“It seems like the man,” she whispered, “but it isn’t. The horse is a ventriloquist.”
Grofield looked at her in amazement. A complete transformation had taken place. She was suddenly pleasant, cheerful, absolutely friendly.
He supposed it was the open air, the riding together in this touristy conveyance, the shared notion that the statistically mumbling driver was funny. But the change was so radical he was having trouble believing it. He nearly made a comment on it, but held back, afraid that to point at the new personality might shatter it. He was in no hurry to see Miss Hyde again.
They found more things to talk about, whispering together under the murmur of the driver, talking about the horse and driver, the things he was saying, the signs and buildings they passed. Nothing other than that, nothing about the situation they were in, or the world around them, or themselves, or the hotel, or anything at all that wasn’t prompted by specific things from the here and now. It was a slightly nervous feeling, skating along so totally on the surface like that, but she maintained it very well and he was always at his best when he had another good actor to work with, so while the horse clop-thumped pessimistically up Rue Sainte Anne, Grofield found himself ad-libbing a scene that might have been titled The Blind Date That Worked Out.
Meantime, they had turned left on Rue Dauphine. On their left, the driver grumbled at them, stood the Quebec Literary and Historical Society, in a building that was originally the Quebec jail. Public executions were once held in the courtyard behind the building, and in the basement tourists who got their kicks that way could still see the old cells.
A little past that they left the walled city, their driver informing them through his scarf that they were going through Kent Gate, built in 1879 by Queen Victoria in memory of her father. And after that, at last, he was quiet for a while.
This seemed to be a residential section, just beyond the wall, and even darker than the streets inside. Grofield began to get nervous again, and forgot about maintaining his part of the improvisation, which as a result faltered, and they rode in silence a little while, till they passed the Parliament, all lit up by floodlights on the lawn. In the reflected glow, Grofield saw the girl studying him, and when he looked at her she laughed and said, “You really are afraid.”
“Laugh at me later,” Grofield said. “When nothing has happened.”
“I will.”
Ahead was Grande Allée, a major street, well-illuminated and with a traffic light, which was going to be against them. The girl leaned close and whispered to Grofield, “We are going to see a friend and be happy to see him and invite him to ride with us. You tell the driver it’s all right.”
Grofield nodded.
The intersection was getting close, and the light was still red. The driver grumbled at his horse, which immediately stopped.
The girl suddenly cried, “Ronald!” and half stood and waved an arm. “Look, dear,” she said loudly to Grofield. “It’s Ronald.”
Grofield looked, and a man was coming this way across the sidewalk. He was tall and slender, but the light was behind him and Grofield couldn’t see his face.
The girl was saying things about isn’t-this-lucky, making a lot of happy noises. Grofield kept silent and watched, and when the man reached the side of the cab it was Onum Marba, on his face the small secret smile Grofield remembered from their last encounter, a year ago down in Puerto Rico. “How nice to see you both,” he said, the tone straight but his expression ironic.
“You must come with us,” the girl said. “We’re going to see the Plains of Abraham.” She jabbed a bony fist into Grofield’s side.
“Uh,” Grofield said. “Yeah, that’s right. Come on, Ronald, come for a ride with us.”
“If you’re sure it’s all right... ”
“Of course it’s all right,” Grofield said. “Come on, the light’s green.”
“Thank you very much,” Marba said. “I’d be delighted.”
He climbed up into the cab, settling in the seat facing Grofield and the girl, the driver up behind his head. The driver had been half twisted in the seat, watching without much interest, and now Grofield said to him, “Okay, we’re set.”
The driver grunted, and faced front. He mumbled at his horse, and the animal plodded slowly across Grande Allée and entered the park called the Plains of Abraham.
Marba leaned forward, his face now indistinct again in the general darkness. His skin was not as dark as the girl’s, it was more brown, but at the moment the effect was the same. He said, “You turn up in odd places, Mr. Grofield.”
“We both do, Mr. Marba.”
“I’m vacationing here,” Marba said. “Are you vacationing?”
“Not exactly. I was shanghaied by some American espionage organization — not the CIA, some other outfit, they won’t tell me what — and they sent me here to spy on you.”
Marba showed humorous surprise, being surprised because it was expected of him but not working very hard to make Grofield believe it. “Spy on me? Why on earth would anyone from the United States government want you to spy on me?”
“Because we used to know each other. The idea being I should work my way into your confidence, find out what’s going on, and then report.”
“I hope they aren’t wasting too much money on you,” Marba said. “I am only here on vacation.”
“Colonel Rahgos too?”
Marba smiled and said, “My President is not in Quebec.”
“Not under his own name,” Grofield said. “Neither are you. Neither is General Pozos. There are head men here from seven countries, three in Africa, two in South America, one in Central America and one in Asia, and they’re all here under phony names. There may be people here from other countries, too. The kind of country these espionage people call the Third World.”
Marba seemed to consider. Up front, the driver was mumbling away again about the historic battle between Wolfe and Montcalm, and it was beneath his patter that Grofield and Marba were having their conversation. Marba thought things over for half a minute or so, while the driver reported that both Wolfe and Montcalm were killed in the battle, and then he leaned close to Grofield again and said, “Setting aside for just a moment the ridiculousness of your implications — why would my President hold secret negotiations with leaders from South America, for instance? — but setting that aside, and taking it for granted you are telling me the truth insofar as you know it, why are you betraying your own people?”
“I’m not betraying anybody,” Grofield said. “I was forced into this, it was come here or go to jail, and to tell you the truth I might have gone along with it and done what they wanted, if I could. But this afternoon I was kidnapped and drugged, and when I got back to my hotel room there was a murdered man in it, and the time has come for me to look out for Number One. My own people, as you call them, won’t tell me anything, and the only other people I know around here are you and General Pozos. Of the two, you were likelier to be sober. And sensible. So I came to you.”
“For assistance?”
“For information and advice. And assistance too, if I need it.”
Marba smiled in amused admiration. “I remember the last time I saw you in action,” he said, “how impressed I was by your ability to use truth as a weapon. You wouldn’t be doing the same thing again, would you?”
“All I’m trying to do is get myself off the hook,” Grofield said. “Same as last time.”
“You do tend to get yourself in trouble, don’t you? But I don’t understand why you’re being so open and truthful with me. Why not do what you were ordered to do, come to me as though innocent and see what you can learn?”