I was doing something about the matter
instead of angrily wondering about it, I accepted Véronique’s offer with thanks.

  Louis had arranged a double date for my first night off from work. That night, Véronique brought the dossier with her, and while waiting for my date to join us in my room, she and Louis and I went through it carefully, line by line. It offered not the slightest clue as to why anyone would want to adopt Max Mar-chat’s identity and undertake an investigation of me.

  The record was straightforward and respectable. Marchat had attended a good school, practiced law in Paris, headed an investigating commission in Algeria during the troubles of 1960 for which service he had been decorated by the government, and then had re-entered the practice of law in Paris, where he had died at the age of sixty as the result of a fall down the stairway of his offices. His wife had died ten years previously. They had had no children.

  “What a record,” said Louis. “Obviously, here is a man now occupying the dullest corner of heaven.”

  “But this business of dying from a fall down a stairway,” hopefully said Véronique, the mystery addict. “Couldn’t that mean something?”

  “Did he fall or was he pushed?” Louis said. “No, my darling, for someone to kill Marchat so he could then pretend to be Marchat for the benefit of a man who never even knew Marchat—that would be the absolute height of lunacy.”

  “Yes, it would,” Véronique promptly agreed. “Maybe that’s the answer. Some crackpot wants to torment Reno.”

  “Except,” I said, “that from his description he is anything but a crackpot.”

  We were still on the subject when my girl, Eliane Tissou, finally arrived, full of apologies for being late. She had had to work overtime at her office again, but that was life in the Compagnie des Gants during the season, n’est-ce pas?

  It wasn’t hard for her to get our forgiveness, because, as even Louis, who didn’t like her very much, had to admit, she was the prettiest little thing in the whole Tenth Arrondissement, and with all the delicious volatility of a newly opened bottle of champagne in the bargain. For the past two years we had been sleeping together when in the mood, but marriage was a subject we both warily skirted. For myself, once bitten, twice shy. For Eliane, bourgeoise to the backbone, marriage to a man who refused to make something of himself was out of the question.

  So, by and large, we had a comfortable relationship, I remaining unreformed and unrepentant and Eliane keeping a sharp lookout for some man who would make a good, sound marital investment. The one frustrating aspect of the relationship for me was that she, the only one of the six pretty daughters of the butcher Tissou on the corner to remain unmarried, still dutifully lived at home with Papa and Mama. That meant getting out of a warm bed before dawn now and again to take Eliane home a roundabout way. In the hallway of the top floor of the pension was a closet with a ladder in it leading to the roof. Then across the rooftops and down a fire escape from which Eliane could step right through the window of her room in the apartment above the butcher shop. Roundabout but necessary, considering the payoff if Papa Tissou ever found out what his daughter was up to.

  Now, having made her apologies and been forgiven, having commented at length on Véronique’s new dress and hairdo, having explained at machine-gun rate what life at the Compagnie des Gants was like, Eliane, a true Parisienne, wanted to know what the plans for the evening were. Because if Reno thought he was going to waste a whole week’s pay—

  “Keep cool, baby,” said Louis, “because this one is all on me. The whole works. First, a stop at the Café au Coin to mellow the disposition, then Cary Grant in his latest, then the de luxe treatment at the Bourneville. How does that sound?”

  The Bourneville was a café on the boulevard which was to other cafes what the Club Barouf was to other discothèques. It was a gigantic place which offered entertainment and a de luxe section with heavily starched tablecloths and a prix-fixe dinner.

  “It sounds great,” said Eliane. “It’s your turn anyhow, and I need something like that to cheer me up. This business of Reno and that dead lawyer has me all on edge. I’ll keep waiting in the office for some strange man to walk in, tell me he’s Max Marchat, and ask what I know about Reno. Every time someone knocks on the door I’ll go right up in the air like a rocket. It’s absolutely gruesome.”

  “It’s no fun for Reno either,” Louis said unkindly. “Now how about getting started before we’re late for the movie?”

  Getting started meant a wait while the girls huddled before my dresser mirror redoing flawless make-ups, and while they were at it, Madame’s voice resounded from below. “The telephone, Monsieur Renol Monsieur, the telephone, if you please!”

  “Don’t answer it,” Louis advised. “I’ve got a feeling it’s Cast-abert telling you there’s trouble at the club and you are now about to lose your night off.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve got the same feeling.”

