The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0 Page 5

  I laughed. ‘I’m sure it won’t dampen his spirits. Shall we go in now, and buy that filigree pin?’

  I bought the pin for twenty-five hundred lire. On the way back to Aimee’s hotel she was pensive and not given to talking much. I took her by the hand; she did not object, but neither did she react to the touch. To put it simply, she let me hold her,hand, nothing more. I suspected that Rubio had made too strong an impression: it was essential that now I work fast. The emerald would have to be in my pocket that night, or not at all.

  However, I wasn’t worried about Rubio. Strangely enough it was Aimee that bothered me. I was beginning to be extraordinarily fond of her and that was bad. I make it a point not to be too fond of anyone in this world.

  That evening I took the two of them to one of the best restaurants in town. I ordered a delicious meal, and we washed it down with a more than adequate supply of spumente—the Italian version of champagne. Mrs. Donaldson was becoming thoroughly relaxed, for spumente is a fine relaxer. And just to make more certain I stirred her drink with a little wooden swizzle stick, the bottom of which was well laced with phenobarbitol. My keynote for the evening, as you can see, was relaxation. Before the evening was over my emerald guest was going to be the most relaxed woman in Italy, and then her somewhat puffy neck would be without its most attractive ornament.

  I filled the glasses again. ‘A toast to us. May we. always be as happy as we are now.’ I said.

  ‘A toast to you, Mr. Lime, you wonderful, wonderful man.’ she replied.

  I patted her neck. I wanted her to get used to the touch of my hand against her neck. She withdrew a little. For her neck had become sensitive because of the locket. As we drank I studied the clasp on it. It was a simple device. You turned a tiny wheel and it released the catch…just a twist of the wrist.

  I called the musicians over to our table, and asked Mrs. Donaldson what she would like them to play. She asked for 6ome Neapolitan songs.

  It was going to be very easy. They were completely at ease and they trusted me. Aimee stole her hand into mine as they played. It was really quite pleasant. I leaned back and relaxed.

  When the songs were over, I suddenly said: ‘I have a wonderful idea. How about going for a drive to Pompei?,

  ’At this hour?’ said Mrs. Donaldson doubtfully.

  ‘IPs only ten o’clock. There’s a full moon. It will be quite a thrill.’

  ‘I’m willing to go if Mrs. Donaldson is.‘murmured Aimee.

  ’Try and stop me. What a marvellous idea.‘said Mrs. Donaldson as she made up her mind.

  As we stood up, I remarked that there was just one thing that worried me. I suggested that it might be safer if she left her locket in the hotel safe.

  ‘Don’t you worry about it.‘she answered. ‘I never take it off my neck, except when I retire. It’s perfectly safe. Besides we won’t find any criminals in Pompei.’

  ‘All the same, I’d feel better if you would leave the locket…’

  She interrupted me: ’Oh, no, I can’t do that. Please don’t fret about it.’

  On the way out of the restaurant we passed a table at which a solitary man was sitting. It was Rubio. He got up and invited us to join him in a bottle of wine. I refused somewhat shortly.

  ‘You have offended me, sir.’ he said.

  ’That’s really too bad.’

  ‘I know we shall meet again. Perhaps the next time you will have more time. You may even regret that you have offended me, Señor.’

  As soon as we were out of earshot, Mrs. Donaldson remarked that he was a very odd man.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know him, Harry?’ asked Aimee.

  ‘I know him now.’ I admitted. ‘His name is Alfonso Rubio. And I’m genuinely sorry he didn’t follow my directions and walk into the Bay of Naples.’

  It was less than an hour’s ride to the ancient extinct city of Pompei, lying like a corpse at the foot of its killer Vesuvius. We entered through the garden of an ancient home. The moon shone down, hard and white, lighting up the ancient city. As we walked down the Abbondoza Street, even I began to feel the excitement of a moonlight night in such a place.

  After some half an hour’s walking, Mrs. Donaldson said that she would like to sit down: she was feeling a little sleepy.

