Shape of Fear (19 page)

“Try us,” Chambrun said.

“I am concerned with Digger,” Bernardel said. “I wish to go on record about him. Why do I choose this moment, you ask? I choose it because this is a time when life is very cheap—his life, Murray Cardew’s, Loring’s, and mine! This could well be my only opportunity.”

“You’re trying to say that you’re in danger?” Clark asked, not buying. Not buying at all.

“If I am what you believe I am,” Bernardel said, “a loyal de Gaullist may choose to put me out of the way at any moment. If I’m what I say I am, then I am momentarily a prime target for the conspirators. Either way there may be little time. I want to go on record.”

“We listen,” Chambrun said.

Bernardel’s teeth, strong and white, clamped down on his cigar. “Digger is a babe in the woods,” he said. “I had known him for a number of years before he became involved in all this. Automobiles were our mutual interest. He was a fine race driver, a man without fear in his specialty. But some men carry fearlessness too far. Digger is one such man. Because he was not afraid of death behind the wheel of a car, he felt he should not be afraid in any other set of circumstances. A really intelligent man is more sensible. He knows when to be afraid. He knows that truth and honesty don’t necessarily win the day. I am such a man, gentlemen. I know when to be afraid. I am afraid now. That is where courage comes into the picture—to proceed in spite of intelligent fear. Digger proceeds because he is not afraid, not because he is courageous. If he would permit himself to be afraid, he would not be where he is now.

“Digger came to me about an employee of mine some years back, a man named Langlois who was providing drugs to a few customers, one of them a friend of Digger’s who committed suicide. Digger and I went to see Langlois and found him shot to death.”

“Probably on your orders,” Clark said.

Bernardel’s smile was actually mischievous. “Ah, yes, we must play it that way,” he said. “Perhaps I ordered Langlois killed in order to prevent him from revealing the truth about me to Digger. Then Digger persisted in knowing facts. I gave him the broad picture, and he was determined to join the fight against the drug ring.” The smile broadened. “So I, secretly a member of the ring, had the brilliant idea of putting Digger in touch with Colonel Valmont, the ring’s deadliest enemy. Why? Because I hoped the innocent Digger might keep me informed about Valmont’s movements. Is that the way the script goes, Clark?”

“Go on.”

“Well, either I sent
him
for that reason or because I was quite genuinely on Valmont’s side. The point of consequence is that Digger joined forces with Valmont in good faith. To him things were exactly as they seemed. He became an aide to Valmont. He fell in love with Valmont’s daughter. And at the end he tried with all his might to save Valmont’s life. But that put him in trouble—serious trouble. Juliet Valmont suddenly believed he was false. Charles Girard tried to help prove it. He would have managed it if I hadn’t provided Digger with a false alibi.”

“Why?” Chambrun asked.

“To save him. You see, Chambrun, even if I am the George Washington of the conspirators, I still can feel concern for an innocent friend. I tried to persuade Digger to drop the fight, but he refused. He had to prove himself to Juliet. So he kept at it, and in the end, through the late Mr. Loring, he came to believe that I was his enemy. Let us suppose I am. Let us suppose I was just using him. Better than anyone else, then, I would know what he was up to. I tell you what it was. He was playing blindman’s buff. One minute he would be close to what he was looking for, the next miles away. He really was only dangerous to anyone because he kept stumbling around in the dark and might, by accident, have come on the truth. He wasn’t following any real trail. Well, today he stumbled on the truth, and he may die as a consequence. But whatever the appearance, Mr. Clark, Digger is exactly what he says he is and has done exactly what he says he has done. Your Mr. Loring knew that and trusted him.”

“And died for it,” Clark said harshly.

“My dear Clark,” Bernardel said patiently, “Digger did not kill Loring. That’s what I’m here to tell you. Never. Never in this wide world.” He laughed. “Loring was a friend, and the Diggers of the world never kill their friends, even in self-defense. Loring was an American, a stalwart arm of the law. The Diggers of this world never kill stalwart American arms of the law.”

“Then who did kill him—and how?” Clark demanded.

Bernardel sighed. “Just believe me, Clark, and turn your face away from Digger. He is innocent as a lamb.”

