House of Cards Read online

  “No, I want you here close to Paul. I’ll have a bookcase put in here for you, and a desk, and proper lighting. But you’re to stay away from the upper floor. You wouldn’t have much privacy there anyhow, once the maids get a look at you.”

  “I’m sure Madame is wrong.”

  “Is she?” Madame de Villemont reached out and plucked something from my shoulder. When she held it out at arm’s length I saw it was a long golden strand of hair which must have been glittering on my jacket since I had ridden the elevator upstairs. “It looks to me,” she remarked, distastefully letting the strand fall from her fingers, “that Jeanne-Marie has her own ideas about that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what Madame means.”

  “Yes, you do. Madame means that her son is a highly observant little boy, and she doesn’t want him living in an atmosphere of bedroom intrigue. So stay away from the girls here, especially Jeanne-Marie. Someone else in the house already has a claim on her anyhow, and there’s nothing the silly little bitch would like better than to use you against him. Don’t let that happen or you may find yourself in serious trouble. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, madame.” Serious trouble suggested that it was one of the upper echelon who had the claim on Jeanne-Marie. Since the compatibility between de Gonde and his wife seemed genuine, and since the supercilious Bernard Bourdon would certainly find a pretty boy much more enticing than a pretty girl, I had the feeling that Edmond Vosiers was the man.

  Madame de Villemont did not choose to linger on the subject.

  “Do you have a driver’s license?” she asked.

  “Yes, I have.”

  The last of my succession of sports cars had gone for eating money long ago, but, like any good American, I had kept my driver’s license up to date.

  “Then you can borrow one of the cars in the garage whenever you need it. The garage attendant keeps the keys to them. You’ll need one now to move your things here. I’m counting on you to be back in time for dinner. I’ll have a place set for you.”

  That seemed to be the end of the interview. Madame de Villemont led me to the door of my room, which opened directly on the second-floor corridor.

  “If you want someone to show you the way to the garage—” she said.

  I felt the Beretta weighing down my belt, a cold, heavy reminder of what had to be done as quickly as possible.

  “No, madame,” I said, “I’ll find my own way.”

  As soon as she closed the door behind me, I headed directly for Claude de Gonde’s apartment.

  7

  De Gonde and his wife were there alone. When I drew the gun from my belt and handed it to him he looked at it incredulously, and Madame Gabrielle clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

  “My God,” de Gonde said to her, “I could swear it’s Henri’s! The one that disappeared after his death.” He turned to me. “He was Colonel de Villemont, my wife’s brother, Madame de Villemont’s late husband. Where did you get this? How did you get it?”

  He listened intently as I answered that, obviously much shaken by my story.

  “Yes,” he said when I had concluded, “you’ve behaved with good sense, letting me know about it at once.”

  He dropped into an armchair and sat there lost in thought. When he abstractedly put a cigarette between his lips and leaned forward toward me, it took me a few seconds to realize he was waiting for me to light it. I had almost forgotten I was a servant in this house. I lit the cigarette, and de Gonde inhaled deeply. “Now what?” he said grimly to his wife.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Perhaps the best thing is to tell all this to Dr. Morillon immediately.”

  They looked at each other steadily, and again, as during the family conference, I had the uneasy feeling that much more was being communicated by this meeting of eyes than I was supposed to understand. And up to now, little Paul de Villemont had lived most of his life in this shadowy world of meaningful glances, whispers behind doors, veiled secrets. If I could be put on edge by one day as an inhabitant here, it was shockingly clear what must be happening to him.

  De Gonde held up the gun on the palm of his hand. “And in view of this,” he said, “Dr. Morillon should also be told he’s wrong about Madame taking a turn for the better. One doesn’t need medical charts to recognize the symptoms of a growing paranoia. This weapon, the terror that the child might be kidnaped—”

  “Isn’t it possible,” I said, “that she did receive such a threat?”

  Madame Gabrielle shook her head. “There never was any threat, Monsieur Reno,” she said gently. “You see, my brother—Madame’s husband—was a leader of our country’s forces in the struggle against the terrorists of the Algerian FLN and was marked for death by them. They finally did succeed in murdering him. After that, Madame was seized by the idea that Paul was intended to be one of their victims, too. It was an obsession with her. But we thought that with the ending of the war, with Algeria’s getting her independence, she would forget this fear. It was so long ago, too. But now it seems we were wrong about it.”

  “At least we have one comfort,” de Gonde said to me. “Since you’ve managed to win a degree of Madame’s confidence, you can warn us if measures must be taken to protect her against herself. Or, for that matter, to protect the child from her.”

  “Ah, no!” said Madame Gabrielle. “She would never do anything to hurt Paul! How can you think she might?”

  “Because I don’t know what to think any more,” de Gonde said wearily. “Can someone irrational be judged by rational standards? She was difficult even when Henri first married her—”

  “She was an adorable child,” Madame Gabrielle remonstrated.

  “But always difficult, always violently emotional. Now, in her present state, she’s impossible to deal with.” He shook his head hopelessly.

  “I’ll call Dr. Morillon at once,” said Madame Gabrielle. “He can talk to her this afternoon.”

