Michael Collins - Shadow of a Tiger

On the street I found a telephone booth. Li Marais waited on the hot sidewalk while I called Viviane Marais. People who are unaware of being observed reflect in their pose, their faces, the hidden skeleton of their feelings. Relaxed for an instant, they reveal the landscape where their minds are living. While the telephone rang out in Sheepshead Bay, I watched Li outside the booth. She watched the street and two children playing. Her Oriental face was blank, serene, as if she wasn’t there at all.

“Yes?” Viviane Marais said from the other end.

“Dan Fortune, Mrs. Marais. Is Danielle there?”

“No.” A silence. “I owe you some money, Mr. Fortune.”

“Where is Danielle?”

“I do not know. She has not been home for two days. With that boy, I presume.” Another silence. “You still work?”

“Li thinks Claude didn’t do it.”

“And what do you think?”

“I want to talk to Danielle and Charlie Burgos.”

“I have not seen them.”

“Do you still think Claude killed Eugene?”

“For a package of diamonds?” A third silence. “Or because Eugene interfered? What does it matter? I do not really care anymore. Send me your bill, Mr. Fortune.”

She hung up. I went out to Li Marais.

Paul Manet walked back into the sumptuous living room of his borrowed apartment. I closed the outer door, followed him across the yellow carpet. Li Marais was silent behind me. Manet held a drink. He drank, composed his face into a somber expression.

“So Claude killed his brother? A tragedy. But-?” He sighed, drank. “We knew that Claude was disturbed.”

“Li, there, doesn’t think Claude did it.”

“Li?” Manet looked at her. I saw the appreciation in his eyes. He squared his shoulders ready to be charming, gallant, and, hopefully, something more?

“Claude’s wife,” I said. “You didn’t know that?”

“Ah, no,” Manet said, very sad. “My sympathies, Madame.”

The tall hero was out of his elegant, pseudo-military clothes. A dark shirt and tapered slacks like an officer at ease in his quarters. A looseness to his imperious manner, off-duty. Almost sluggish, but not relaxed. A tension in his face. Drinking. Was it that no one could keep the front up all the time? The need of a few drinks every afternoon before he went out to perform? I knew fifty salesmen like that. Yet with Manet it was something more. A pervading sense of need to have the drinks, a desperation.

“We’re looking for Danielle Marais,” I said.

“I have not seen her for some days.”

“Charlie Burgos?”

“No, not him, either.”

His eyes flickered. He had realized that he had just told me something I hadn’t known for sure. He did know Charlie Burgos. He drank.

“So you know Charlie Burgos?” I said.

“I have met him with Danielle, yes.”

“But you give Danielle dresses?”

“The daughter of a friend.”

“No romance?”

“At my age?” He smiled. A weak smile.

“She was here alone that day. Why?”

“Why not? I am a family friend.” He put down his drink. “Mr. Fortune, I am aware the police inquired into my history. I assume they told you what they found. I have nothing to hide. So, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment.”

Smooth, controlled, even commanding-and yet there was the tension. Everything in the elegant living room was a hair off. As if just out of focus.

“Someone was supposed to meet Eugene Marais the night he died. It almost had to be you, Manet. Why?”

“You saw me leave at five. I did not return.”

“Why would you meet with a man from the past so late at night and alone? A man you hadn’t really known at all before? A man who had known not you but your family in Paris.”

Manet put down his drink. “I am becoming annoyed.”

“Where do Charlie Burgos and Danielle fit in?” I pushed on. “They were there, so… There, sure! That’s it. They saw you come out of the shop carrying a suitcase-and the diamonds?”

“There are laws to stop you badgering a-”

“Wait. You ditched the suitcase, but you kept the diamonds. You know where Claude Marais lives. You know the hat badge of the Thirteenth Half Brigade-his unit. But why? What did Eugene Marais do, or know, that-?”

“Get out! Now!”

His hands clenched into fists. Anger flushed his handsome face. He took a step toward me, powerful and commanding. I reacted by reflex.

I fell into a crouch with my lone fist raised. In a fight, I wouldn’t have much chance with Manet, but a man reacts by instinct. To protect himself, or to attack.

I didn’t do either. I didn’t have to.

Paul Manet stopped. Instantly. He jerked back from my crouch and one fist. His reflex-the flinch again. When opposed, challenged, he broke. The haughty, belligerent manner broke apart. For the blink of an eye Manet almost cringed.

All at once I knew-Paul Manet was a fake.

The commanding manner was learned. The haughtiness built, assumed. The aristocratic assurance a mask. A fake.

Yet, his past and reputation was open and certain. His heroism was certified, a part of history. His heroic moment. Moment? One moment?

Was that it? A man who had once risen to a moment that was not really in his nature? A moment beyond himself-and he knew that inside? Ever since he had been faking the stance of that one moment, living on it when he knew inside that it was false? Beyond one moment built on special circumstances, he was no hero at all, but needed the rewards his “heroism” had brought, so went on playing the role even long after he himself knew it was fake, nothing was there inside?

“Come on,” I said to Li Marais.

We left him standing there alone, not touching his drink on the table, his eyes as blank as the eyes of a blind man. He wouldn’t tell me whatever the truth was, but if I was right, he would be afraid. He would worry, and maybe make a mistake.

We caught a taxi. “Did Claude mention Paul Manet, Li?”

She sat close against me. “Only that he came to Claude with a business offer. Claude was not interested.”

“This was in San Francisco?”

“Yes. Later, Manet came here, but Claude disliked him.”

“Yet Manet used Claude as an intro at the Balzac Union. He met Eugene, and… No, he didn’t meet Eugene at the Union. He met Eugene outside.” I thought as we rode downtown. We were near Li’s hotel. “I want to talk to Claude. We’ll call Lieutenant Marx from your hotel suite.”

She opened her suite door, pointed to where the telephone stood. I didn’t look at the telephone. Claude Marais sat in an easy chair facing us. Li glanced at the bedroom. A giveaway glance. Did it matter? Two used pillows on the unmade bed. Claude knew, had to know.

“They let me go. The lawyer got a paper, something,” he said. “Are you all right, Li?”

“Yes. Mr. Fortune is helping me prove you innocent.”

“How is he doing that?”

I said, “Are you innocent?”

“Who is?” That sleepwalking smile of his. “But prove it for Li, yes? For me, too.”

“I want to know about Paul Manet.”

Claude shook his head. “Not him, no. He leaves a bad taste. I’m not sure why. I suppose I leave a bad taste for many, eh? The used hero, the duped pawn. Like those honest, eager, very brave secret agents they used during World War Two for nothing except to be caught and die. A level of poor fools to give to the Germans, so that underneath them, really hidden, real agents did their work. A filthy world.”

“How did you meet Paul Manet?”

“He came to me in San Francisco, wanted me to work for his companies. Another propagandist for wine and perfume at high prices. I turned him down, but he came here, too. I couldn’t stomach him anymore, we fought.”