  ’There’s a marble bench in the atrium of Casa de Ceriale,’ I said. ‘It used to belong to an arrogant rich man who didn’t like strangers visiting his palatial home. But somehow I don’t think he will mind.’

  When we reached the bench, Mrs. Donaldson rested her head sleepily against my shoulder: ‘You’re a darling, Mr. Lime,’ she remarked.

  ‘Aimee, if you walk into the room to your right, you will see some excellent frescoes, beautifully preserved,’ I suggested. She borrowed my flashlight and moved away.

  Mrs. Donaldson was sleeping softly. ,1 pressed my fingers against her neck to check her responses. There was no reaction. I tried it again so that even in her sleep she would feel no alarm, become acquainted with the feel of my fingers around her throat. She slept peacefully on. I quickly unloosed the catch and with slow care picked the locket gently off her neck. At the same time I held her hand so as to divert her sensation of touch. It was done quickly. And now I was ready to make my departure. I gently propped her against a pillar.

  But then I heard a sound that froze me. Footsteps, and they weren’t Aimee’s!

  I caught a glimpse of him. It was one of the guards. There was only one thing to do—run! At the Strade Stabione I turned the corner and ran into one of the Roman baths. I made for one of the rooms, expecting it to have another exit. It was dark and I fumbled around. I had a very unpleasant feeling when I became aware that the only way out was the way I had come in. I ran back, but it was too late. My pursuer was standing at the entrance with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.

  It was not a guard. It was Rubio!

  Pm not usually a reckless fellow, but this time I did a very rash thing. I rushed him.

  He fired. The bullet tore a hole in my jacket, barely touching my skin.

  I grabbed hold of him. We fell on the marble floor. In a few seconds it was clear that he was in far better shape than I. Then he hit me a very rude blow on the head with his gun, and I gave up the fight. For a moment I just lay there, thinking what a very evil moment of my life this was.

  ’The locket!’ he demanded. I threw it over to him.

  ’Thank you.’ he snarled. ‘And now I think I will dispose of you for having caused me all this trouble.’

  I closed my eyes. But the shot never came.

  ‘Drop the gun, Señor, or I will fire.‘said another voice. It was one of the guards.

  He hesitated and then saw several other armed guards in the doorway. He dropped his gun. Poor Rubio was caught red-handed with my goods.

  I must admit that I have a fine sense of humour. I lay there on the marble floor and laughed.

  Well, of course I was quite the little hero. Mrs. Donaldson was quite convinced that I had risked my life to save her locket. She insisted on giving me a small gift as compensation for the bullet-hole in my suit, and a bump on my head. I refused at first but she insisted and I finally accepted it—a hundred pounds.

  ’ Back at the hotel, Mrs. Donaldson went straight up to bed. I asked Aimee to stay behind for a moment.

  ‘Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow.’ I suggested.

  ‘No, Harry.’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘I never saw the frescoes on the wall,’ she said slowly.

  I gaped at her. She gave a wry smile, and continued: ‘No, I couldn’t find them. So I walked all the way around. I saw you from the front entrance.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I was beginning to like you very much, Harry,* she said sadly.

  ‘You don’t want to see me again…ever?’ I asked.

  ‘It will never be any good.’

  I pulled something out of my pocket. ‘Well, you might as well have the filigree pin.’
/>   ‘What about your sister?’

  J laughed. ‘I haven’t spoken to my sister in ten years. She doesn’t approve of me. Here take it’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Please,’ I went on, ’This is one of the few nice things I’ve ever done. If you don’t take it, I’ll throw it away.’

  She stretched out her hand. ’Thank you, Harry. Good night…and goodbye!’

  As I walked to my hotel I thought about the whole affair. It had cost me about a hundred dollars to bribe the customs official, to buy the champagne and the filigree pin. The reward left me with a profit of two hundred and seventy-odd dollars, plus a bump on my head and a hole in my suit. I had lost the lovely green emerald…and the lovely green eyes of Aimee.

