As he got out of the taxi, he looked over at the tinted-glass window of the American Express office, and was struck by a thought. Was the refusal to read him his messages over the phone a trap? A means of getting him to show himself? If so, it was a bit obvious, and no doubt a tactic of British Intelligence.
Noel smiled. He knew exactly what to say if the British picked him up: John Tennyson was no more an assassin than he was, and probably far less of one than a number of MI-Five personnel.
He might even go a step further and suggest that the Royal Navy take a good, long look at one of its more decorated officers. All the evidence pointed to the probability that Commander Anthony Beaumont was a member of the ODESSA, recruited in Brazil by a man named Graff.
He felt he was falling through space, plunging downward, unable to catch his breath. His stomach was hollow and pain shot through his lower chest. He was gripped by combined feelings of grief and fear … and anger. The cablegram read:
YOUR FATHER DIED FOUR DAYS AGO STOP UNABLE TO CONTACT YOU STOP PLEASE RESPOND BY TELEPHONE BEDFORD HILLS STOP
MOTHER
There was a second cable, from Lieutenant David Miles, New York Police Department.
THE RECENT DEATH OF RICHARD HOLCROFT MAKES IT IMPERATIVE YOU CONTACT ME IMMEDIATELY STOP PROFESSIONALLY I RECOMMEND YOU SPEAK TO ME BEFORE REACHING ANYONE ELSE STOP
There were the same two telephone numbers Buonoventura had given him in Rio de Janeiro, and six—six—follow-up inquiries listed by day and hour since the original message had been received at the American Express office. Miles had checked twice a day to see if his message had been picked up.
Noel walked up the Champs-Elysées, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to control his grief.
The only father he had ever known. «Dad» … «my father,» Richard Holcroft. Always said with affection, with love. And always with warmth and humor, for Richard Holcroft was a man of many graces, not the least of which was an ability to laugh at himself. He had guided his son—stepson—no, goddamn it, his son!
Guided but never interfered, except when interference was the only alternative.
Oh, God, he was dead!
What caused the sharp bolts of pain—pain he understood was part of the fear and the anger—was implied in Miles’s cable. Was he somehow responsible for Richard Holcroft’s death? Oh, Christ!
Was that death related to a vial of strychnine poured into a drink thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic? Was it woven into the fabric of Geneva?
Had he somehow sacrificed the father he had known all his life for one he never knew?
He reached the corner of the avenue George V. Across the broad intersection that teemed with traffic he saw a sign above awnings that stretched the length of the sidewalk café: FOUQUET’S.
It was all familiar to him. To his left was the Hôtel George V. He had stayed there, briefly, a year ago, courtesy of an extremely wealthy hotelman, who had delusions, later proved to be just that, of duplicating its exterior in Kansas City.
Holcroft had struck up a friendship with the assistant manager. If the man was still there, perhaps he’d let him use a telephone. If telephone calls were traced back to the George V, it would be a simple matter to learn about them. And a simpler matter to leave misleading information regarding his whereabouts.
Anticipate.
«But, of course, it’s my pleasure, Noel. It’s so good to see you again. I am chagrined you do not stay with us, but at these prices, I don’t blame you. Here, use my office.»
«I’ll charge the calls to my credit card, of course.»
«I’m not worried, my friend. Later, an apéritif, perhaps?»
«I’d like that,» said Noel.
It was ten-forty-five, Paris time. Quarter to six in New York. If Miles was as anxious as his message implied, the hour was insignificant. He picked up the phone and placed the call.
Noel looked at Miles’s message again.
THE RECENT DEATH OF RICHARD HOLCROFT … PROFESSIONALLY I RECOMMEND YOU SPEAK TO ME BEFORE REACHING ANYONE ELSE …
The recommendation had an ominous tone; the «anyone else» had to mean his mother.
He put the paper down on the desk and reached into his pocket for Althene’s cablegram.
YOUR FATHER DIED FOUR DAYS AGO … UNABLE TO CONTACT YOU …
The guilt he felt at not having been with her nearly matched the guilt and the fear and the anger that consumed him when he considered the possibility that he was responsible for the death. Possibility? He knew it, he felt it.
He wondered—painfully—if Miles had reached Althene. And if he had, what had he said to her?
The telephone rang.
«Is this Noel Holcroft?»
«Yes. I’m sorry you had trouble reaching me…»
«I won’t waste time going into that,» interrupted Miles, «except to say you’ve violated federal laws.»
«Wait a minute,» broke in Noel angrily. «What am I guilty of? You found me. I’m not hiding.»
«Finding you after trying to locate you for damn near a week is called flagrantly ignoring and disregarding the law. You were not to leave the City of New York without telling us.»
«There were pressing personal matters. I left word. You haven’t got a case.»
«Then let’s try ‘obstruction of justice.’»
«What?»
«You were in the lounge of that British seven-forty-seven, and you and I both know what happened. Or, should I say, what didn’t happen?»
«What are you talking about?»
«That drink was meant for you, not Thornton.»
Holcroft knew it was coming, but his knowing it did not lessen the impact. Still, he was not about to agree without a protest. «That’s the craziest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard,» he said.
«Come on! You’re a bright, upstanding citizen from a bright, upstanding family, but your behavior for the past five days has been stupid and less than candid.»
«You’re insulting me, but you’re not saying anything. You mentioned in your message—»
«We’ll get to that,» interrupted the detective. «I want you to know whose side you’re on. You see, I want you to cooperate, not fight.»
«Go ahead.»
«We traced you to Rio. We spoke to—»
«You what?» Had Sam turned on him?
«It wasn’t hard. Incidentally, your friend Buonoventura doesn’t know. His cover for you didn’t wash. He said you were in a boat out of Curaçao, but Dutch immigration didn’t have you in the territory. We got a list of the overseas telephone numbers he called and checked the airlines. You were on Braniff out of New York, and you stayed at a Pôrto Alegre Hotel in Rio.»
The amateur could not match the professional. «Sam said you called a couple of times.»
«Sure did,» agreed Miles. «You left Rio and we wanted to find out where you went; we knew he’d get in touch with you. Didn’t you get my message at the hotel in London?»
«No.»
«I’ll take your word. Messages get lost.»
But that message had not been lost, thought Noel. It had been stolen by the men of Wolfsschanze. «I know where I stand now. Get to the point.»
«You don’t quite know,» Miles replied. «We talked to the embassy in Rio, to a man named Anderson. He said you told him quite a story. How you were trapped, chased, shot at. He said he didn’t believe a word of it; considered you a troublemaker and was glad to get you out of Brazil.»