“You know who killed Loring?” Chambrun asked.

Bernardel smiled, but there was no laughter in his bright eyes. “If I am what you think I am, Chambrun—the chief conspirator—then obviously I would not tell you if I knew. If I am on the other side, I would also have reasons for not telling you if I knew.”

“What kind of reason?”

“Mr. Chambrun, someone on the side of the conspiracy is about to receive several million dollars—in cash—in exchange for drugs. That money, that cash, will go to finance the conspiracy. Suppose I could name the murderer—and did—before that money changes hands? The whole scheme for making the exchange would be changed, delayed, arranged in a different manner. Understand the important thing, Chambrun. It is the money. The conspirators must have it. The other side must prevent their getting it. There is only one way it can be prevented. A check can be canceled if it is lost and a new check written. But cash is something else. It can’t be replaced. The one way to keep the conspirators from getting it—now or later—would be for the other side to get it. If the other side gets it, the conspirators will never get it. It means survival to both sides. So, if I were on the opposite side from the conspirators, I would do nothing to prevent the exchange from taking place. Once the drug dealers have paid the money to the conspiracy, then we seize it. But the exchange must take place. The murderer may be the key to the exchange, so I would not name names. You can place whichever label you like on me, gentlemen, but you must see that, whatever I am, I will not name the murderer. Whatever I am, I believe with all my heart that I do what I do for my country.”

“Suppose Digger is able to talk?” Chambrun asked,

“Guard him.”

“So he could name the killer,” Clark said. “Your innocent lamb!”

“He was, from what the Girards tell me, not shot from behind,” Bernardel said. “He faced the person who shot him.”

The telephone on Chambrun’s desk rang. He picked it up. It instantly occurred to me that it was bad news from the hospital. In the end, all Chambrun said was, “Thank you for calling.” We waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He seemed to slump deeper in his chair, his heavy lids almost closed over his eyes.

Bernardel blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. “I have done what I came to do,” he said. He gave Clark a small, bitter smile. “I know of no way to convince you that I’m a human being, Mr. Clark. I came here on behalf of a friend. I suppose all I can hope for is that you’re not quite so certain of his guilt as you were before I came.”

“I ought to take you in,” Clark said in a strained voice, more as though he was talking to himself than Bernardel.

Bernardel smiled like a father commiserating with a small child. “I know how exasperating it must be, Mr. Clark. But you have nothing to charge me with. I know perfectly well you’ve had me watched from the moment I stepped off my plane. You are my alibi if I need one.” He gave Chambrun an ironic little bow, turned and walked out of the office.

Clark swore under his breath. “The gall of him, walking in here as big as life. It’s been like that for three years. He’s almost certainly the brains behind this whole traffic in drugs and we haven’t got a shred of proof, except that whenever we come close, there he is!”

“He sounded as though he really did come here to help Digger,” I said.

“You can bet he came here to help himself, whatever it looks like,” Clark said.

“Sullivan may need help,” Chambrun said. He sounded far away. “That phone call was from Hardy. He has the ballistics report.”

“You were wrong?” Clark asked.

Chambrun nodded slowly. “Sam Loring was killed with bullets from the gun they found in Digger’s hand. Digger was wounded by Loring’s gun. There was no third gun involved.”

“Then it’s the way I thought it was from the start,” Clark said, “Sullivan opened up on Sam and Sam fired back in self-defense. Sure! Sure Bernardel wants us to forget about Sullivan. Sullivan’s his friend all right. Has been from the start. In on it all from the beginning. Hardy have any medical report?”

“No change,” Chambrun said.

“Hardy have any doubts about what happened?”

“No.”

“You still have any doubts?”

Chambrun lifted his heavy eyelids. “Would it matter?” he asked.

“For God’s sake, Mr. Chambrun, you can’t get around the facts.”

“No, you can’t get around the facts,” Chambrun said.

“So you had an interesting theory but it was wrong,” Clark said.

“Yes, it was wrong.”

That was apparently enough for Clark. “Well, my job is to sit tight here and wait for the payoff. Hardy’ll be at the hospital if Sullivan comes to enough to talk.”