  The emerald didn’t bather me too much. But Aimee…ah…Aimee. She nearly interfered with the great romance of my life…my love for Harry Lime.

  EVERY FRAME HAS A SILVER LINING

  by

  Robert Cenedella

  ‘A fellow I once knew told me I was a poet, but he was so wrong. Poets are always singing about daffodils and brooks and skylarks and the women they are faithful to—a sort of *Merry Widow Waltz?,

  I, if I sang at all, would sing about money and the women I’ve known, but in an offbeat rhythm. Money and women: somehow they go together. Neither is much use without the other, is it?

  At least that is the stuff that Harry Lime sings about: those are the themes to which he dances in life’s ballet. Sometimes it is pleasant; occasionally it is a little painful, like the time in Teheran.

  It happened some years ago. I had just arrived there, and I felt that in a country with so much oil and so much intrigue, with so many rogues playing the game of Empire-building and Empire-busting, I could promote something suited to my special talents.

  Musing along these lines, I was walking along a street near the docks when I heard some shouting. A small frightened man, out of breath and frantic, came wheeling around the corner and piled into me head on.

  ‘Hey, where’s the fire.’ I asked.

  ’Out of my way.’ he panted in a strong Greek accent As he was pushing me aside, he glared into my face. ‘Harry Lime!’ he exclaimed.

  It was an old friend of mine, rejoicing in the name of Pappas. But I suppose that wasn’t his fault.

  He thrust a package into my hands, and spoke quickly. ’The police are after me. That is fifty thousand dollars’ worth of opium. Tonight, at 7.30, bring it to the Grand Hotel. My principals will be there; we’ll cut you in.’

  The shouting grew closer. ‘I’m with you.’ I said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Beat it—duck down this alley.’

  I waited until both hare and hounds had disappeared. It was a change for me to be a spectator in such circumstances. Then I did some running on my own account—to my hotel. I repacked my bag, making certain to conceal among my handkerchiefs and shirts the package that my friend Pappas had been so very kind to give me. Then I reserved a seat on the two o’clock plane for Paris.

  In Paris I knew I would be safe. Whoever the ‘principals’ were that Pappas had spoken of, they would undoubtedly make a fuss over my leaving Teheran with their property. But I didn’t mind, for I was now the sole owner of fifty thousand dollars* worth of opium.

  In the plane I decided that I would get the best price for it in America. So my problem in Paris would be how I should smuggle it into the States. I couldn’t take it in myself. The customs officers might search me a little too thoroughly. So I set about to find some likely tourist into whose luggage Pd be able to put my package.

  It took me three days to find my American—a very lovely looking American incidentally—outside a café. She was a lovely, fresh, unspoiled girl, sitting watching the Parisian scene. Some men would merely have looked at her hungrily until the café closed. But not Harry Lime.

  I introduced myself. She said that she was waiting for her parents.

  ’ I’d like to meet them.’

  She said that I was rude, and continued to watch the Parisian scene.

  ‘You don’t really believe that. You know a man can see a girl and know that this is the girl, the one he’s always wanted to meet but has never met. If he doesn’t speak, she goes away and he never sees her again. So is it rudeness if he speaks to her; or is * it wisdom?’ I pleaded earnestly.

  She laughed, and I asked if I might sit beside her.

  ‘Well…since my parents are coming…’

  Once I was sitting down the rest was easy. Helen Bolt was in the last week of a continental tour with her parents. They came from Yangstown, a small city in the mid-west. Her brother had been killed in the war, and one reason for their visit was that they had wanted to see his grave.

  I was very solicitous when she told me this. Then I asked her at what time she was to meet her parents.

  ‘In an hour,’ she replied. ‘But I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘Good, then we have at least an hour.’

  ’For what?’

  ’For me to show you Paris.’

  We went to the garden of the Tuileries, and though I was tempted to see whether I could wean this girl away from her parents for the whole evening, I for once acted the perfect gentleman. Refinement is one of my many stills. It is boring—but useful in my trade.

  This girl and her mid-western parents were perfect to smuggle the opium into the U.S. for me. So I questioned her with real interest about herself and her family.

