Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

MacKay took a taxi to the Place Maubert and then walked slowly down to find 14 rue Lagrange. It was a narrow building above an archway that led to a row of garages. There were six names against the bell-pushes and Prouvost was number 4. The front door was ajar and he walked inside. There was no elevator and the stairs were ill-lit, but everywhere was clean, and the heavy wooden doors gave an air of mild prosperity. Apartment 4 had a door with a stained-glass window and, after pressing the bell, MacKay heard footsteps inside.

When the door opened, a man in his middle thirties stood there smiling.

“I’m sorry but it’s already gone.”

“M’sieur Prouvost?”

“Yes. You came about the ’cello, yes?”

“I came to speak to you. My name is MacKay.”

The eyes behind the thick lenses were friendly but puzzled. But after a moment’s hesitation the man opened the door and waved MacKay inside. The narrow hallway led to a big room. It was more a workshop than a room. A heavy bench littered with woodworking tools ran along one wall, and on various tables lay stringed instruments and parts of instruments. Three old-fashioned armchairs were placed round a low table and the man waved MacKay to one of these and sat down himself. He looked expectantly at MacKay.

“If it’s insurance I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

MacKay smiled and shook his head. “No, m’sieur, I wanted to ask if you could remember two men who were students when you were a student.”

“Ah yes. It seems a long time ago but it was, how long—ten years perhaps. Who were these students?”

“One was Pierre Benoit.”

“And what did you want to know?”

“What kind of man was he?”

Prouvost leaned back smiling. “Hardly a man in those days, but certainly with talent. He could paint, no doubt about that. But not an artist. Too narrow, too derivative.” He shrugged. “He lacked originality, and inspiration. Mind you, he might have developed if he had been given time.”

“Given time? What happened?”

“He’s dead. Long ago. Five years, six it could be.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Killed himself. Gas. Money troubles and that ridiculous woman.”

“He was a member of the Communist Party, wasn’t he?”

Prouvost grinned. “Of course. We all were. Paid our dues. Even went to meetings if there was nothing better to do.”

“Are you still a Communist?”

“Well, I never resigned. You forget about these things when you’ve got work to do. Are you a policeman, my friend?”

“No. I just want to get the feel of those times. Research. The other man who interested me was a fellow named Dempsey. D’you remember him?”

“Oh yes. A lovely fellow. Had the painter’s eye but not a painter’s hand. Hopeless. Hopeless. But charming, delightful.”

“He joined the Party too?”

“I believe he did. He wasn’t really interested, of course. Too lazy, too happy. But his girl was Russian and I think he just joined to identify with her.”

“Did he ever discuss Communism?”

“Dempsey?” Prouvost laughed aloud. “He just laughed at them. Thought they were crazy.”

“Why did you join?”

Prouvost smiled and waved his arm at the violins and ’cellos scattered round the room.

“I joined because of Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Prokoviev, even Glazunov. I suppose even then I knew I couldn’t paint. Poor artist. Poor musician. But lots of feeling, lots of love.” He shrugged and smiled. “But they say I am good at all this.”

“Does it pay?”

“I eat. I drink. And I’m happy and respected. What more could a man want in these grim days?”

Nolan and MacKay sat in silence as they waited for Morton Harper. The message had said that he would be ten minutes late. There was no reason to talk. They had gone over every aspect of the information they had gathered and it was for Harper to decide.

MacKay’s eyes wandered round the room. The walls were all painted white. There were no paintings, no photographs or decoration. The desk was typically Scandinavian in plain teak, the chairs were comfortable but not luxurious. There were no book cases or shelves. Indeed, there were no books. No silver-framed photographs of wife and family on the desk, no clue to the character or mind of the man whose office it was. And, MacKay thought, perhaps that was the clue to the man’s character. He felt no need to persuade or influence. The room was a room for listening rather than talking, so far as its occupant was concerned. Harper came in, quietly for so large a man. He smiled and nodded to both of them as he walked around and settled at his desk. He reached for the ashtray and lit his cigar.

“I’ve seen both your reports, gentlemen, but I find no logic in them. You state the facts, both of you, and then draw conclusions that appear to be based on instincts rather than facts. Explain. You first, Nolan.”

“Kleppe is a long term immigrant. Came from Norway via Canada. Has been a citizen for about twenty years. He deals in precious stones, mainly diamonds, and has shareholdings and interests in a wide range of businesses. He operates out of a luxury apartment in Sutton Place that is packed full of electronics. Security devices. He has no servants, not even a daily help. He has contacts at top level in most government departments and with influential politicians in the Republican Party. Dempsey has been a frequent visitor over the last ten years. There’s nothing on our files, the FBI files or the NYPD. Not even a traffic offence.”

Harper waited to see if there was any more and then nodded to MacKay.

“I found your report intriguing. Tell me more.”

“I must emphasize, sir, that these are my views, not my service’s views. They may share them, I just don’t know. I believe we assume too readily that people join the Communist Party from considered conviction. That they have weighed up capitalism and found it wanting. In my experience there are very few of these, and in my view Dempsey is typical of most people. He joined the Party when he was a student; a more carefree student than most because he had no worries about money or career. His father was, is, a millionaire. And he joined the Party because he was in love with a girl who was not only a Party member but a Soviet citizen. It was a gesture to her. And because of her he did not see Russians as monsters. His own Russian was beautiful, she didn’t dig the streets of Moscow, she painted. And I’ve no doubt he got a picture of a society that had a human face. When he and his girl were beaten up and jailed he turned to his own government’s representative for help. It was refused. He would guess why. With their usual long-sightedness the Soviet authorities stepped in. Not directly, but through an American. A man who can draw on Dempsey’s goodwill for years to come. The girl goes off to Moscow—a perfect hostage. Dempsey will hate his own government and feel grateful to the Russians. And you couldn’t have a more malleable puppet than that. It’s not difficult to love a regime that exists thousands of miles away, that you never see.”

Harper leaned back in his chair, looking at some distant spot on the white ceiling.

“Are you married, Mr. MacKay?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven next birthday.”

There was a long silence and then Harper slowly sat up in his chair and faced the desk. He seemed to be watching the ash on his cigar. Then his head came up slowly.

“You needn’t give reasons; and I’ll ask no questions. But I want you both to say what you would do as of now. You first, Nolan.”

“The election is tomorrow. I should wait for the result. If Powell wins I should go ahead with a full investigation.”