“On Danielle, we thought. But I doubt that anyone can be a worse influence on Danielle than her present friends,” Viviane Marais said. “I am not sure exactly what Claude has done since he left the French army. A mercenary soldier, a pilot, a trader and guard for other traders. What else does he know to do? He was a bitter boy against we who lost to the Germans. He had to defend the honor and glory of France. Eugene had not a high opinion of the honor and glory of France, or of any nation or people. They argued in the old days, saw little of each other over the years. A few months ago Claude appeared here with his wife, moved into that hotel, has done very little since.”
“Waiting?” I said. “For someone or something?”
“I do not know. Eugene talked little about Claude.”
“All right,” I said. “You said Danielle was under a bad influence already. You mean Charlie Burgos?”
“You know about that young animal? What does she see in that one? What will he ever be? So arrogant, and so empty!”
“You and Eugene opposed her seeing Charlie Burgos?”
She threw up her hands. “We hated him, but what can a parent do? To forbid her would be a red flag, yes? We said what we thought, but we did not stop her. She will have to learn.”
“Could Charlie Burgos have tried to rob the shop?”
“I would believe it, but I think not. He would have known Eugene was there. He would have picked a better time, I think.”
“How would Charlie have known Eugene was at the shop?”
“Danielle knew Eugene was staying late.”
I nodded. I didn’t think Charlie Burgos would have tried.
“What do you know about Jimmy Sung?”
“A sad, lonely man who drinks. But Eugene said he worked very hard, very well.”
“Did Eugene play chess with Jimmy Sung?”
“Often. It pleased Eugene very much that Jimmy could play chess. He said Jimmy was good, had learned in some hospital.”
“Did he mention playing with Jimmy that night?”
“No. He said nothing about Jimmy.”
I shook my head now. “I don’t really like the robbery idea, Mrs. Marais, but what else is there? The police have to have at least a hint of some other possible motive.”
“Is the fact that Eugene was at the shop that night to meet someone enough hint, Mr. Fortune?”
“Meet? Who?”
“He did not say who, only that he would be home late because he had to meet someone. He called about six to tell me, and called me again at eleven to say the person had not come. He would wait another hour. That was the last time we spoke.”
She sat silent, hearing her husband’s last call again.
“Claude?” I said.
“Perhaps. He had seen Claude, expected Claude to return. But I had the impression it was someone else he waited for.”
“I met a man at the shop,” I said, and described the tall, military type I had bumped into at the shop. “His name could be Paul Manet. Eugene mentioned that name.”
“Manet? There was a Paul Manet years ago in Paris, a hero in the Resistance. Eugene knew the family. I did not. If he is in New York, Eugene did not mention it.”
“Was Eugene in the Resistance?”
“No, nor did he collaborate. We were small people, we went on living as best we could, as did most.”
“How about a Gerd Exner?” I described the scarred German “associate” of Claude Marais.
“I do not know him.”
I thought it out. “One more thing. Did Danielle know you were calling me last night, planned to hire me?”
“Yes. She did not approve.”
It explained the attack on me in the alley. Charlie Burgos didn’t approve of Viviane Marais hiring me, either. Charlie wanted me safely out of action in some hospital.
“Death did not frighten Eugene,” Viviane Marais said after a moment. “He said he desired to live long only for me, for us. I do not hate that he is dead, it must happen to all, but I do not believe this robbery. I do not want him to be dead for nothing. Some reason, Mr. Fortune, real or imagined. Not the mindless fiat of a mindless world.”
I heard the echo of Marty. Chance was not enough. There must be shape, reason, some conscious direction to life.
“I want you to find that reason,” Viviane Marais said. “I have here a hundred dollars. You will bill me for more.”
She was a middle-class French housewife, and no one is more practical. I took the money, asked the address of the Balzac Union, and left.
I had a job, and I was beginning to want to know more about the death of Eugene Marais myself. The chaser of theories and puzzles. Maybe Marty was right about me.
6
The Balzac Union was in a brownstone on East Seventeenth Street. A small, quiet lobby with a bust of Napoleon and a portrait of De Gaulle. An old man in some uniform with medals stood behind the desk. There was a bar to the right, a large reading room ahead where affluent-looking men read, played cards, or talked. The events board listed a lot of lectures and discussions.
The director, a tall older man named M. De Lange, met me in his second floor office. His rimless glasses reflected the midday sun through his window, but the office was cool-air-conditioned and pleasant.
“A nice club,” I said, as I sat down facing his desk.
“Thank you, Mr. Fortune.” His slight accent was English rather than French. “A social club, no politics. The culture of France, and we keep the older people in touch, try to help new arrivals if we can. Kinship and company, shall we say.”
“Everyone likes a home,” I said.
“If you like,” M. De Lange said, his eyes smaller behind the rimless glasses. “But what is it I can do for you?”
“Tell me what you know about Eugene Marais.”
He swiveled. “You are a policeman?”
“Private. Mrs. Marais hired me.”
“I see.” His face became grave. “Very sad. Eugene Marais was not our most active member, although he came often. Not a gregarious man, rather aloof, a watcher of others.”
“He wasn’t liked much?”
M. De Lange considered. “He was withdrawn, cynical toward our love of things French, a critic of history.” The director smiled. “That is not unusual, we French are not a compliant, docile people. Still, many wondered why Eugene joined us.”
“Why did he?”
“I suspect to provide an opposition, to prick our bubbles. Eugene admired Balzac, lost no opportunity to remind us that our hero had been a cynic and critic himself. A gadfly, in a way. Most of us associate outside the club, Eugene never did. I don’t think he ever invited one of us to his home, for example.”
“Any idea why?”
The director removed his rimless glasses, polished them. “He was a psychological hermit, I think. Some past trauma.”
“The war? The Occupation? That far back, maybe?”
“Perhaps, but he wasn’t a man who talked about himself. So little, one had the feeling he had never done anything at all.”
There it was again. As if Eugene Marais somehow made everyone know he had been a man who had done nothing. As if that was important in his mind.
“Is there a Paul Manet in your club, M. De Lange?”
The director almost beamed now. “Indeed. A new member, but not new to us by reputation. How do you know Paul Manet?”
“Eugene Marais mentioned him.”
“So? I am surprised. Then, it was the brother who brought Manet to us from San Francisco. They knew each other there.”
“Who is Manet that you knew him by reputation?”
“A hero of the Occupation, one who saved many people from the Germans. His name is well known to Frenchmen of that time, as most of us here are.”
“What does he do now?”
“A representative of French businesses abroad. A journalist, too, I believe. An imposing man, and a welcome addition here.”
“You said he knows Claude Marais. Is Claude a member?”
“No.” The director’s face clamped shut. He put his glasses back on. “Claude Marais served France well, a hero also, but he is a bitter man turned against all he once fought for. We asked him to join us, of course, but he sneered at us, cursed France to our faces. A misanthrope, unpleasant. Perhaps he has suffered much, is disillusioned, but other men have suffered in defeat and not turned against their country.”