  All Americans are happy to meet compatriots abroad. All Americans but I, that is; and this time even I was delighted.

  I took her back to the café, met her parents and took them all to dinner.

  It was a dreadful evening. Yes, sir, I knew every street in’ Yangstown by the end of it. But it was worth it, for they were perfect for my gag—real homespun boobs who wouldn’t suspect I’d planted anything in their luggage, and who wouldn’t be suspected by customs officials. I knew after five minutes that I had the answer to my problem.

  After dinner they took me back to their hotel suite, and there, in a city full of the greatest art treasures the world has ever known, I was made to exclaim over the family photograph albums they had brought from Yangstown.

  One of my great exclamations, however, was genuine, for I suddenly got an idea. Mrs. Bolt had just handed me a photograph of her dead son:

  ’That’s a wonderful picture,’ I said. ‘Why haven’t you had it framed?’

  ‘It sure would look nice in a frame.‘said Bolt.

  I offered to get one done for them. ‘I know where I can get a beauty, and over here things don’t cost like in the States. Still we don’t have to settle that now, do we? Right now all Pd like is to have you all agree to be my guests on a tour of the city tomorrow.’

  They’d like that fine, they said.

  ‘And one other thing, with your permission, I’d like to take Helen to the Folies Bergere, right now.’

  ’That’s up to Helen,’ said her mother smilingly.

  I looked at the girl, she said she’d like it very much.

  Everything was working like a charm. The opium was practically in New York at that moment I thought once or twice about the ‘principals’ that Pappas had mentioned; but I was a long way from Teheran, and even if they were after me, I figured I could handle them.

  Meanwhile, it was pleasant to make love to Helen. Her voice was soft and sweet…so different from her mother’s.

  In two or three days I was in solid with the family. And Helen…well, she was really in love with me by then.

  So, the day before they were to leave for Cherbourg, to take the boat for New York, I felt I could move in with my present—a good-sized silver frame for the boy’s picture. In my room I opened the little package I had received from Pappas and concealed its contents in the hollow of the frame.

  Then I visited the Bolt family in their suite, and made the presentation. They were more than delighted.

  But when I offered to go to Cherbourg with them the next da
y to see them off, they were at first unwilling. And I had to insist quite hard to get their consent But I did finally get it. I usually get things I want, when I am insistent.

  It was strange though, that they hadn’t wanted me to go to Cherbourg with them. I couldn’t understand it. But I finally decided that it was just their way of being polite, or not wanting to ‘put me out’.

  I wanted to go to Cherbourg, because I never believe in leaving anything to chance. I had to know in which suitcase the picture with the silver frame got packed.

  So I went to Cherbourg, and the night before they were to sail, I walked with Helen down by the wharves, and said goodbye.

  It took a long time, and I still remember the experience with pleasure. But business is business, and I said goodbye to this lovely, charming, unspoiled girl, whom I would have liked to continue to know. Only, of course, what is love compared with fifty thousand dollars’ worth of a staple commodity like opium?

  I delivered her into the hands of her parents, and before we had a nightcap together, I helped them pack…helped them put the frame I had bought them and the opium they didn’t know they had into a certain suitcase.

  Tomorrow I would put them on the boat. Then I would take the plane to America, and before they arrived I would have certain friends of mine ready to hijack that suitcase as soon as they got it through customs. Everything was working for the best in the best of all possible worlds. I slept well.

  The next morning, quite early, I went to their room in the hotel.

  The room was empty. They had left at two o’clock in the morning.

  I stood there in the doorway; looking into the room vacated by my erstwhile friends, and in my mind’s ear I heard the voice of Pappas:

  ‘My principals will meet you tonight in the Grand Hotel.’

  They had met me all right. They met me, and took me. They had known I would want to find some Americans to smuggle the opium into New York. Posing as Americans they could easily get me to hand over the opium to them, to force it on them in fact. Perhaps Pappas, who knew me well, had told them that I liked a pretty face.