The House of Dreams (30 page)

 

THIRTY-EIGHT

M
ARSEILLE

1941

G
ABRIEL

There's something about the threat of imminent demise that can send the most godless man hurrying on his knees to church. Annie's always had her faith, and I've envied her, truth be told. All the years she's worn that same little gold cross she had when I met her—I guess her mother must have given it to her at her confirmation. We raised our kids to respect all faiths—Annie still lights a candle for her father and my mother on a Friday night and so on. If there's one damn thing I can't bear, it's intolerance and the stifling insistence that someone's right and the other guy isn't. The moment you're certain about something, the game is up.

Quimby and I had argued about religion one night at the Château d'Oc, and I'd said I was agnostic or words to that effect. I imagine Quimby found it amusing to make me meet him up at Notre-Dame de la Garde to hand over his hush money. Not that I minded. I'd rather have met him far away from where we might bump into anyone from Air-Bel, or Annie. Once I'd caught my breath, I liked it up there. The view across Marseille, and out to sea, you wouldn't believe. Everything looks better from a distance—lives, lovers, cities. You miss the grit and boredom of everyday living, just get to see the good bits.

It was cold up there, with the wind blowing around the hill, and I felt the chill of the stone through the seat of my pants as I sat on a wall looking out toward the Fort Saint-Jean and the big old lighthouse. It was peaceful, though, and somehow I forgot about my wet shoes and chilled feet, and I felt myself still. Maybe that's happened to you? It's like a glimpse behind the curtain, when the chatter and the nonsense falls away, and you hear yourself clear and true? Well, I held on to that moment, and I took my chance. I made myself a pact with that little gold Virgin up on top of the church.

I said to her:
I know I've done bad things, the worst. I know I've not been to church, or prayed for years, but if you save my Annie, I swear to you I will be a good man. I will put all of this behind me, and I will live a good life. I will do good work, and raise fine children, and I will leave this world a better place than I found it.

It wasn't much as prayers go, but I meant every word. I put my hand into my pocket and felt the smooth paper of the envelope holding my exit visas. Varian had told me that morning as he'd handed them to me that there was a flood of refugees leaving France now that they were authorizing visas again. He reckoned that the Gestapo had most of the refugees they wanted trapped and at their mercy.

I saw my own tormentor sashaying toward me along the path. “Gabriel,” Quimby said, tugging off his leather gloves. “Do you have it?” I slid a wad of notes toward him on the wall. “You're very quiet today.”

“What is there to say? You're blackmailing me.”

“No need to sulk.” He flipped through the notes. “You don't mind if I count it?” I caught a couple of rough-looking sailor types looking at him as they walked out of the church and hoped he might get mugged on the way back down the hill.

“Good, all there,” he said, slipping the money into his breast pocket. “Same time, same place next week?” He cocked his head. “Or perhaps you'll be gone then?” I said nothing. “I saw you going into the ARC this morning. I imagine you have your exit visas, as they seem to be handing them out like gobstoppers at the moment.”

“If it wasn't so tiresome, it would be flattering the way you follow me around.”

Quimby put his fists on the wall and leaned toward me. “I'm just protecting my investment, dear boy.” He licked his lips. “I don't know how you do it, day after day.”

“Do what?”

He moved closer, I could feel his stinking breath on my cheek, but I was determined not to recoil. “Aren't you consumed by guilt, when you see all those hopeful, desperate faces lined up outside the ARC?”

“Go to hell, Quimby.”

“I'll see you there first, Gabriel.” He pulled his gloves on. “Tell me something, did you do it? Did you kill them?”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Bright flashes of color and light swirled behind the lids as I thought of the fire, of the hand reaching through the grille on the door. I jumped down from the wall and squared up to him, my face close to his. “Why, are you afraid I might come after you next?”

“Not that it matters, either way. I don't care. You've done me a favor as long as I get my money.” He pursed his lips. “Do give my regards to that luscious little cutie you're dating. When are you going to tell her you're leaving? Time's running out.”

The thought of admitting the horrible truth to Annie made me feel sick. That morning, I had confirmed my passage on a boat heading via Martinique to New York. I just hoped, somehow, I could persuade Annie's parents to let her come with me. I hadn't enough cash to pay for another ticket, not with everything I had been giving Quimby. I hoped they would have the money. Papers were another thing entirely. There had to be a way to get her out of France safely. My own visas crinkled in my pocket like a guilty secret as I stood.

“Oh, and just in case you are thinking of skipping the country without saying good-bye, remember, I'll find you.” The sunlight flared on Quimby's spectacles as he turned away. “I think there might be a very good market in the U.S. for artworks by the illustrious Gabriel Lambert.”

“No, you wouldn't!”

“You can run to America if you wish, but you can't hide from me, Gabriel. Remember the photographs. I can destroy you any time I feel like it. I own you. I created you.” A smile curled across his pale lips. “And we have a great future ahead of us.”

 

THIRTY-NINE

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

M
ARY
J
AYNE

Mary Jayne shouldered open the heavy main door at Air-Bel, the wind rustling the heavy velvet drapes in the hall.

“Hello,” she called, “anyone home?” She looked up as the maid, Rose, crossed the hall from the dining room, carrying the remains of breakfast on a tray. “Where is everyone?”

“Good morning, mademoiselle.” She shifted the weight of the tray. “The Bretons have traveled to town together to try and secure their tickets.”

“And Monsieur Fry?” Rose nodded toward the drawing room, and Mary Jayne tossed her coat on the chair. Her heels clicked across the tiles as she followed the sound of men talking. “Hello, Danny,” she said. “What are you boys up to?”

Varian and a couple of the men looked up from the papers they were talking about but said nothing and turned their backs on her.
Typical of Varian to sulk,
she thought.

