Nightwork (22 page)

“So,” he said, “that was the man who tried to open a bag that was ostensibly his in the overpriced room at the Palace Hotel in St. Moritz and found that the combination didn’t work.”

“So you sent down for something to break it open with,” I said grimly, remembering my own experience.

“I had the desk send a man up. When he got the bag open, I saw immediately that it wasn’t mine. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him that the bag belonged to somebody else. Some sixth sense, perhaps. Or maybe the sight of the brand-new attaché case lying on top of everything else. People don’t usually pack a case like that
in
their luggage, but usually carry it by hand. In any event, I thanked the man and tipped him. …Incidentally, I didn’t have the heart to throw the case away. It’s in the bedroom and of course I’ll be pleased to give it back to you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. Without irony. “Of course,” he said, “when I counted the money, I realized that it had been stolen.”

“Of course.”

“It changes the morality of the affair a bit, doesn’t it?”

“A bit.”

“It also meant that whoever had carried it across the ocean would not go crying to Interpol to recover it. Would my reasoning seem inaccurate to you?”

“No.”

“I went through the bag very carefully. I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you that I found nothing there to make one believe that the owner of the bag was in anything but the most modest circumstances.”

I nodded. “You can say that again, brother,” I said.

“I also found no indication of who the owner was. No address books, letters, et cetera. I even looked in the shaving kit to see if there were any medicines with a name on it.”

I laughed, despite myself.

“You must be an extraordinarily healthy man,” Fabian said, approvingly.

“About the same as you,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, beaming, “you had the same experience.”

“Exactly.”

“I spent the next hour,” he went on, “trying to recall if there was anything in
my
bag which had my name on it. I decided there was nothing. I had forgotten about Lily’s letter, of course. I thought I had thrown it away. Even so, with her usual caution, I knew no names would be committed to the page. The next step was obvious.”

“You stole the money.”

“Let’s say I put it to use.”

“What do you mean, use?”

“Let me go step by step. I had never been in a position before to risk enough to make any coup really conclusive. In view of the circles in which I moved, the amounts I
could
risk were derisive. So that even when I won, as I have more often than not, I never reaped the full benefits of my luck. Do you follow me, Grimes?”

“Partially,” I said.

“For example, until now, I have never dared to play bridge at more than five cents a point.”

“Mrs. Sloane told me that you were playing with her husband at five cents a point.”

“That was true. The first night. After that we went up to ten cents a point. Then to fifteen. Naturally, since Sloane was losing rather heavily, he lied to his wife.”

“How much?”

“I’ll be frank with you. When I left St. Moritz, I had Sloane’s check for twenty-seven thousand dollars in my wallet.”

I whistled and looked at Fabian with growing respect. My own poker exploits in Washington dwindled to a pinpoint. Here was a gambler who really knew how to ride his luck. But then I remembered it was
my
money he was risking, and I began to get angry all over again. “What the hell good does that do
me
?” I asked.

Fabian put up his hand placatingly. “All in due time, my dear fellow.” I had never expected to be called a dear fellow by a man who had grown up in Lowell, Massachusetts. “I also did quite well, I am happy to say, at backgammon. Perhaps you remember that handsome young Greek with the beautiful wife?”

“Vaguely.”

“He was delighted when I suggested raising the stakes. A little over nine thousand dollars.”

“What you’re telling me,” I said harshly, “is that you ran my stake up thirty-six thousand dollars. Goody for you, Fabian; you’re in the chips and you can give me back the seventy and we’ll shake hands and have a drink on it and we’re both on our way.”

He shook his head sadly. “It isn’t quite as simple as that, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t abuse my patience, man. You either have the money or you don’t. And you’d better have it.”

He stood up. “I believe we both could use another drink,” he said. I glowered at him as he went over to the sideboard. Having refrained from killing him when I had the chance, any lesser threats had depreciated greatly in value. It also occurred to me as I watched his well-tailored back (not my clothes, but from any one of two or three other bags he probably traveled with at all times) that it might all be a lie, a cock-and-bull story to keep me tamped down until somebody—a maid, Lily Abbott, a friend, came into the room. There would be nothing to stop him then from accusing me of annoying him, dunning him for a loan, trying to sell him dirty postcards, anything, and having me thrown out of the hotel. As he gave me my drink, I said, “If you’re lying to me, Fabian, the next time I see you I’m going to be carrying a gun.” I had no idea, of course, of how you went about getting a gun in France. And the only guns I had ever fired were .22 rifles at shooting galleries at town fairs.