“What about your announcement to the press?” Chambrun asked.

“What’s the use? Bernardel knows it’s a fake.”

“I still suggest you make it.”

Clark gave a short laugh. “Are you going to tell me you have any doubts about Bernardel?”

“You want the deal to go through, don’t you?” Chambrun said. “You want to catch them in the process. There are others who may not be as quick on the uptake as Bernardel. There are the drug buyers on this end who must be wondering if it’s safe show. You can’t lose anything by making a public statement. You might gain something.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Clark said. “The chances are Bernardel’s put the tilt sign on the whole deal for now.”

“But just in case you’re wrong about him …”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Chambrun. You made a bad guess about Sullivan. Don’t make any more.”

“That is my aim,” Chambrun said drily.

S
HELDA WAS ON MY
mind. By now the news must be running through the hotel like a brush fire. To hear, just casually, that one man had died and another was near death from a shoot-out under your garden awning would be something of a shock. Like Juliet, Shelda would probably try to take some of the blame on herself. So while Clark busied himself on the phone arranging a press conference, I went down the hall to my office.

Shelda wasn’t at her desk, but Miss Quigley told me she was in my office. She was—and looking like death. She’d dug a bottle of bourbon out of my desk drawer and had a good slug out of it. When she saw me she came running, and I put my arms around her while she cried softly.

“We’ve got enough trouble without this,” I said, trying to kid her out of it.

“Mark, I …”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You took Juliet to your apartment. You told Digger she was there. You’re responsible for the whole thing.”

She pushed away from me. “Like hell I am!” she said indignantly.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“It’s just so sad after all this time for her to find out that he was a heel,” Shelda said. “Is there any news about him?”

“Hanging on,” I said.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever trust any man again. I was so sure he was everything she thought he was. They would have made it, you know, Mark—for all her promises to her husband—if he’d been what he was supposed to be. She loved him so much.”

“It would have been worse to find out about him later,” I said.

“Incidentally, I didn’t tell him.”

“Tell who what?” I said.

“You said I told Digger that she was at my apartment and wanted to see him. I didn’t. She phoned him, I suppose.”

“She didn’t.”

“How did he know then?”

It was a good question. Someone had set the trap. The devious Bernardel seemed the most likely possibility, I thought

“You’re going to have to marry me sooner than I intended,” Shelda said.

“How’s that?” I stopped thinking about the fat Frenchman.

“Obviously I can’t live in the apartment any more,” Shelda said. “Imagining what it was like there this afternoon. I don’t even want to go back for my things.”

“That’s almost the worst reason for getting married I ever heard,” I said.

“Don’t be a stinker,” she said.

My phone rang, ending that somewhat absurd exchange. I picked it up.

“Mr. Haskell?” It was Charles Girard. “I wonder if you could come up here for a few minutes?”

His voice sounded curiously flat and colorless.

“Yes,” I said. “I can come.”

“Is there any later news from the hospital?”

“No change as far as I know.”

“I’d appreciate your coming.”

“Right away,” I said.

When I put down the phone, Shelda said, “Saved by the bell.”

She was in pretty good shape, all things considered.

When Girard opened the door of his suite a few minutes later, I was shocked. I don’t know any other way to describe how he looked except to say he’d aged about ten years. The lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes seemed to be deeper. His face had an unhealthy gray look to it.

“Please come in,” he said.

Į felt sorry for him. The going must have been pretty rough.

Juliet was in the living room. Service had brought them coffee since I’d last been here, the glass pot on its little electric plate resting on the center table. Juliet was over by the window, her back to me as I came in.

“It’s unendurable to stay here, not knowing what’s going on,” Girard said. “Not just what Juliet’s been through, you understand. Our lives have been bound up in this thing for a long time. Juliet lost her father through it. This—this showdown between Sullivan and Loring can only mean that Loring was right on top of the answers, the proof we’ve been searching for for three bitter years. We could help, I’m certain, but nobody comes to us. Nobody questions us.”

There was a kind of dry heat to the man. His eyes searched my face as though he could read something there. Juliet hadn’t moved from the window.