Shape of Fear (13 page)

Girard was breathing hard. I realized my own muscles had tensed. This concept of Digger came as a shock. Right or wrong, it was clear Girard wasn’t putting on an act. He believed what he was telling us with all his heart.

“Valmont didn’t accept Sullivan at once. He discussed the matter with me. Could Sullivan be an innocent-looking spy sent into our midst by Bernardel? Was his ingratiating manner a mask for treachery? I urged Valmont not to risk it. He took another view. He would play along with Sullivan. He would test him. He would feed him false information which if it was relayed to the big frogs and acted upon would prove his dishonesty. But more important, it might lead Valmont to the men he wanted to expose. On the other hand, if Sullivan proved to be honest, then he might be a valuable ally.

“So Valmont played along—and Sullivan and Juliet met.” Girard’s body twisted as though he was in pain. “For Juliet, it was like a bolt of lightning. For him—who knows? I can’t deny that his feeling for her could have been real. To deny it would be to deny that Juliet is what she is. But it seemed far more likely to me that he was using her sudden and incredible infatuation for him to blind Valmont. Perhaps I was not altogether sane.

“Juliet came to me. The words she spoke to me are burned into me. I can’t repeat them without pain. She loved me; she had always loved me; she trusted me as she trusted no one else; she had been on the point of telling me that she would marry me. But now—Sullivan. She was helpless in the face of it. She loved him passionately, in a way she had never loved me, in a way she hadn’t known it was possible to love. She tried, but there was no way to make it easy for me. Nor could she change it.

“Valmont expressed his deep sympathy for me. He regretted it. But he wouldn’t lift a finger to interfere. It was Juliet’s life. Furthermore, he told me, he had laid traps for Sullivan and they hadn’t been sprung. He was convinced, now, of Sullivan’s genuineness. I—I was not. But I wasn’t even remotely without prejudice.

“Then came the first attempt on Valmont’s life. It was determined he should go into hiding. He insisted that no one should know where he was—not even his own agents. Someone could be bought—there was no limit to the money available. Someone could be tortured into talking. It had happened in the old days of the Resistance. But there must be one person who would know and act as a courier for him. Did he choose me, his former lieutenant, his lifelong friend? He did not. He chose Sullivan, very frankly because of Juliet.

“And then, a few weeks later, he was murdered.”

Girard took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead with it.

“Naturally I came to Juliet’s assistance,” he said slowly. She was in shock. She had seen Sullivan with her own eyes, the shots still echoing along the city streets. There must be an explanation, she insisted. Perhaps he was giving chase to the murderer. But then he didn’t appear. He tried, later, to reach her by phone, but I—well, I was there and I didn’t allow them to talk. Then he disappeared again until the next day, and turned up at the Sûreté with an alibi supplied by Paul Bernardel which I knew was false. Juliet had seen him. There could be no question of that. And she, too, knew that alibi was false. I made it clear to her, then and there, that I’d always believed he was a fraud; that he’d been using her; that he had been spying on her father and had, in the end, killed
him
because he was too close to the truth. I believed all that. I believe it all now—except for the last. He was there, but he didn’t kill Colonel Valmont. Perhaps there was some touch of truth in the man. Perhaps he did love Juliet. Perhaps, when he learned Valmont was to be assassinated, he tried to stop it. But that he was at the center of the betrayal I have no doubt. I had no doubt then, and I used all my skills to break down his story at the magistrate’s hearing. Failing that, I was determined to expose him, no matter how long it took.

“Juliet was like a person living in a trance. She, too, had no doubts, but God help her, she loved him. It wasn’t just a sexual attraction with her. She had opened her heart to him, and there was no way she could close its doors. She wanted justice for her father, and I think she wanted—wanted death for herself.

