Дональд Уэстлейк - Castle in the Air

Herman leaped toward the truck as it approached, but then had to leap again, out of its way, as it juggernauted by, Lida trying to steer one-handed backward while straining her terrified head out the window. Eustace, staggering uphill, looked up to see the truck descending on him like a fly swatter on a fly; with a shriek, Eustace flung himself to the side and plastered himself against a wall as the truck thundered past.

When Eustace could next focus, it was to see the truck whipping away backwards around a corner, while in the other direction Herman was hurriedly inserting himself into a small black Simca. Shaky but determined, Eustace unpeeled himself from the wall, ran across the street, and clambered into the passenger seat of the Simca just as Herman was starting its engine.

Herman glared, without friendliness. “Get out of here,” he said. “ I stole it, it’s mine.”

“I’m going with you,” Eustace said. “Period.”

There was really no time for Herman to argue the point. “Tchah,” Herman said, in lieu of discussion, and spun the wheel. The Simca made a teetering U-turn and hurried after the truck.

Which had plummeted around another corner and was now backing rapidly upward , up another narrow street, which came to an abrupt end in midair, with a railing and a flight of stone steps downward. Lida, gaping backward, saw this sudden terminus of street, gave a despairing cry, and huddled down into the seat, eyes squeezed shut, hands over face.

The upgrade slowed the truck, slowed it, and at the very edge of the precipice the truck banged gently against the iron railing, stopped, paused a millisecond, and began to roll forward.

On the next street, Eustace was pointing, saying, “She turned that way.”

“I know,” Herman said, and savagely spun the wheel, and the Simca roared around the corner to find the truck now racing forward, zooming down the street, knifing straight down at the Simca. “Mein Gott!” cried Herman, steering a thousand ways at once, while in the truck cab Lida could be seen struggling to insert the key in the ignition, paying no attention to steering or speed or anything else.

Herman got most of the Simca out of the way; most, but not all. The truck, en passant , nicked the Simca’s left rear fender, clipping it just enough at exactly the moment when Herman had decided to turn sharply leftward, that as the truck roared on, its engine at last coughing into life, the Simca very slowly, very gracefully, almost casually, fell over on its right side.

Pedestrians passing the ground floor offices of the Paris-based International Herald Tribune can look through the plate glass window imprinted in gold with the paper’s name and see within a traditional newspaper office, with many desks and few workers and much buzzing purposeful activity. All of this activity, however, came to an abrupt stop when without warning a truck came crashing and smashing through that plate glass window, trampled a couple of empty desks, and jolted to a stop half-in and half-out of the office.

The newspeople stared. A pin was heard to drop.

The truck door opened, and a shaky but triumphant Lida stepped out onto the running board. Gathering her strength, she raised an arm in a clenched-fist salute and gave voice: “Long live Yerbadoro!”

Fortunately, a photographer in the Tribune ‘s offices that day had been quick-witted enough to snap a picture of Lida in that moment of victory, creating an unforgettable and prizewinning image of Girl Revolutionary Rampant, a somewhat stylized drawing of which, superimposed with the word YERBADORO above and the words CORREO AEREO — 1000 PESERINAS below, appeared on the stamp on the envelope containing the letter which, ten months later, a smiling Eustace read in the back seat of his limousine, traveling along Boulevard St. Germain in Paris’s Left Bank. The letter read:

Dear Eustace,

Well, now that Manuel and I are back from our honeymoon, I am content to be merely a housewife from now on. Manuel has completely gotten over his distress and unhappiness, caused by that long dreadful wait in the hotel room alone and friendless, never knowing what was going on, and he has now happily settled down to his Congressional duties.

I’m so glad, Eustace, that our political influence helped to free you and your friends from prison, and I hope you have made wise investments with the reward money our new government gave you. You know, in spite of everything, I still am fond of every one of you.

Yours, for a progressive Yerbadoro,

“Ah, Lida,” Eustace murmured, with another smile, and he tucked the letter back into its envelope, paused for a moment to study the dear girl’s face on the stamp, then pocketed the envelope as the limousine came to a stop at the canopied entrance of a very elegant, very expensive, très chic restaurant, its name emblazoned on the canopy: Le Yerbadoro . Eustace waited, and his chauffeur — Bruddy, in fact — came around to open the door for him. Eustace emerged, smiled genially at the world around himself, and said, “I think — ten tonight, Bruddy.”

Nothing would ever make Bruddy actually deferential, but his manner was at least calm and obliging as he said, “Right,” did not quite touch his uniform cap, and drove the limousine away.

Eustace approached the restaurant’s entrance, where Jean, resplendent in his doorman’s uniform, stood holding open the door. “Afternoon, Jean,” said Eustace.

“Afternoon, Eustace. Lovely day.”

“Lovely.”

Eustace entered the restaurant and smiled upon the cashier, who happened to be Maria Lynch, one-time first lady of Yerbadoro, wife of the former El Presidente. Discreet enquiries and delicate negotiations had been necessary before Escobar and Maria Lynch had been persuaded to join Eustace and the others, but it was only sensible for the forces to combine, and in the end sensibility won the day. The Lynches’ hidden hoard had been lost to them forever, but there was still the rest of the castle, containing much of value. The Lynches held title, Eustace and company held the castle, and a meeting of minds was seen to be possible.

“Lovely day,” Eustace told Maria, who was at the moment frowning in disapproval at a stack of checks from lunch. She looked up, transferring her frown to Eustace: “Going to rain tomorrow,” she said.

“Ah, well, perhaps,” said Eustace, and passed on into the restaurant proper, a plush, hushed room with a distinct South American flavor. The last of the luncheon diners were gone, the first of the dinner diners had not as yet arrived, and to one side headwaiter Herman was speaking very severely to his staff of waiters: Rudi, Angelo, Vito and Otto. “Last night,” Herman was saying, marching stiffly back and forth before his troops, “there were three complaints about delays in service. Tonight we shall do better. You will do better, and you will smile.”

Eustace moved on, just glancing in at the bar, where Andrew and Sir Mortimer were already at work, preparing for the evening’s custom. Continuing, Eustace passed the blackly gleaming grand piano, where Charles, in a tuxedo, tickled the ivories while chatting with Renee, the cigarette girl. Beyond, Eustace opened the kitchen door and glanced in, seeing Rosa, in chefs cap and apron, yelling at her Portuguese staff in every language she knew and some she didn’t.

Eustace closed the door again and continued to the very rear of the restaurant, where the sommelier, Escobar Diaz McMahon Grande Pajaro Lynch, ex-El Presidente of Yerbadoro, stood frowning at a bottle of wine. Eustace said, “Everything all right?”

“Perhaps not,” said Escobar. “I think this St. Emilion has started to turn.”