“I wish you would believe in me,” Fabian said as he sat down again with his drink, after pouring soda into it with a steady hand. “I have plans for us two that will require mutual trust.”

“Plans?” I felt childishly manipulated, cunningly outmaneuvered by this man who had lived by his wits for nearly thirty years and whose hand could be so steady just a few minutes after he had escaped violent death. “Okay, go on,” I said. “You’re thirty-six thousand dollars richer than you were three weeks ago and you say it isn’t simple to give me back the money you owe me. Why not?”

“For one thing, I have made certain investments.”

“Like what?”

“Before I go into detail,” Fabian said, “let me outline in general what sort of a plan I’d like to suggest.” He took a long sip of his drink, then cleared his throat. “I suppose you have some right to be angry at what I’ve done …”

I made a small, choking noise, which he ignored. “But in the long run,” he said, “I have every reason to believe you’ll be deeply grateful.” I started to interrupt, but he waved me to silence. “I know that seventy thousand dollars in one lump seems like quite a bit of money. Especially to a young man like you, who, I can guess, was never particularly prosperous.”

“What are you driving at, Fabian?” I could not get over the feeling that moment by moment a web was being spun around me and that, in a very short time, I would be unable to move or even utter a sound.

The voice went on, gentle, almost-British, confident, persuasive. “How long would it last you? A year, two years. Three years, at the most. As soon as you surfaced, you would be the prey of conniving men and rapacious women. I take it that you have very little experience, if any, in handling large sums of money. Just the primitive—and if I may permit myself a small criticism—the fairly careless way in which you attempted to transfer your hoard from the States to Europe is plain evidence of
that
. …”

I certainly was in no position to contradict him about my ineptitude, so I remained silent.

“I, on the other hand,” he went on, thoughtfully twirling the ice in his glass and looking me frankly and directly in the eye, “have been handling considerable sums for nearly thirty years. Where you, in three years, say, would be stranded, penniless, in some backwater of Europe—I take it that you don’t think it would be healthy to return to America …?” He looked at me quizzically.

“Go on,” I said.

“I, with any luck, given this start, would not be surprised if I wound up with well over a million …”

“Dollars?”

“Pounds,” he said.

“I must admit,” I said “I admire your nerve. Still, what would that have to do with me?”

“We would be partners,” he said calmly. “I would handle the … uh … investments and we would share the profits fifty-fifty. Starting, I would like to say with the check of Mr. Sloane and the contribution of the handsome young Greek. Could anything be fairer than that?”

I made myself think hard. The low, polite voice was hypnotizing me. “So—in exchange for my seventy thousand dollars, I’d get half of thirty-six?”

“Minus certain expenses,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Hotels, travel, entertainment. That sort of thing.”

I looked around at the room full of flowers. “Is there anything left?”

“Quite a bit.” He put his hand up again. “Please hear me out. To be more than fair—after one year, you would be permitted to withdraw your original seventy thousand dollars, if you so desired.”

“What if during the year you
lost
the whole thing?”

“That is a risk we’d both have to run,” he said. “I believe that it is worth taking. Now let me ask you to consider other advantages. You, as an American, are fully liable to the American income tax. Am I right?”

“Yes, but …”

“I know what you are going to say—you do not intend to pay it. I take it for granted that you have not declared the seventy thousand dollars that is the subject of our discussion. If you merely
spend
it, you would not be in any difficulty. But if you
increased
it, in legal or even semilegal ways, you would have to beware of the legion of American agents all through Europe, of informers in banks and business houses. …You would always have the fear of confiscation of your passport, fines, criminal prosecution …”

“And you?” I asked, feeling locked in a corner by his logic.