  But since I urgently needed my job, such as it was, I resentfully trotted downstairs to the phone in the hallway of the ground floor. When I picked up the phone it was not Cast-abert’s high-pitched whine that greeted me. It was the deep, well-modulated voice of a total stranger.

  “Monsieur Davis,” he said, “we’ve never met, but my name is de Gonde—Claude de Gonde—and I’m calling about a matter of great importance to you. That is, if you regard the offer of an excellent and well-paid position as important.”

  “One moment,” I said sharply. “Are you by any chance familiar with the name Max Marchat?”

  “Yes. I’ll explain that when we meet.”

  “Why not explain right now?”

  “Because I’m only an agent in this matter, a third party. I’d prefer we all meet together before making any explanations. But really, none of this is as baffling as you make it sound. It concerns a job that will pay you a great deal more than the Club Barouf for much pleasanter work. Honest work, too. I’m not asking you to smuggle diamonds or any such nonsense.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. What are you asking me to do?”

  De Gonde hesitated. “Well, I didn’t intend to go into details just yet, but apparently I must. My client wants you to undertake the instruction of her child in some not-too-difficult school subjects. He’s a little boy of nine, and, I may say, a very nice one. Does that allay your suspicions?”

  It not only allayed my suspicions, it suggested that I was the victim of a thundering case of mistaken identity.

  When I told this to my caller he said, “Why should you think that?” in a voice that suggested I had insulted him.

  “Because, Monsieur de Gonde, tutoring isn’t my line of work. You must have some other Davis in mind. Probably someone attached to the University.”

  “I have not. As for your qualifications, I’ve investigated them thoroughly and find them satisfactory. The one remaining question is when we can have our meeting.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a question to settle before that,” I said warily. “Just how much does this job pay?”

  The voice was now distinctly chilly. “Monsieur Davis, as an American you may like to do business over the telephone. I don’t.”

  “That’s too bad. But if the job doesn’t pay enough—which I suspect it doesn’t—there’s no sense holding meetings about it.”

  “I see,” said de Gonde. “Well, in that case, you may be interested to know that the payment offered is three thousand francs a month.” Then he asked with bright malice, “Do you think that would be satisfactory?”

  I stood there stupefied. Even in the States a man could get along nicely on what amounted to six hundred dollars a month. The way I lived in Paris, it meant I could bank most of that salary every payday and within a year accumulate enough capital for a long, golden period of complete freedom. Then I came down to earth. This was too good to be true. There must be a catch to it somewhere.

  “Three thousand a month?” I said, just to make sure.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, I’ll take it.”

  �
��I thought you would. But are you sure you don’t want to meet my client and her child before making your decision? As I’ve said, the boy is really a charming little fellow, if a little difficult at times. His mother can be very difficult.”

  “Aren’t all mothers?”

  “What? Oh, yes, but this one—well, it’s not necessary to go into that now. I’ll just take for granted you’ll be able to solve any problems as they arise.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Then all that remains is to settle your affairs with the Club Barouf. Its proprietor has a wagging tongue, so, you see, I know about your debt to him. Two hundred francs, is it not? But you won’t have to concern yourself about it. I’ll attend to it promptly. And tomorrow morning I’ll send my car for you at nine so that you can enter on your new duties at once. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes, but as to your paying off Castabert—”

  “No, don’t give it another thought. Tomorrow, then.”

  I hung up the phone in a daze, and only then was struck by the alarming realization that my caller’s name might not be de Gonde any more than it had been Marchat, that he had left me no address, that this whole thing might only be one more move in some macabre game he was playing with me.

  In the directory beneath the phone I found the name de Gonde, but that might mean nothing. Claude de Gonde, rue de Courcelles. When I dialed the number, I was braced to hear a metallic voice tell me that this was a recording and the number now out of service, but almost at once I heard de Gonde’s voice at the other end of the wire.

  “Monsieur Davis?” he said before I spoke a word.

  “Yes,” I said, taken aback.

  “Good. I was waiting for you to return my call. And now that you’re assured I really do exist, good night, monsieur. The car will be at your door at nine promptly.”

  Whatever else he might be, I thought when he abruptly hung up, he must be a superb chessplayer.

  I went upstairs, two stairs at a time, and somewhat incoherently broke the great news to my friends. Only one of them failed to respond with enthusiasm. Louis shook his head glumly and said he didn’t like the smell of the whole thing.