Дональд Уэстлейк - Castle in the Air

“You almost did it again,” Bruddy said, watching Andrew and Sir Mortimer walk off in different directions.

“Oh, no,” the tinny voice assured him. “No, I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

“That’s good,” Bruddy told him, and added, “We’re all fine here.”

“That’s fine, then. Fine. Signing off.”

“Right,” said Bruddy, and released the button. “Twit,” he said.

Jean LeFraque, leaning against a boxcar in the freight yards behind the Gare de la Chappelle, heard his jacket pocket speak to him, in a tinny voice. “Group C,” it said. “Come in, Group C. Are you there?”

From his pocket, Jean took the walkie-talkie, and replied: “ I am here. My group has not as yet arrived.”

“They haven’t? Is something wrong? Shouldn’t they—”

“Wait,” Jean said. “Something coming in now.”

A switching engine was approaching, bringing a long string of cars, including several wagons-lits. If all had gone well, Renee and Charles would still be in one of those wagons-lits, having hidden while the other passengers made their departure. Farther down the long string of cars were two bright yellow freight cars.

“Hello?” asked the tinny voice. “Group C? Hello?”

“Yes,” Jean said. “Here they come now. My group, and the objects of our attention.”

“Ahhhh,” said the tinny voice. “Superb.”

“You echo my sentiments,” Jean told him, and smiled as he watched the wagons-lits go by.

In the compartment in which the reborn Charles had been opening his soul to Renee, the bunks were now both closed into their recesses in the wall, and yet from the bottom bunk the voices still rose, as in a ghost story. The voice of Renee was saying, “Then, when my affair with my uncle came to an end—”

“Wait,” said the voice of Charles, and the closed bunk opened slightly. “Isn’t that the freight yard?” asked the now-louder voice of Charles.

“Is it?” Rustling sounds ensued, and then Renee’s voice again. “So it is.”

The voice of Charles said, “I’ll never forget this journey with you, Renee.”

“Nor I with you. I, too, am reborn. It was — wonderful, Charles.”

“Wonderful.”

“Wonderful.”

“But now—” The sigh of Charles was heard. “Life calls.”

The white Renault circled the Arc de Triomphe. Then it circled it again. Then it circled it again. A thousand cars a minute came roaring and beeping and skidding and racing into the Place Charles de Gaulle, entering from the Avenue Kléber or the Avenue Victor Hugo or the Avenue de la Grande Armée or the Avenue Foch or the Rue Lauriston or the Avenue Carnot or the Avenue MacMahon or the Avenue de Wagram or the Avenue Hoche or the Avenue de Friedland or the Avenue des Champs Elysees or the Rue Vemet or the Avenue Marceau or the Avenue D’Iéna or the Rue Laperouse. Then they all went dashing and spinning around the Arc de Triomphe, only to shoot away again down any one of those fifteen avenues and streets, leaving only the white Renault continuing to circle. And circle. And circle.

Rosa, with the wheel locked in a permanent half-turn to the left, spoke through gritted teeth: “I can’t stand this much longer. They’re half an hour late.”

“They’ll be along,” Angelo said. “We knew it wasn’t a matter of split-second timing.”

“I should have had you drive,” Rosa said, “regardless of how bad you are at it.”

“Bad? I?”

“Ptchah,” Rosa said, for answer.

The walkie-talkie in the storage space under the dashboard suddenly spoke: “Calling Group D. Are you there?”

“And now him ,” Rosa said. Keeping one hand on the wheel, maneuvering through the crazy flow and flash of traffic hurtling around the Arc de Triomphe, she picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “Yes, we’re here.”

But the walkie-talkie was not reassured. “Group D?” it asked. “Where are you? Are you there?”

Push the button; now she remembered. Pushing the button, she said, “Where would I be? Of course I’m here.”

“There you are!”

“But where’s everybody else, that’s the question!”

“On their way,” the tinny voice promised. “I spoke to them, and they’re on their way.”

“Good,” Rosa said, as a Simca cut too sharply in front of her, and she only avoided an accident by cutting too sharply in front of a Morris Mini. Horns sounded, as usual.

So did the walkie-talkie. It said, “Are you all right there? Is everything all right? Everything running smoothly?”

Utterly ensnarled in fast-moving traffic, Rosa had neither the attention nor the patience to go on chatting with a walkie-talkie. Dropping it in Angelo’s lap, she said, “Here, you talk to him.”

Eustace was on the hotel roof, alone, seated in a folding chair at a folding table. On the folding table were several maps, various sheets of paper, a thermos jug of tea, some pens and scratch pads, and four walkie-talkies, each boldly lettered in white paint: A — B — C — D. A and B and C were on the table now, but D was in his hand, and the voice that came from it was suddenly not Rosa’s voice at all, but an entirely different voice, speaking an entirely different language.

Eustace didn’t know it yet, but the new voice belonged to Angelo, and what he was saying, in Italian, was, “What do you want now?”

“Who’s that?” Eustace demanded. “Who’s talking there?”

“Why don’t you leave us alone,” the walkie-talkie asked him, in a language he didn’t understand, “and let us do our work?”

Fiddling with the walkie-talkie dial, Eustace muttered, “What is this? What have I here, Radio Free Europe?”

“Why don’t you talk Italian,” demanded the walkie-talkie, in Italian, “like a civilized man? Like Michelangelo. Like all the Popes.”

With sudden suspicion, Eustace said, “Angelo? Is that you?”

And now Rosa’s voice came back, harsh, irritable, impatient, saying, “Go away, Eustace! We’re busy!”

“No names!” Eustace shouted. There was no response to that at all, so more gently he said, “I’m only trying to keep things organized.” Still no response. Sadly, he shook his head and put the walkie-talkie down on the table with the others. “We had the empire such a long time,” he said. “You’d think someone out there would have learned English.”

Three men were on duty in the freight yard switching office behind the Gare de la Chappelle when their door opened and Jean LeFraque entered, his arm around the charming shoulders of Renee Chateaupierre. Renee was exquisite in flowing scarves and loose blouse and full slacks, while Jean was thoroughly distinguished in his dark vested suit and narrow black tie and narrow black hat. Beyond the three workers were the large plate glass windows with their panoramic view of the freight yards, including — just to the left; see them? — the two yellow boxcars.

There’s a reason why confidence men are called confidence men; they exude the stuff, as did Jean now, approaching the three workmen, smiling with absolute self-assurance, saying, “All right, men, carry on. This isn’t an official inspection.”

The three men hadn’t thought it was. They had, in fact, assumed that Jean and Renee were merely tourists, civilians, lay persons who had inadvertently gone through one of those No Admittance - Authorized Personnel Only doorways with which all of our lives are so thoroughly circumscribed. But clearly this was not the case. If this self-assured and confident gentleman in a three-piece suit and narrow black tie was telling them his presence was not an official inspection, the inference was clear that his presence could be an official inspection. Meaning that he must be an official. Which while it was not exactly an explanation of his presence — and certainly not an explanation of the beautiful lady’s presence — did more or less soothe the three workmen’s minds with the idea that some sort of explanation was possible.