Anita, having established her mood of unease since entering the car, decided the sight-seeing had been sufficient. She turned to Sanchez, her nervousness apparent.
“Now, what did you want to tell me about yesterday?”
“All in good time,” Sanchez said and shrugged lightly. He reached over casually and took her purse before she could clutch it. “May I?” His eyes went to the driver’s back warningly, and Anita subsided. Sanchez opened the purse, riffled through its contents quickly, and closed it, handing it back. “You’ll have to pardon me, but I would not want a” — he looked at the driver’s back again and, instead of speaking, made a revolver of his thumb and forefinger, flexing the thumb — “pointing at me when I least expect it.”
“I never carry—” Anita dropped the subject as being time-consuming and without purpose. “What about yesterday?”
“As I said, all in good time.” Sanchez glanced from the window of the cab in leisurely fashion and then looked back at the girl. She was quite upset, he was pleased to see, even though she managed to hide it rather well. Still, there was no doubt. It was a good sign, he felt. He smiled at her gently. “Where would you like to go?”
“Go?” She stared at him with a combination of stupidity and fear. Sanchez continued to smile. Why did men such as Huuygens always get themselves stupid girls? Just because they were beautiful? It scarcely seemed reason enough.
“Yes, go. You’re not being kidnapped, you know. You came of your own volition.” Sanchez kept his voice low, but his tone contained a note of humor, so that the driver, should he hear, would know it was all in fun. He spread his hands expressively, offering the world. “The Louvre? Or a sidewalk café? Merely someplace where we can speak together for a few minutes undisturbed.”
“The Louvre—”
“An excellent place to talk, actually,” Sanchez said. “The Cour Carrée, or the Pavilion de l’Horloge — marvelous for privacy, although I must admit they have an echo, even for whispers.” He suddenly grinned, showing his stained and crooked teeth. “And quite appropriate, the Louvre, when you think about it. All those nudes...”
“What do you mean?” The sudden tightening in the girl’s voice, the quick clutching of her fingers, clearly showed her growing panic. Sanchez cautioned himself not to rush things; panic in a taxi could be embarrassing.
“On the other hand,” Sanchez went on, quite as if Anita had not spoken, “possibly a bench in the park would be better. Fresh air.” He looked sideways at her, as if querying her opinion. “Or, better yet—” He smiled at the thought that had just come to him and leaned forward, giving new directions to the driver.
The cab obediently turned down the Avenue Alexandre III and pulled to the curb at the river, facing the bridge. Sanchez descended first and handed Anita down quite gallantly. She looked about with a frown as he paid the cab, almost as if the location were strange to her, and then felt his skeletal fingers on her arm. She walked beside him docilely, like an automaton; he hoped she would not collapse completely when they came to business. They came to a wide set of stone steps and descended. At the foot of the stairway a quai edged along the water’s edge, bifurcated by trees; stone benches provided resting places. The curve in the river hid the Ile de la Cité, but in the opposite direction the steel lacework of the Eiffel Tower shone against the deep blue of the sky. An artist was seated on a camp stool trying to capture its beauty; to Sanchez’s relief he glared at them for their intrusion, folded his stool and easel, and tramped away, muttering. Sanchez led their way a bit along the quay to a bench that promised privacy and made a slight bow, indicating the stone seat.
“Madame...”
Anita sat down abruptly, clutching her purse tightly. The hard, slightly damp surface of the bench seemed to fit into the nightmare quality of the scene as she envisioned it. She turned to Sanchez, fighting for composure, trying to appear assured, ready for whatever terrible revelation he might produce.
“Señor... you promised, you said... about yesterday...”
“Ah, yes; yesterday.”
Sanchez prayed the girl would hold out through the entire affair. It was evident he would have to choose his words with care or he was apt to have a hysterical woman on his hands. Could Rosa have used too much of the drug? Well, it was a little late to worry about that. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and brought forth an envelope, but instead of handing it over, he merely tapped it idly against the knuckles of his other hand. His eyes were fathomless.
“What I need, of course, is help,” he said quietly. They might have been discussing the requirements of a cocktail party or an investment on the bourse. For a moment Sanchez wondered if perhaps he was going about it a bit too carefully; the girl looked at him with complete blankness in her lovely eyes. He decided to plow on along that course for a while longer, at least. “Your help,” he added quietly.
The girl drew in her breath. “My help? But I thought you were going to give me your help...” She looked at him piteously. “Please don’t play with me, señor. About yesterday—”
Sanchez came to the conclusion that he was somehow handling the thing wrongly and with time he would probably end up making a complete hash of the matter. In which case, he thought, he could imagine Duarte’s reaction. He would just have to take his chances on the girl going to pieces. He took a different tack, holding out the envelope in one thrust.
“Perhaps madame would care to see these.”
It was a statement, not a question. Sanchez watched the girl with narrowed eyes as she reached out with unsteady hands and took the packet from him. She opened the envelope and brought forth the photographs; Sanchez heard her catch her breath, saw her shocked expression. She looked sick a moment; he could imagine the thoughts fighting each other in her horrified mind, imagine her disgust and shame at the poses she was viewing. Sanchez answered the unspoken thought in a dry voice, like a professor expounding to a class.
“Much more effective,” he assured her, pleased that she had not screamed or fainted. “And if you are worried about it, madame, nothing happened that is not in the pictures. It was a temptation, I admit, but one which I managed to control.” He looked over her shoulder at the pictures; Anita blushed and tried to place her hand over them protectively. When this failed she turned them over on her lap with unsteady fingers, staring away from him, refusing to face the leer that had appeared. “They came out well, don’t you think?”
“You’re — unspeakable—”
“A simple matter of necessity, madame.”
“Necessity!” Anita swallowed. She was pale but, Sanchez was glad to see, under control. She faced him with contempt. “That is not me in those pictures. Not me. What I do not participate in consciously and willingly has no effect on me.”