“It's…” Danny hesitated. “Things are rather difficult at the office. Miss Palmer has just upped and left for the States.”

“I'm not surprised. I ran into her and that chap Allen at the consulate. The woman looked like she'd keel over from a heart attack the first time someone said ‘boo.'”

Danny shouldered on his overcoat, and Varian picked up his homburg from the table. Danny scooped the papers into a file and tucked them into a canvas knapsack.

Well, I'm not going to talk to him if he's going to be that rude,
Mary Jayne thought, glaring at Varian as he swept by without acknowledging her.

Danny saw the expression on her face. “I'm sorry, it's a bad time. Allen is giving Varian hell, and Breitscheid and Hilferding are being as difficult as usual.”

“Those old sons ah bitches,” Mary Jayne said, imitating Charlie's elegant southern drawl. “What have they done now?”

“We sent a car to Arles to pick them up, at great expense, which would drive them safely to Lisbon. Can you believe it, they turned it down flat?”

“I can believe anything of them. They think they are untouchable.”

“Well, they are under house arrest now.”

“Danny!” Varian yelled from the hall.

“Are you okay?” Danny asked Mary Jayne.

“Me? I'm fine and dandy,” she lied.
As fine as a girl who has just found out her lover has stolen all her jewelry can be.
Mary Jayne chewed at her lip as she remembered returning to her hotel room to find the place had been turned upside down. When she challenged the concierge, he had described in perfect detail the man who had gone to her room.
How could he? How could Raymond betray me, after all I have done for him?
She had wept as she'd folded away her clothes and retrieved the empty jewelry boxes scattered around the room.
I'm not having it,
she had decided.
I'm going to find him, and I'm going to get every last jewel back.
She thought of her father, her grandmother, overcome with regret.
Varian was right, damn it, he was right all along. How could I be so stupid? Well, this is my own dumb fault for trusting him. Love? Killer doesn't know the meaning of the word.

 

FORTY

B
OULEVARD
G
ARIBALDI
, M
ARSEILLE

1941

V
ARIAN

Varian paced the office, waiting for Danny to return. “Were we followed?” he said as Danny appeared from the alleyway and locked the back door.

“No, I couldn't see anyone.”

“There have been people on our tail for weeks, ever since the
Sinaia
.” Varian ushered him into his office and locked the door. “Listen, I need to talk to you before the others arrive.” He picked up his telephone and listened, before replacing the handset and pulling the wire from the wall.

Danny leaned against the fireplace. “Now Beamish has gone, perhaps we will all have to do more. You can't do this by yourself, however much you love playing at espionage.”

“It's not a game, you're right,” Varian said. “But the truth is there's a hell of a lot of fun to be had in rescue work and you have to find it whenever you can, or we would all break down. Regular depression, ennui, has no place here, and I for one am glad of that.” He cleared his throat. “Even if our less official work is too much for some to handle.”

“You're talking about Miss Palmer, aren't you?” Danny said. “You get a kick out of riling people, don't you? Is that what happened? You scared her away?”

He held Danny's gaze. “What we are doing is a kind of miracle day after day.”

“One gets used to miracles. However they are being performed.”

Varian leaned on the desk. “This is what I need to talk to you about. As you may know, or suspect, we have been helping people with fake visas and passports.” Danny came and sat quietly by the desk as he talked. “There is more to the covert work that the ARC has been doing, and you're right, I need your help more than ever now that Beamish has gone.” He folded his arms. “For the time being we are just going to carry on regardless, and pretend Jay Allen doesn't exist. We receive income from many people, not just the committee in New York, and I can't in good conscience simply hand everything over.”

“Mary Jayne alone has given thousands,” Danny said, “and this office does work far beyond the remit from New York.” He paused. “Just tell me what we can do, boss.”

“It's dangerous work. Are you sure you want to be involved?” Varian sat back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. “Very well. I think the best, the safest, option is to divide the work that Beamish and I have been doing between a few of you.”

“That way if one of us is picked up, they won't be able to get all the information out of us?” The Adam's apple in Danny's throat jumped as he swallowed.

“Let's hope none of us will be picked up. If they do get one of us, then at least the others can carry on.” He paused. “We have three problems. How to get people out, how to get false papers, and how to get dollars from our patrons into France from the U.S.” He looked directly at Danny. “From now on, I want one of you to be in charge of land routes. He'll liaise directly with the guides at the border to get our clients out over the mountain and sea routes.” Varian leaned forward. “I'd like another of you to take care of the fake passports and documents. Bill Freier has been picked up, but we have found a new supplier, and Gussie will continue to courier them across the city for us.” He smiled, thinking of young Justus Rosenberg. “The boy has the face of an angel. No one would suspect him of running forged papers.”

“And what about me?”

“I'd like you to take over some of the most challenging work Beamish was doing. As you know, he had good contacts with some of the…”

“Shadier elements?”

“Precisely,” Varian said. “I want you to be in charge of laundering money.”

“Hold on a minute—”

“Listen, how else do you think we have been bankrolling all this? With the donations from the committee?” Varian laughed. “We've been moving money in and out of the country for the refugees via Corsican gangsters. It would be far too suspicious if the authorities knew of the huge sums we are clearing through the office. Camille, the receptionist at the consulate, introduced Beamish to some gangsters, who in turn introduced us to Charles Vinciléoni, who owns the restaurant Dorade. Beamish came up with a way to launder funds. When one of our clients headed for America needs to get out, they give us their francs. Instead of running it through the books, Beamish clears the funds through Vinciléoni. A fellow called Kourillo is in on the deal. He realized that this would be a good way for some of his associates to get their money out of the country, too. The middlemen take a commission, of course—”

“Even Beamish?”