I shook my head. "I guessed. I knew about the barge. I was there with him yesterday, just before he called you."
He nodded, as if this explained something to him. "They didn't know, you see. But I didn't understand that soon enough. I told them we were going to meet tonight, in Meaux, at the end of the canal."
"The Marne, you mean?"
"Yes. But between Chalifert and Meaux, it's a canal."
"But that's something else you were trying to keep from them?"
"Yes. We really intended to meet at the end of this road. There's a place where you can tie up, and I could leave the car. Paul left early — he could get to Meaux in one day — but he didn't want to be in a city, where it would be simple to find him."
Two lies, two bits of information held back — the boy had far more guts than Hamilton deserved. I said, "Do you think they believed you?"
"I'm not sure. I thought they'd go toward Meaux… to wait… but by the sounds of their car… I don't know. It's possible they turned back to Paris."
Which made sense. They wouldn't want to wait. They'd drive back, staying on the highway, cutting down to the water every few kilometers on the side road. Eventually, they were bound to run into him. I wondered if he was dead already, but I said, "All right, Alain, where do you think he is now? How far could he have come?"
"A long way. He must be close to here now… I'm not sure. Already he's been sailing for hours."
"And when did they leave you? The men… the man with red hair?"
He shrugged. "Half an hour… even forty minutes, perhaps."
A good start; probably time enough to find him if he was close. And Subotin had a car. On the other hand, they might overshoot their mark — underestimating his progress, they could have passed him, gone too far back toward Paris. Or perhaps they'd taken the easy way out and waited at Meaux… though I doubted it.
"We must warn him."
I nodded. "Yes, but I'm going to do that. You've done enough. In fact, you've got to get the hell out of here." I shoved the money toward him, and when he tried to protest, shut him up with a wave of my hand. "This is dangerous, very dangerous, and you're in no shape for it now. Just listen to me. Go back to your car. There's a bicycle there. Ride it back to the place where you had lunch, then call a garage and get them to fix the red Renault in the parking lot — here are the keys. Take the car back to Paris. Take it to Hertz and leave it there, and then get on a plane — just listen to me — get on a plane and go anywhere outside of France. At least for a couple of weeks."
He looked down at my hand. I'd pushed the money into his, and he was holding it, but he didn't reach for the key. He was dripping more blood, but he didn't bother to wipe it. He said, "What is happening?… What is Paul doing? Who is he really, and what do these men want from him?"
I hesitated, gave a shrug. "I'm sorry. That's something you'll have to ask him."
"Why?" he said. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Because there's no time. Because it's not my story to tell " " ¦ and if you knew what it was, maybe you wouldn't want me to tell it."
His head lifted a little; I saw a flicker of feeling behind his brown eyes… suspicion… resentment. His ego was coming back to him, and this was the form that it took. It assumed hostility; searched for someone to blame. He reached out, plucking the keys from my hands. His voice was sullen. "If I do what you want," he said, "how will Paul know where I am?"
I hesitated. "You're sure you want him to know?"
It was something 1 couldn't help asking, but it brought a small, defiant smile to his lips. "You're not a friend of Paul's, are you? That was a lie."
"Maybe… you could say he was more a friend of my father's."
The smile changed; he was taking satisfaction from catching me out, in confirming old expectations. "I know what you think of me," he said. "Don't think I don't."
"Don't be too sure of that." j
"You think I'm a fool. You think I'm a dirty little queer. But maybe, you know — about some things — you should mind your own business."
I said nothing.
His hands tightened over the keys. "I will do what you say, my friend, but make sure you tell Paul… tell Paul I will write him in a week at my uncle's."
I nodded. He gave me a last, angry look. Then, turning away, he climbed out of that hollow. It wasn't very deep, but he was still wobbly and he had to stop at the top. It was a weakness he didn't like to admit, and he brushed at his jacket, as if this was the real reason he'd halted, and then lifted up each foot and swept the wet leaves from his boots. When he was finished, he seemed about to turn back and say something more; but he didn't. Straightening his shoulders, he walked off toward the road.
I waited, letting him go.
The wind stirred, sifting down a little more rain from the trees. But I could not have been wetter. Even pinched between my fingernails, every cigarette turned into a sodden mess after three puffs, and I flung this one away. I listened. In the distance, the trunk of the Dodge slammed shut. Alain: probably changing his clothes. That would help restore his dignity, but wouldn't change the fact that the horrors and humiliations he'd suffered meant nothing. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that Hamilton was dead. Worse, Alain's courage, rather than protecting his friend, had only made his death inevitable: with the importance of the envelope established, Subotin's pursuit would be nothing short of relentless.
Still, I had to try and warn him. For myself, for the boy, and even a little for Hamilton himself. So I walked down to the Marne. Alain had been right: at this point the river was really a canal, a trench about thirty feet wide. And I could even see the spot he'd been talking about, where he was due to meet up with the barge: huge iron rings, all rusted, had been driven into the trunks of two massive oaks, making a place to tie up at. But no one was there, and there was nothing to do but slog along the towpath beside the canal. I had no clear idea where I was: west of Meaux, north of Villiers, was the best I could do. To my left, as I started out, there were fields and small farms, and to my right — quick glimmers through the screen of trees — I realized that the Marne itself was flowing, so that the houses I saw in that direction were actually on its farther bank. Finally, after a couple of soggy kilometers, I hit a built-up area, with roads, and then the canal turned into an aqueduct, crossing a valley, before entering Esbly. There I waited, watching a man on a railway bridge; but it wasn't Subotin and so I kept on — exhausted now, soaked to the skin — until I'd reached the other side of Coupvray. Then! saw it: even before I could read the fancy gold letters that spelled out La Trompette, the gloss of the hull gave it away. The canal curved here, through some trees, with the fields of a small, muddy farm just ahead. This curve must have created a current; the barge was tied up at the bow to an iron picket driven into the bank, but its stern had tugged out a bit into the channel. I edged closer; but then I told myself that Hamilton wasn't worth taking any kind of a risk for, and ducked off the path and watched the boat from behind a thick hedge of lilac. Five minutes passed. On the barge, everything seemed quiet, peaceful, quite normal. Her black hull, slick with rain, gleamed like plastic, and the pristine, varnished superstructure almost made the vessel look like a toy. I was about to step forward — but then I peered intently ahead as the rope from the barge to the bank suddenly tensed and a figure stepped from the wheelhouse onto the deck.
It was a woman, a navy blue rain cape over her shoulders, a kerchief tied on her head.
She looked away from me, down the canal, but then turned her head so I could see her in profile. I couldn't believe it— she looked just like May.