The Bois had misted over; the dark green cover reflected myriad sparkles of moonlight, the streetlamps below outlined the twisting boulevards with soft halos. In the distance the occasional clatter of heels on the sidewalk could be heard, and the faint roar of an automobile, accelerating, taking advantage of the lack of traffic at that hour of the morning. He leaned on the railing, his large hands relaxed, looking out into the beauty of the night, his mind calmly and carefully considering the problem he faced.
To begin with, did he really want to do anything about the matter after all these years? He was comfortable, his life was interesting and enjoyable, and he had long since trained himself not to expand his energies on unprofitable pastimes. Was not his first reaction to the news that Gruber was in Lisbon, available after all these years, only an automatic response, triggered to a large extent by a guilt he felt at the death of his parents and sister, and the loss of Jadzia? Was it not, in truth, what he felt he should sense, rather than the feeling he actually did experience?
He was not surprised to find himself smiling a bit grimly at the thought. No, my friend, he said softly to himself; you will not escape that easily! No scientific gimmickry, no pseudopsychological loopholes for you! Nor could you find release from your private demons in merely denouncing Gruber to the authorities. To begin with, considering his many connections among the officials in Lisbon, it is doubtful that he would remain uninformed long enough to be available for extradition — and at least now I know where he is. And even if, by some miracle, he was actually detained and returned to Germany for trial, what sentence would he get? Five years? Out in three with good behavior? Twelve months each for my father, my mother, and my sister? That certainly isn’t the answer!
And as for the argument that your personal feelings for Jadzia might warp your judgment or cause you to lose objectivity; well, that would be a poor compensation to show for fifteen years’ experience. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of thinking those personal feelings will have no effect. Merely recognize the facts and include them in your calculations; be more cautious in your estimates and more careful in your planning.
He stared out into the darkness. Grayish wisps of fog still eddied in faint patches over the Bois; the deserted pavement below glistened damply. He nodded, satisfied. Step One had been accomplished; the acceptance of the job. That was often the most difficult of all decisions to be made; tonight it had been quite easy. Had it been too easy? Dangerously easy? He shook his head in impatience. Step One was finished; forget it and move on to Step Two.
He tried to picture Gruber in Lisbon, tried to visualize how he had arrived, when he had arrived. Almost without volition a glimmer of an idea formed in his mind. Somewhere he had seen a newspaper article that might be useful... He studied the idea and began to expand upon it, but not — as he usually did at such moments — with a grin of appreciation for his own brilliance. Instead a frown crossed his face; his hand went up automatically to tug at his earlobe. For several minutes he allowed his imagination scope and then reined it in, shaking his head. Until more facts were available, it was impossible to formulate a complete and foolproof scheme; at the proper moment a suitable plan would come. Step Two, therefore, should content itself with getting him to Lisbon on a logical basis, and nothing more.
There were, of course, several ways this could be accomplished, but the newspaper article seemed the best approach. If his surmise was correct, it could very well work. He went back to that portion of the plan and restudied it, rejecting this point, adding that, consolidating, checking, unconscious of time. It was not until he was completely satisfied with each step that he straightened up, alert and confident as always once an operation was under way, and walked quickly back into the living room.
The lamp above the desk was flicked on; under the cone of light the black plastic of the telephone gleamed invitingly. He winked at it reassuringly, seated himself comfortably in the swivel chair, and raised the receiver, dialing the operator.
“Hello? I should like to place an international long-distance call, please. To Lisbon... What? Lisbon, in Portugal, of course. What? There are others? That many, eh? All in America...? Amazing... No, this is to Portugal...”
He shrugged lightly. The operator’s voice sounded acerbic, probably at being troubled at that early hour. This one is definitely married, he thought with a grin; only long practice at putting a husband in his place could develop that accusatory tone.
“Yes, operator. Moncada 917. That’s right. How long? I see... Could you call me back?” He nodded, gave his number politely to the instrument, and smiled as he heard it correctly repeated. “Thank you...”
He hung up and leaned back, tenting his fingers. Now, where had he seen that newspaper article? It had been here at home, within the past few days. If it wasn’t in the pile in the kitchen, waiting for the maid to eventually get rid of them, he would simply have to go to the newspaper office, dig it out, and get a copy. As he recalled, the article had been sufficiently indecisive to serve the purpose perfectly. He could, of course, always go to one of those silly shops in Pigalle that catered to tourists, and have something fictitious printed in one of those comic newspapers, but it would be taking a chance. And on this job, no chances would be taken that could possibly be avoided.
He came to his feet, walked through the dining room to the small kitchen, and turned on the light. As he had suspected, the maid had postponed the disposal of the papers — probably, he thought with a smile, in the vague hope that they would somehow disappear by themselves. Bless all lazy maids, he said to himself, and began leafing through the stack.
He found the article almost immediately, carefully ripped out the page containing it, and returned to his desk. He folded the sheet to bring the column he wanted on top, placed it beneath the lamp, reseated himself, and read it once again. This time his attention was far greater than when he had first noted it. He shrugged; it was not exactly what he might have wished, but still, it should do very well. Or at least, well enough. He started to lean back again when the telephone suddenly rang. He bent forward at once, picking it up.
“Hello?”
“Ready with your call to Lisbon...”
A strange voice replaced that of the operator. “Yes? Hello?”
Kek frowned; the voice was not that of André. “Is this Moncada 917?”
“Yes. Kek? This is Michel Morell.” Kek smiled; after two words he had recognized that controlled tone. The dry, pedantic voice continued. “André is here. I’ll call him in a minute, but I wanted to speak with you first. André told me about his conversation with you, and I came over here to wait for your call.”
Kek grinned. “Michel! How have you been? André told me about you and your job there. In the police, eh? Very good. As for André, you don’t have to call him; as a matter of fact, I was calling to get your telephone number. I wanted to talk to you.”
Michel’s voice became almost cold, highly official. “And I wanted to talk to you. Forget the entire matter, Kek. Put it out of your mind. As soon as I had told André, I was instantly sorry. It was a bad mistake on my part.”
“A mistake?”