“In my position I was able to keep the case open, to keep the best men in the Sûreté working on it. There were no immediate results. Hundreds of people in the area of the apartment where Valmont died were questioned. There was terror abroad. People we were certain could have helped us wouldn’t talk. They were sure Secret Army assassins might take revenge. Bernardel, I felt certain then and I feel certain now, was at the center of the conspiracy. But to this day I have no proof of that”

Girard drew a deep breath. “Well, two years went by and we were no closer to the truth. Juliet lived from day to day like a sleep walker. I was the closest person to her. I was ‘Uncle Charles,’ who had been her father’s loyal friend, once more. I tried to provide her with some amusement—the theatre, the ballet, the art galleries. I was her constant companion. Perhaps you can imagine what it was like for me. Torture!” Once more the fist smashed down on the table. “Then one day she spoke to me about it. She knew what it was doing to me, she said. She realized also how dependent on me she’d become. There was no one else in her life. She had thought about it a great deal. She could never give me what she had given Sullivan. She could never take that away from him. It was his, no matter what he had done. But if, knowing that, I still wanted her—‘I can’t go on taking from you, Charles, without giving something in return.’ I asked her what would happen if Sullivan came back into her life. What she felt for him she couldn’t control, she said. But what she did about it was another matter. If I wanted her, under the conditions, and we were married, I could count on her. And I—wanting her so desperately—wouldn’t even stop to think about the risks. I wanted her, wanted her, wanted her!

“And so we were married.” Girard’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And while we were still on our honeymoon, the proof of Sullivan’s innocence was unearthed by the Paris police. An old man, dying of cancer, whose apartment overlooked the rear of the building where Valmont had died, told a story he’d kept locked away, out of fear, for two years. He had seen a small black Peugeot park in the alley back of Valmont’s apartment. He had seen a man climb the rear fire escape to Valmont’s window. He had seen him take an automatic pistol from under his coat and fire through Valmont’s window till it was empty. He had seen the man run down the fire escape. He had seen Sullivan suddenly at the window, shouting. He had seen the killer drive off in the Peugeot. He told it all now, this old man, because assassins no longer mattered. His lungs were eaten away by the most deadly of all killers.”

For the first time Girard turned and faced us squarely. He looked haggard, his eyes sunken. “Have you ever been tempted to lie to someone you loved with all your heart, gentlemen? If you have, you can imagine my temptation. Just when Juliet had become mine I had proof that might have set her free to go to Sullivan.” Girard’s hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. “I wrestled with it for several days, and then I told her. Sullivan’s alibi was still a fake. He’d been there. She’d seen him. But he had not killed her father. And then—then I did the thing that took more courage than I have ever needed before. I offered her her freedom.” He moistened his lips. “She thanked me—and refused. I warned her that if we stayed together one more hour I’d never have the courage to make the same offer. God knows what she must have felt at that moment, but she said, ‘I have pledged myself to you, Charles. That is all there is to say.’ And from that day, gentlemen, we never again mentioned the subject

“A few days ago when we arrived here, Monsieur Delacroix, the Ambassador, called me on the phone. We had been invited to a reception for Paul Bernardel to be held here in the hotel. For nearly three years I have been on Bernardel’s trail without success. We meet, we smile, and secretly we know that we are enemies. But diplomatic protocol required our presence at the reception. Then Delacroix told me that Bernardel had requested Sullivan be seated at his table. Delacroix, knowing the inside story, asked me what I chose to do. I asked permission to discuss it with Juliet. So, for the first time in two years, we talked about Sullivan. ‘Whatever you must do, you must do,’ Juliet told me. ‘It will be difficult, but the past is dead.’ And so I told Delacroix our decision.

“The prospect was disagreeable, even frightening for me. But I believed Juliet—I believed her. Then—this morning—that phone call. There it was, I thought; Sullivan worming his way back in. Not a murderer, perhaps, but Valmont’s betrayer and—and a villain. So—so I went to your office, Mr. Haskell, to kill him.”

“I think we can assume,” Chambrun said after a moment, “that the meeting between Sullivan and your wife was arranged by someone else. Your wife made it quite clear that she didn’t send the message which brought Sullivan there, and Sullivan didn’t send the message that got to your wife.”

“I believe Juliet didn’t send him a message,” Girard said. And then, with extraordinary bitterness, “But she went! She went when she got a message from him.”

“Which he didn’t send.”

“Which he says he didn’t send,” Girard said.

“He showed us the message he got from your wife.”

“Which he could have written himself.”

“And the woman on the telephone?”

Girard laughed. “Your friend Sullivan has a way with women,” he said. “They will always be his natural allies.”