  “About this?” De Gonde hefted the gun. “No, that would destroy her confidence in Reno. Such confidence is too valuable to risk. For the first time since Henri’s death we may have a way of penetrating that wall she’s built around herself. The doctor should be told about the matter, but under no conditions should he approach her about it. I’m sure he’ll agree with that policy.”

  “Perhaps,” said Madame Gabrielle doubtfully.

  “He will have to,” de Gonde said. He handed me the gun. “As for this,” he told me, “simply return it to its hiding place. If Madame questions you about it, tell her you’re unable to obtain the ammunition it requires.”

  “Do I have to? I’d much rather tell her I just don’t like to have anything to do with guns.”

  “But that won’t serve the same purpose,” Madame Gabrielle pointed out. “It might alienate her instead of winning her trust in you.”

  “Well—”

  “Please. Not even Dr. Morillon has been able to overcome her secretiveness so far. You may be able to. For the child’s sake alone will you help do that?”

  “Yes, madame,” I said, still not liking the smell of this whole arrangement.

  That seemed to cover the subject for the time being. I was already at the door when de Gonde suddenly called me back. He sat contemplating me narrowly for a long time while I stood wondering what now.

  “How serious are you about your writing?” he said abruptly, taking me by surprise.

  “Very serious. I’ve gotten enough encouragement from some editors to believe I’ll be published sooner or later.”

  “Do you know Charles Leschenhaut?”

  “I know about him.” Leschenhaut was the editor of La Foudre, one of the most recent literary magazines to appear in Paris, and already, within a couple of years, one of the most talked about.

  “He’s an old friend of mine,” said de Gonde. “If you have no objections, I’ll arrange for you to meet him and show him your work. His personal interest can mean everything to getting a career started.”

&nbs
p; Objections?

  So, at least, I had that much to sustain me as I drove back to the Faubourg Saint-Denis. I needed something to sustain me because the thought of packing out of my room in Madame Olympe’s pension after six contented years there was a depressing one. Madame Olympe may have been the classically bilious concierge, but the room itself, only one flight up and with a window overlooking the lively Faubourg Saint-Denis, was a jewel. Reasonably cheap, it was spacious, clean, free of all insect life, cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and, above all, was furnished with a bed big enough for me to stretch out in full-length. It was not a room to give up lightly.

  Even worse was the thought of separation from Louis, my boon companion for almost every day of these six years. Something had to be done about that during the time I’d be quartered at the grim fortress on the rue de Courcelles.

  Louis wasn’t in his room when I arrived, so I left the car, a neat little red Renault, parked in front of the pension, and walked down the block to the Café au Coin where he was sure to be at this hour along with most of the shopkeepers of the Faubourg Saint-Denis on their late-morning break. I found him at a table next to the bar where the service was quickest, sharing a bottle of wine with Maguy, the grizzled old cop on the beat who had dropped in for a glass of something to fend off the February chill.

  Louis took in my mood with a flick of the eye, and promptly ordered a sandwich for me and another bottle of wine. In any crisis, he always said, food and drink were the vital restoratives. While Jeanloup, thus happily given an excuse to detach himself from the clutches of a well-dressed, sharp-looking, fast-talking salesman who had him pinned down at the bar, prepared the sandwich, I briefly described my new situation.

  “What’s wrong with that?” demanded Maguy, a moralist who strongly disapproved of my way of life. “It might teach you something, being with high-class people like that. It might make a respectable citizen out of you yet.”

  “Oh, stuff it,” Louis said glumly. “That name de Villemont sounds familiar,” he said to me. “Any relation to General Sebastien de Villemont?”

  “The kid is his grandson.”

  “High class all right. And if they’re colons, they’re the most poisonous kind of high class. That’s why you’d be crazy to give up your room here. They’re not your kind of people. You’ll never stick it out with them.”

  “If I could do it for a year it would give me a real bankroll to work on. And de Gonde said he’d give me a personal introduction to the editor of La Foudre. You know what that can mean.”

  “Even so, you have a temper of your own, and you’re not used to being pushed around by people like that. You could have a showdown with them and be out of there next week for all you know.”

  “I still can’t see paying Olympe for an empty room on the chance of it.” I knew what was on his mind. “Look, this doesn’t mean breaking up the old partnership. I have to be out with the kid afternoons. We can get together then any time we want.”

  “And play games with the kid?” Louis said, but I knew from his tone that the worst of his worries had been settled.

  “Anyhow,” Maguy said to me, stuffing his mouth with a piece of the sandwich Jeanloup placed on the table, “why don’t you rent the room to somebody yourself? That way you could have it back any time you wanted it.”

  The salesman standing at the bar an arm’s length away turned around interestedly at this. “Somebody say something about a room to rent?”

  I couldn’t help staring at him. Although it was a miserable, wintry, slate-colored day, he was wearing oversized wraparound sunglasses, the kind the youthful patrons of the Club Barouf went in for. And one side of his face was deeply scarred from cheek to chin.

  He saw me staring before I could look away, but he didn’t seem perturbed by my bad manners.

