I reached my building, locked the vestibule door, made it up the stairs to my five hot but secure rooms. In the room I waited. They didn’t come up. It was my territory.
Shaking, I got to my bathroom. The mirror showed me cuts, blood and bruises. My ribs stabbed. My arm was limp, ached. I washed, daubed Merthiolate. My left eye was blackening, but I didn’t think anything was broken. I sat down in my shabby living room in the hot night, lit a cigarette.
I hadn’t recognized any of them, but I didn’t have to. Street kids, they could have been sent by only one person-Charlie Burgos. A favor for Charlie, or maybe orders. Charlie himself hadn’t been there, he was a leader.’ Besides, I would have recognized him. They had wanted at least to put me into the hospital. Why?
Eugene Marais’s murder? Sure. But I wasn’t really involved in that, was I? Another mistake like Li Marais hiring me to stop Gerd Exner? Or was Charlie Burgos showing off his power for Danielle Marais? I had bothered Danielle.
Maybe. Maybe this, and maybe that, and to hell with it. I hurt, I hadn’t slept much last night, and I didn’t give a damn about Charlie Burgos.
I went to bed.
To hell with Marty.
I went to sleep wondering what Charlie Burgos thought I was doing that I wasn’t. To hell with it. But my mind wouldn’t quit. The human problem-that damned mind of ours.
I awoke to the telephone ringing. It was my answering service. A Viviane Marais had called me about five last night. She wanted to see me.
5
Eugene Marais had lived in Brooklyn, out in Sheepshead Bay.
New York is a city of “villages,” a series of neighborhoods each with its local life and natives. In these villages there are some who are important to the natives, but who are never really natives themselves-the white shopkeepers of Harlem who live in Queens; the black police captains who rule Bedford-Stuyvesant, but live in New Rochelle. Eugene Marais had been a fixture in Chelsea, but he had lived in Sheepshead Bay.
I took the subway. It was a trip into the past. When I was a boy in Chelsea, Sheepshead Bay was where we had gone fishing. An outing, an adventure; the clean air and the sea. Before I lost my arm and wandered far from Chelsea. Still, I remembered, and the smells of fish and sea came to greet me when I left the subway in the hot sun. But the Bay wasn’t the same anymore.
When I was a boy it had been a fishing village-wooden piers, shops and restaurants on pilings over the water, Italian trawlers tied up drying their nets, hordes of gulls wheeling over the fish refuse dropped into the Bay. Now it was just another part of the city, the Belt Parkway knifing through it. Mayor LaGuardia had started the change; banning the trawlers, making the piers concrete, closing the shops over the water, cleaning it all up. A loss, a tragedy, yet the mayor could do nothing else. The city had been growing too fast. A small population can live casually with nature, its pollution swallowed up. A large one can’t. Too many people must regulate how they live with nature, or destroy nature and themselves. So a fishing village was lost.
But not quite. I found Eugene Marais’s house in a quiet old section not far from the water. Narrow old frame houses with porches and high attic windows. Trees and grape arbors. Out of time-as Eugene Marais himself had been, in a way. I went through the small yard of lawn and hydrangea bushes to the front door. Viviane Marais let me in herself.
She was a small, dark woman of fifty, with an energetic walk as she led me into an old-fashioned living room of delicate furniture, china bric-a-brac, and lace-very French. There was nothing old-fashioned about Viviane Marais. She wore a chic black sheath on a full yet firm figure that could handle it. She wore no jewelry, her fine features and erect carriage needing no adornment. Her eyes were dark and quick as she gave me a chair.
“Eugene spoke of you, Mr. Fortune. He liked you. Now I think I want to hire you.”
“I liked him,” I said.
She didn’t sit. She lit a cigarette, French and masculine.
“Do you believe it was robbery, Mr. Fortune?”
“I’m not sure. Yes and no.”
“I am sure, and it is no.”
Small and determined, she began to pace with a dynamism Eugene Marais had lacked. A quiet, slowish man, and a fiery, energetic wife. Complementary? A good marriage?
“First,” she said, smoked, “I think something had disturbed Eugene lately. I am not sure, he was not a man to trouble me with his worries, but I feel it now. Second, Eugene would not have resisted a thief. Money was not so important to him.”
“He was hit from behind,” I said.
She ignored that. “Too little was stolen, almost nothing of real value. Some cheap rings, some watches, useless objects. I have the police list.”
She gave me the list. I read it. She was right-nothing but a seemingly random grab bag of cheap items, bric-a-brac.
She paced. “In a way, the shop was a charity. Eugene’s idea of how to help small people. He said a pawn shop could help those no one else would-the drunkards, phonies, gamblers; the desperate and the forgotten.”
She looked at me. “We have family money. The shop had to make us only a small income. Our needs were few: this house, food, an occasional night out. We have only Danielle.”
She thought. “Eugene wanted no more children in this world. He said we could help those who were here, not bring more to suffer. He had little faith in values. From the past.”
“What about the past?” I said. “A killer? A motive?”
“I can think of nothing,” she said, paced. “Eugene never acted to hurt anyone. He never fought, had no politics. He did nothing much in this world, Mr. Fortune. A quiet man.”
“A man who has done nothing to anyone,” I said. “Eugene said that to me the night he was killed. Claude said something like it-no enemies, no comrades. Now you say just about the same. Coincidence, Mrs. Marais?”
For a time she was silent. Then she sat down facing me. She lit another cigarette. “Perhaps not. The words seem to be in my mind. I was thinking why that would be. It was Eugene, something he said. A small remark. While reading his newspaper one night, I think, perhaps a week ago. I took little notice, a husband and wife of thirty years, you know? But now?”
“What did he say?”
“That a man can spend his life doing nothing and harming no one, neither monster nor hero, and still there will be reasons for some to want him gone, nonexistent.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, so the thought is in my mind. Perhaps he said much the same to Claude. In all our minds.”
“You don’t know what he might have meant?”
“No.”
“Nothing special happened recently? Anything unusual?”
“Not that I know.” She blew smoke in the room. “We lived a routine life, Mr. Fortune. Here at home. We read, walk, talk, make love. A quiet life, very good. Our only outside life is my church work and Eugene’s Balzac Union-a French cultural club in New York he attended quite often at lunch, sometimes in the evening. Perhaps we lived so because we began in such chaos. The war, the Occupation, the Liberation. We were married in 1942 under German guns, German sneers, their arrogant eyes and boots everywhere. Eugene’s older brother died in the war, my brother vanished in the Occupation, a gendarme cousin was killed by the Maquis, my parents died under your bombs in the Liberation. Chaos and destruction. Is it a wonder we wanted only private quiet?”
I said, “Eugene hadn’t seen his brother in a long time, had he? When did Claude come to New York?”
“A few months ago. You can’t think that Claude-!”
“What do you know about him? His life since Algeria? He’s a closed-up, detached man. He says he worked in remote places where he needed a gun. He’s got some peculiar friends. I heard Eugene say he was a drifter, a bad influence.”