“I am a British subject,” he said, “domiciled in the Bahamas. I don’t even fill out a form. Just one quick example—You, as an American, are not legally permitted to trade in gold, although your government is making certain noises that indicate that will be changed eventually. But there is no such restriction on me, and the gold market these days is most seductive. In fact, even while I was amusing Mr. Sloane and my Greek with our little games, I put in an order for a tidy amount. Have you been following the rate of gold recently?”

“No.”

“I am ahead—
we
are ahead—ten thousand dollars on our investment.”

“In just three weeks?” I asked incredulously.

“Ten days, to be exact,” Fabian said.

“What else have you done with my money?” I still clung to the singular possessive pronoun, but with diminishing vigor.

“Well …” For the first time since he had come out of the bathroom, Fabian looked a little uneasy. “As a partner, I don’t intend to hide anything from you. I’ve bought a horse.”

“A horse!” I couldn’t help groaning. “What kind of horse?”

“A thoroughbred. A racehorse. Among other reasons, which I’ll come to later, that was why I didn’t appear as scheduled in Florence. Much to Lily’s annoyance, I must admit. I had to come to Paris to complete the deal. It is a horse that took my eye at Deauville last summer, but which I was not in a position to buy at that time. Also—” He smiled. “It wasn’t for sale then. A friend of mine who happens to own a racing stable and a breeding farm in Kentucky expressed an interest in the colt—a stallion, by the way, and potentially quite valuable later on at stud—and I am sure he would show his gratitude in a substantial way if I were to let him know that I am now the owner of the animal. Out of friendship, I plan to indicate to him, I’d be ready to part with it.”

“What if he indicates to you that he’s changed his mind?” By now, almost insensibly, I had been swept into what just fifteen minutes before I would have considered a gambler’s insane fantasies. “That he doesn’t want to buy it anymore?”

Fabian shrugged, rubbed lovingly at the ends of his moustache, a gesture I was to come to recognize as a tic, useful to gain time when he didn’t have a ready answer to a question. “In that case, old man,” he said, “you and I would have a fine start toward a racing stable. I haven’t chosen any colors as yet. Do you have any preferences?”

“Black and blue,” I said.

He laughed. He had a hearty, Guards’ officer kind of laugh. “I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor,” he said. “It’s a bore doing business with the glum.”

“Do you mind telling me what you’ve paid for this brute?” I asked.

“Not at all. Six thousand dollars. He broke down in training last autumn with something called splints, so he comes as a bargain. The trainer’s an old friend of mine—” I was to find out that Fabian had old friends all over the globe and in all professions—“and he assures me he’s as right as a dollar now.”

“Right as a dollar.” I nodded, in pain. “While we’re at it, Fabian,” I said, “are there any more … uh … investments that I happen to have in my portfolio?”

He played with his moustache again. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “I hope you’re not overwhelmingly prudish.”

I thought of my father and his Bible. “I would say medium,” I said. “Why?”

“There’s a delightful French lady I make a point of looking up every time I come to Paris.” He smiled, as though welcoming the delightful French lady into his dreams. “Interested in films. Been an actress in her time, she says. On the producing side now. An old admirer has been staking her. Not sufficiently, I gather. She’s in the middle of making a picture at the moment. Quite dirty. Quite, quite dirty. I’ve seen some of the—I think they call them dailies in the industry. Most amusing. Have you any idea what a movie like
Deep Throat
has brought in for its backers?”

“No.”

“Millions, lad, millions.” He sighed sentimentally. “My delightful little friend has let me read the script, too. Most literate. Full of fancy and provocation. Essentially innocent in my opinion. Almost decorous from a sophisticated point of view, but a little bit of everything for every taste. Something like a combination of Henry Miller and the Arabian Nights. But my delightful lady friend—she’s directing it herself, by the way—she got the script almost for nothing from a young Iranian who can’t go back to Iran—but even though she’s making it on a shoestring—some of the most lucrative of these particular works of art are made for under forty thousand dollars—I think
Deep Throat
cost no more than sixty—as I was saying, her bookkeeping doesn’t quite match her talent—she’s just a slip of a woman—and when she told me she needed fifteen thousand dollars to complete the picture …”