  “Plastique” he said dispassionately, patting the scarred cheek. Plastiques were the mean little bombs the anti-government Organisation de l’Armée Secrete terrorists had used indiscriminately around town during the height of the Algerian troubles a few years before. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when it went off. One of those couscous joints on the Faubourg Montmartre.”

  “Lousy OAS bastards,” growled Maguy. “We had a sad case with a plastique right down the block here. You were there at the time, weren’t you?” he said to me.

  “Yes,” I said shortly. He knew I didn’t like to talk about it.

  “Anyhow,” Louis said to the salesman, “you were lucky to get off as well as you did.”

  “Was I?” The man lifted the sunglasses, and I saw that instead of an eye in the socket on the scarred side of his face was only a milky glistening whiteness. “That’s why I wear these things. I tried a black patch, but the customers said I looked enough like a pirate as it was.” He smilingly replaced the glasses. “Hope you don’t mind the flapping ears, but are you guys serious about renting a decent room around here cheap? I need one, but everything I’ve seen so far is either a cockroach nest or sky high in price.”

  It reminded me of the mansion on the rue de Courcelles, the way Louis and I gave each other a questioning look and came to the same answer instantly, without a word being spoken.

  Thus it was that I packed into the Renault only my clothing, typewriter, and a few of my books and manuscripts, and gladly saw Léon Becque, salesman extraordinary of carpeting, linoleum, and other floor coverings, in temporary possession of my room and whatever I had left in it. He immediately proved to be the ideal tenant. Once his bags and sample cases were stored away in the room, he insisted on paying me a week’s rent in advance, which gave me more than enough to stand treat in the Café au Coin for the rest of the afternoon.

  As the phrase goes, I was feeling no pain by the time I arrived back at the mansion on the rue de Courcelles shortly before the dinner hour, but the sight of those massive gates and gray, forbidding walls was as sobering as a cold bath. I parked the car in its proper place in the garage, and, with the help of a youthful garage attendant, bore my belongings to the kitchen. There, Jeanne-Marie, without invitation, hefted my typewriter and package of books and accompanied me to the elevator. This time there was no room at all for her after my luggage was stowed aboard, but still she managed to squeeze in beside me and share my ascent.

  “Well, handsome,” she said, “did you find out which is your day off?”

  “Fridays,” I said.

  She made a face. “And I’m off Thursdays. That’s all right. I can always find someone to switch around with.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll see if my girl friend can’t get Fridays off from her job too, and we’ll make it a foursome.”

  Jeanne-Marie glowered at me. “Ce matin un zozo, et maintenant vous faites le mariolle, hein?” which was to say I had certainly undergone the transformation from bumpkin to wise guy in short order.

  “Don’t you believe I have a girl friend?” I asked amiably.

  “Look, it’s not any plain ordinary girl friend you’ve got on the brain right now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what. It means you had a good look at Madame de Villemont so now there are some interesting ideas buzzing around in that thick skull. Well, you can forget them, because Madame already has all the men she needs to warm her bed.”

  Quick, unreasoning anger flared up in me, but I fought it down.

  I patted Jeanne-Marie’s cheek without affection.

  “Such a pretty little girl,” I said. “Such a dirty little mind.”

  She slapped my hand away.

  “Don’t you put on airs with me, teacher,” she said coldly, “because you’re the one who’s got a lesson coming. And you’re an American, too,” she threw at me as a parting shot when I hauled my belongings out of the elevator. “You’re the one who ought to know how American women are about anything that wears pants!”

  I entered my room to find that Madame de Villemont had been as good as her word. There was now a bookcase and writing desk am
ong its furnishings. Also, as lagniappe, there was Paul de Villemont curled up on my bed, his nose in a book. He scrambled excitedly to his feet when he saw me, his face lighting up.

  “I was waiting for you,” he said. “Look at me! Georges took me to the big store today for it. How does it look? Magnificent, no?”

  Looking at him, I saw I wasn’t the only one present carrying a pistol. He was dressed in full cowboy regalia of gaudy shirt, chaps, and tooled-leather, high-heeled boots, and around his skinny shanks was draped a cartridge belt with a toy six-shooter in it.

  “Magnificent,” I said. I had hoped to return his father’s gun to its hiding place in the chest of drawers as soon as possible. Under the circumstances, all I could do was hastily thrust it under my mattress while Paul clumped around the room to show off his boots.

  “The real thing,” he assured me. “There’s a lasso, too. You know. A rope for catching people.”

  “Sure enough,” I told him admiringly. “You’ll be ready to take on every rustler in Paris.”

  When I placed my typewriter on the desk, he immediately turned his attention to it.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Writing stories.”

  “What kind of stories? What are they about? Can I read them?”

  “Hey, what are you?” I said. “A question machine?”

  He gave a nervous little cackle of laughter.

  “You sound like Grandmother,” he said. “She says I ask too many questions, too. Only she doesn’t make it sound funny, the way you do. Did you meet her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You will. And you’ll hate her.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Yes, you will!” Suddenly, from out of nowhere, the storm clouds were on us again, black and menacing. The child’s teeth glinted behind lips curled back in a snarl, the eyes narrowed at me; the unhealthy color now mottling the pale face made it look bruised. “You will hate her! She says bad things about Mama!”