He cast another long look at the portrait of his same named ancestor, and laughed at the thought that there could be any comparison between the Grand Master and what the Order he had led in battle had become.
“Names stay the same; their meaning changes. It was always a struggle between Christianity and the truth, the need to take care of things here on earth. The Order of St. John, the Knights of Malta, did not take an oath to turn the other cheek, to forswear violence; they swore to conquer for the church or die. But then, later, the church went through another one of its frequent periods of insanity and became Christian again. Instead of fighting for what it believed, it taught, as someone once put it, that it was ‘evil to speak evil of evil.’ Those people yesterday, part of some secret society? Impossible!”
“Then why do you go there every year, why go speak about the past? Is it just to raise money for that school of you mentioned, the one named after the Order?”
A shrewd smile stole across Jean Valette’s face.
“You don’t have to ask me that question. You already know the answer.”
“You don’t need their money; you need their approval, their consent. Some of them send their children there,” said Hart, certain he was right.
“As I say, the names of things stay the same, and sometimes-not often, but once in a while-the meaning that has changed can change again. Perhaps one day there will be a new Order of St. John like the old one, and another Grand Master. To most of us, the future remains impenetrable.”
They continued their brief journey through the portrait gallery and the chronology of Jean Valette, the time it had taken to pass through all the generations that had ended, finally, with him. When they reached the end of the facing wall, they were back to where they had begun.
“There,” he said, “one last, vacant place; room, should anyone ever want it, for a portrait of me.” He stared at that blank space on the wall like someone staring into a grave. “There won’t be anyone after me. I am the last.”
Immediately, a look of contempt shot through his eyes. He disliked pity in any form; he hated it for himself.
“There is another picture, or rather I should say, pictures, that I think you might want to see,” his eyes again bright and eager. “You may have noticed-you did notice-that all those portraits are of the male descendants in my line. There are no women, and women in my family have been very important.”
“You mean the four sisters who raised your father and ran the bank?”
“You are very well informed, Mr. Hart. Though I must say, I am not surprised. Yes, they raised my father and made us rich, turned a small banking establishment into a center of international commerce. They started with certain advantages. They were all four of them quite brilliant, but two of them were quite beautiful and became the willing mistresses of more than a few wealthy men and their money. Come with me and judge for yourself.”
Hart was led down a wide marble floored corridor, past several large rooms, to a pair of double doors at the end. They opened onto a room with windows facing west. Hart looked around, but there were no pictures on the walls. Jean Valette said nothing for a moment, and then raised his eyes to a domed ceiling where, from each of four quadrants, the faces of his father’s four aunts looked down with painted elegance and grace. They must have been in middle age, or even older, when the decision was made to make this, as Jean Valette explained, the Hall of the Four Sisters, but the artist had captured them forever in the bloom of youth. Far from exaggerating, it had been something of an understatement to say that two of them had been quite beautiful. One of them seemed to Hart to bear an uncanny resemblance to his own wife, Laura. His host noticed how it had drawn Hart’s particular attention.
“I was not sure until I saw your reaction, but I was struck by that, too: the resemblance to your wife. I’m certain, however,” he said quietly, “that the resemblance ends there. My great aunt, as I suggested, was not the kind of woman any husband could trust.” He checked his watch and frowned. “It’s later than I thought. But I wanted you to see this room. We’ll meet here again this afternoon, shortly after lunch, you and I and our other guest.”
“What does this have to do with me? Who is this person and why have you brought him here? I can’t sit around waiting for something to happen. I’ve lost enough time as it is.”
“Patience, Mr. Hart. You’ll understand everything soon. I agree with you, by the way, that there isn’t any time to lose, but I’m afraid we don’t for the moment have much choice. We can’t do anything without the inspector.”
“Dumont, the chief inspector, is coming here? But why? I told him everything I know. You said yesterday he wanted to arrest me. Is that why he’s coming-to take me back to Paris and turn me over to the people who want to kill me?”
Jean Valette had already started walking to the door.
“As I said, we’ll meet here again this afternoon. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There are a thousand things I need to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Hart was summoned back to the Hall of the Four Sisters that afternoon, Jean Valette was sitting at a long table, directly across from Marcel Dumont. Valette had changed out of the flamboyant costume he had been wearing earlier in the day into a dark business suit. Like his clothing, his mood was decidedly more subdued.
“This goes too far,” protested the inspector, shaking his head in disagreement. “If I had known you were going to do this…”
Seeing Hart in the doorway, he stopped in mid-sentence, got up, and walked to the window. He stood there, deciding what to do about a situation that was getting out of hand. Tall and overweight, on the downside of middle age, and with all the cautious instincts of the policeman, he had still the confidence of the boxer he had been in his youth. He might get beaten, but he would never be intimidated, not even by the famous and formidable Jean Valette.
“First you make me an accomplice in hiding an international fugitive! Now you want to make me party to a kidnapping! Incredible!” Holding his hands behind his back, he began to pace, and with each step his face became more animated until, finally, a broad smile broke hard and clean across his face. “Yes, well, why not? I’ve gone this far against my better judgment; might as well see just how big a fool I really am!” Waving his hand in the air, a signal that he had given up, he came back to the table and took his chair. “Let’s meet this other American of yours.”
Jean Valette picked up a telephone and issued instructions. A few minutes later, two men brought in the person Hart had seen from his window. His hands were now free, but his eyes were still covered. He was put in a chair across from the inspector and then the two men left.
“Can I take this off?” he asked, running his right hand along the blindfold.
“Yes, of course,” replied Jean Valette. “And I am sorry that you were subjected to this indignity. It was necessary to take certain precautions, Mr. Carlyle.”
“Like grabbing me off the street in Manhattan?” he said with rising anger as he removed the blindfold. He looked at Jean Valette, sitting next to him, and then shot a glance at Marcel Dumont. “Who the hell-?” But then he saw Hart, and his mouth dropped open. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “What are you-? Where are we, anyway?”