Sanchez smiled sardonically. “As a philosophical concept, madame—”
“And I am not madame; I am mademoiselle.”
“As a philosophical concept, mademoiselle,” Sanchez said, in no whit disturbed by the interruption, “it is one I am forced to admire. As a practical approach, though, it has several weaknesses, especially in this particular case. You will note the pictures make you appear to be participating quite consciously. Even enjoying it, I might say. Actually,” he said a bit smugly, “the photography is rather good, if I say so myself. I mean, as far as the facial expressions are concerned; those eyes closed in passion, those fingers clutching, your mouth in one of them...” He grinned. “You are remarkably plastic, madame, if I—”
“Mademoiselle!”
“Ah, yes. Mademoiselle. In any event, as I say, your philosophy is admirable. Unfortunately,” Sanchez said, a twinkle in his eye, “do you honestly believe that M’sieu Huuygens would be philosophical about these pictures? Or would be so incredibly naïf as to believe you were unaware of what you were doing, when one can see so clearly the, ah, disclaimer of that on your face?”
Anita paled. She bit her lip and came to a decision. “All right. How much do you want?”
“Money? Mademoiselle, you insult me.”
She started in surprise; a wild hope appeared in her eyes. “But if you don’t want money—?”
Sanchez took his time answering. He had reached the proper point; the girl was terrified but not unmanageable, sickened but not demoralized. The right words would be needed here.
“I gather, mademoiselle, that you have a certain amount of influence with M’sieu Huuygens?”
Anita’s surprise and fear were neatly combined. “I... he likes me...”
“I am sure of it,” Sanchez said gallantly. “He would be an idiot if he did not. When I said I needed help, mademoiselle, I meant I needed help with M’sieu Huuygens.”
Anita blanched. It was evident the full purpose behind the kidnapping and the photographs was now being explained. “You mean you want me to... to influence Kek? To do what you came to ask him to do the other day?”
“Exactly.” Sanchez smiled at the quick intelligence, although he had to admit he had done everything but hire a skywriter to paint it in monstrous letters against the overhead blue. But at least she understood.
“But I couldn’t. Don’t you understand?” Anita appealed to him piteously. “Don’t you see? I never asked Kek for anything in my life; that’s the reason he likes me...”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him this one favor this one time,” Sanchez said sadly. “Otherwise the pictures go to M’sieu Huuygens.”
Anita moaned in her throat. She stared at him, her eyes wide, her expression one of extreme alarm, almost of terror. “Oh, no! No! You wouldn’t show them to Kek!”
“I honestly would prefer not to,” Sanchez said and meant it.
“But you can’t show them to Kek,” Anita wailed. “You mustn’t show them to Kek. He would—” She bit the words to silence; they had been too terrible to say.
“‘Can’t’ and ‘mustn’t’ are just words, I’m afraid,” Sanchez observed sadly. “One can and must what one must. At times it is unpleasant, I admit, but—”
“Please! You don’t know Kek! He... he would kill me...” Her eyes came up, brimming with tears. “I’ll pay—”
Sanchez raised a skinny hand abruptly. “Please. I want no money from you. All I want is for you to convince M’sieu Huuygens to help us on this one project. Which I am sure you can do, if you really try. After all,” he went on a bit querulously, sounding sincere for the first time, “what the devil difference does it make to him? Thirty thousand dollars and all expenses for a measly few days’ work! Is he so damn rich he can throw away money like that? And he turns it down for God knows what reason! A suitcase full of paper — or parchment, I mean!”
For the moment he had convinced himself that his precious suitcase actually did only contain paper — parchment, rather. He sighed and looked at her, lowering his voice as if somebody might suddenly hear them, or as if his words merited extra attention on her part. “Thirty thousand dollars, mademoiselle, buys a lot of perfume, or fur coats, or whatever pretty girls like. I’m sure you can manage to persuade him without my having to show him those pictures.”
There were several moments of silence.
“I can try,” Anita said at last, dully, almost hopelessly. “I can try, but I can’t promise anything.”
Sanchez shrugged philosophically. “One does what one can do, mademoiselle. However, in your case, don’t fail. Because, much as I should hate to do so, I would send them to M’sieu Huuygens. Believe me.”
With a sudden gesture Anita flung the envelope from her. It landed in the dark water of the river and floated away, dipping and bobbing on the surface. Beyond it one of the river nightclub boats passed, chugging its way to a new location, with aproned men working like mad on the deck to prepare it for the evening’s cruise.
Sanchez reached into the pocket on the other side of his jacket and brought forth another packet.
“Prints cost money, mademoiselle,” he said reproachfully, with a glint of black humor in his eyes. “I still have the negatives.”
She turned to him in pleading, her voice breaking. “But no matter what, you must not show them to Kek! He’d... he’d—” Her voice was approaching hysteria. To Sanchez’s relief she brought herself under control before her voice claimed attention from the upper reaches above the quay. She came to her feet listlessly, as if realizing further discussion with the blackmailer would be useless, staring at the new envelope in her hand as if wondering what it was. Realization came and she handed it back with repugnance.
“Keep them,” Sanchez said magnanimously. “Look at them frequently on your way home. Because you don’t have forever in which to convince your boyfriend.” He paused for effect. “Two days.”
“Two days!” Anita’s hand went to her mouth.
“Two days,” Sanchez said firmly and came to his feet, looking at his watch. His eyes moved to the girl. “Well, mademoiselle, we’re wasting time. Let me call you a taxi.”
He put his hand on her arm; she shook it off with loathing. Sanchez smiled at the gesture and led the way back to the stone steps. They mounted in silence. Sanchez, peering sideways, saw the look of despair on the girl’s face. He smiled to himself. She would try and try hard, and with the figure he knew her to have, if this girl couldn’t sell Huuygens the Eiffel Tower, let alone a minor smuggling job that also paid a small matter of thirty thousand dollars plus, then M’sieu Kek Huuygens would be well advised to visit a psychiatrist.
They came to the roadway and Sanchez raised a thin arm. A taxi swerved about and drew to the curb. Sanchez opened the door, helped Anita in, and pressed money on the driver.
“Take the lady home,” he said. “Avenue du Maréchal Favolle...”
He gave a tiny bow toward the passenger in the rear of the cab, straightened up, and watched the cab move away, turning over the bridge. He smiled, satisfied. For the second time in this miserable affair he had had a good idea, but for the first time it had been well executed — mainly because he did it himself instead of leaving it to Duarte. God knows what that imbecile André had said over the phone! In any event, it was about over with. The question now was whether to celebrate alone or with Rosa. He had to admit she deserved a bit of the credit; maybe dinner at the Singe d’Argent, and after that possibly he would change his mind and give the girl from Manuela’s place a break again.