“But why would he do it?”

“He knew I would try to kill him. Where would her sympathy be then? With him!”

I had come into this room firmly convinced that Digger was “our boy.” Having been subjected to a touch of Girard’s murderous violence, I had thought of him as a complete villain. But he had made a case against Digger. Perhaps it was based on prejudice, though he certainly knew more about the situation in Paris at the time of Valmont’s murder than we did. But one thing was certain about it: Girard believed every word he had told us.

“You say you will not put up with political conspiracies or the operation of a drug ring in your hotel, Mr. Chambrun,” Girard said. “Yet clearly Sullivan has persuaded you of his integrity. Mr. Haskell is his friend. Drinks with him. Fights for him. But I tell you this man is Bernardel’s confidant. Didn’t he play the game in Paris by Bernardel’s rules? I say he was Bernardel’s spy in Valmont’s house. I suggest to you that he is Bernardel’s spy in your hotel. And I suggest one more thing and with some shame. He has attempted to divert my attention from these other matters—the drug ring, the conspiracy—by involving Juliet. And, God help me, he has succeeded. Where is my wife, Mr. Chambrun?”

“I don’t know,” Chambrun said in an oddly distant voice.

“If you know, you needn’t tell me where she is. Just tell me that she is safe.”

“The Fifth Avenue doorman reported to our house officer that Madame Girard walked out of the hotel. That’s all I can tell you, Mr. Girard. All I know.”

Girard moved his head from side to side, his anguish visible. “She went to see him, fake message or not. She went to tell him that she believed him, still loved him. Perhaps she means, to stand by me, as she told Haskell, but what is that when Sullivan means so much to her?”

“It seems to me it’s all you can ask,” Chambrun said.

“But if he is still just using her! You see how she can be used against me, Chambrun? Nothing else matters to me. I must know where I stand. But I promise you one thing. If Sullivan is playing games with her to divert me from Bernardel and his operation—before God, I’ll kill him!”

Chambrun had taken his silver case from his pocket and was tapping one of his Egyptian cigarettes thoughtfully on its polished surface. “I sympathize with you, Mr. Girard,” he said. “Perhaps your wife recognized your intention when you charged into Mark’s office. Perhaps she needed to get away from both of you to think things out. I’d be grateful if you’d make the attempt to bring your attention to other matters for a moment. Last night Murray Cardew, the old gentleman about whom we questioned you, made a call to Delacroix’s suite at the Waldorf. He was accidentally connected with a conversation already taking place. We are inclined to think that what he heard cost him his life. So I ask you, what about Delacroix in the old story of Valmont’s war against the Secret Army?”

Girard frowned. “In those days everyone was suspect,” he said. “Valmont suspected everyone in a position to betray. I know now that I was on his list for a while—I, his closest friend. He knew I disapproved of de Gaulle’s Algerian policy. Anyone who disapproved could well be on the side of the Secret Army forces. I believe—I want to believe—that he trusted me at the end. Delacroix was on his list. But in the two years since Valmont’s death, Delacroix has pretty well proved himself. He wouldn’t be holding the position he does if there were any doubts about him.”

“What about Jean LaCoste?”

Girard looked up, as though the question surprised him. “Delacroix’s secretary?” he said. “Paris-born; graduated with honors from his law school. He’s only about twenty-eight. He had no war record. Too young. He—he is a little effeminate. I have thought of him as efficient in terms of the detail of his job, but ineffectual. You have reason to think …”

“Monsieur and Madame Delacroix were at a concert,” Chambrun said. “We know LaCoste was in his suite because Cardew got him when he tried his call again. I ask about him because he is the most likely one to have been on the phone—at least to have known who was on the phone and what was said. What about a man named Max Kroll?”

“Next to Bernardel at the top of the list,” Girard said promptly.

Chambrun walked over to the table and put out his cigarette. “I’m quite sure you don’t want advice, Mr. Girard, but I give it anyway, for what it’s worth. Your wife sounds like an eminently fair and sensible woman. Give her a little time to think things out. I’m sure she’ll come back to thrash it out with you, one way or the other. As for Sullivan, stay away from him till we know more of the truth. Impulsive behavior on your part could cost you your whole future.”