The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0 Page 6

  Now they were gone…so was my opium…so was my fifty thousand dollars.

  I looked around the room. The picture of the poor dead soldier was lying on the floor. Now if they had only left the frame around it!

  I walked to the bureau. Someone had been writing on a paper over the desk blotter, and the pen-nib had borne down hard.

  I could just make it out. ‘Vingt…trois…Rue des Pecheurs…Marseilles.’

  ’23 Rue des Pecheurs, Marseilles! ’

  Twenty minutes later, I boarded the train for Marseilles.

  I found that the Rue des Pecheurs was a short, quiet street—quiet to the point of being suspicious: a street with more vacant lots than dilapidated frame houses in need of paint. Number twenty-three was there—a house with streaked windows, a house seemingly deserted.

  No one was watching, so I mounted the steps of the porch with my automatic in my hand.

  The door was shut, and I wanted to get in. I rang the bell. It seemed like a logical thing to do.

  It opened. On the other side was Pappas.

  ’This gun has real bullets in it.’ I remarked, ‘lead the way.’

  We went down the passage and into a room at the end. It was quite a family reunion.

  ‘Hello, darling; hello, mother…and father.’ I greeted them sardonically.

  Their faces fell.

  Mr. B. was the first to recover his composure. ‘Now wait a minute, we’ll make a deal with you.’ he offered. We always intended to cut you in.’ said his wife but her tone didn’t ring true.

  ’That’s a silly thing to say, Grace. He knows better.’ interjected Helen.

  So she wasn’t a real daughter. I was relieved.

  There was a packet on the table. I picked it up. It was the opium.

  ‘Wait a minute, Harry, listen.’ pleaded Helen. ’There’s a man coming to pick up that opium and give us the money for it. He’s due here any minute. When you knocked, we thought he had come.’

  They again offered to cut me in, but it seemed to me that I could call the tune.

  ’Open the door to the next room, Helen.’ I said. When she had done so, I added conversationally: ‘I think it would be nice to tie you people up in there.’

  I herded them into the next room, and told them to tear up the curtains. Then I called Helen over to me:

  ‘You’re going to tie them up.’

  ‘And then you’ll tie me up?’

  I considered it. Then I asked her if she would like to come with me.

  ‘Do you mean it.’ she offered eagerly.

  I did mean it. We would be an excellent team. Nobody could have been more innocent-looking than her, and nobody could have been more full of excellent ideas for making use of her innocent appearance than I.

  ‘All right, Harry.’ she said. ‘It’s a deal.’

  She tied them up well, and when they complained about the double-cross, she gagged them with every evidence of enjoying her task. Then the two of us went into the other room and waited for the messenger with the money.

  It was going to be a merry life, I thought. I was relieved that she was not a little maiden from Yangstown. It was fine not having to pretend.

  ‘You pretended well.’ she said.

  ‘Not half so well as you.’

  ‘Do you love me, Harry?’ Her tone was mocking.

  There you are. A woman can have all the wickedness and all the terrible precocious knowledge of a street urchin, and still she remains essentially a woman. Did I love her? Yes, I did.

  ‘I have a soft spot.’ I explained. ‘I could have left you in that room with the others, I could have taken all the money for myself…’

  ‘I’m glad you have that soft spot. And I am a woman…really…Harry.’

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. The messenger had arrived. I covered the door with my gun, while Helen opened it.

  ‘Nous sommes Gendarmes!’ It was the police.

  ’Take that gun from him, Jacques.’ said the officer.

  ‘Wait, wait…gentlemen, gentlemen.’ I protested.

  ’There will be no waiting, M’sieu. We knew you have opium here. We have been watching this house. We have the man who was to come here with the money.’

  Helen sank into a chair. ‘Harry, what can we do?’ she asked.

  I turned to the officer. ‘Do you hear her? She is making it sound as though I am one of them.’ I protested.

  The policeman looked at me in amazement. Helen’s mouth dropped open.

  I went on: ‘You saw me with the gun trained on her. I made her open the door…and I was going to take the messenger. I did not realise, of course, that you so efficient policemen had already taken him. I made this girl confess to me where the opium was hidden.’

  ‘He’s lying! He lured me here! He’s been making love to me.’ she shrieked.

  ‘Gentlemen, she is a most wicked liar. In a back room you will find the rest of the gang, tied up as I tied them myself. You can easily trace this girl to their people.’

  ‘You said you loved me!’ she sobbed, with her face in her hands.

  I moved over to the captain.

  ‘Just in case you’re wondering about my angle in this—I believe your so gracious country offers a reward in cases like this ?’

  He smiled understandingly.

  The policeman rounded up the party, while I watched. As they were marched past me to the door, Helen muttered:

  ‘You dirty swine, Harry!’

  ‘Swine? No, darling.’ I replied, ‘I am a realist. And you know, my sweet, though you are so beautiful, I am afraid I cannot undertake to wait for you to get out of whatever bastille is about to embrace you. After all, you may not be beautiful by the time you’re released.’

  It was two days before I was able to collect the reward I had worked so hard for. It was, unfortunately, considerably less than fifty thousand dollars but it was enough to afford me consolation for the loss of my sweet Helen.

  Ah, well! Perhaps I was well rid of her after all.

  I know you probably think I behaved like a complete scoundrel about Helen. But you don’t understand, you see…I love someone else far more deeply than Helen…and that someone is…me.

  PARIS IS NOT THE SAME

  by

  Joseph Cochran

  Let’s face it. The world is full of mugs…millions of them waiting, like flocks of sheep, to be fleeced. In fact they would feel uncomfortable if they weren’t shorn to the hide from time to time. I chuckle when I read that one of the mugs Was an ‘innocent victim’ of a confidence game. How innocent? If you want a path beaten to your door, don’t use your energy inventing a better mousetrap: just hang out a sign—’Scarce Items at Prices You Wish To Pay.’

  Crime, one way, or another, tars us all with the same brush, whether it is Jack the Ripper, or the insignificant mug holding an audience spellbound at the local pub as he relates how he once rubbed shoulders with the famous Jack. Not that I approve of Jack: killing is a messy business. The only man I ever killed was myself…A matter of convenience one time in Paris.

  It all began on the Geneva Express, where a potbellied man with a bald head was giggling at one of my jokes. I regarded him as a nonentity until he showed me a photograph…of a woman whom I at once recognised.

  ‘Very droll, Mr. Lime.’ he was saying. ‘When I get back to Paris you must visit us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and my wife…Karen. She’ll be delighted with you, and you with her. She appreciates a well told story.’

  I regarded him with boredom. He was more than a little tipsy. He reached into his wallet, and withdrew a card.

  ‘Put it away, and don’t lose it,’ he said as he handed it over to me.

  I was looking at the address, when he continued: ‘Ah, here’s what I was looking for. A photograph of my wife.’

  I regarded it for a long time. Then I replied, hoping that my speech was even: ‘Very beautiful,‘M. Duval. My congratulations.’

  I contin
ued the conversation with more interest. M. Duval lived in Paris, but made business trips to Switzerland two or three times every year. I remarked that I would not like to be married to such a beautiful woman. I should worry too much, when I was away from her.

  ’There’s something to that,’ he said, and gave another of his infuriating giggles. ‘When I go out with Karen, I am the envy of every man in Paris. They do nothing but stare at us as we enter a room. I see them out of the corner of my eyes.’

  I asked him how long he would be in Switzerland on this trip.

  He answered dejectedly: ’Three weeks. It’s a long time to be away from her, but I have to think of my business.’

  At that moment we started to arrive at the border, and I got up to collect my bags. Then I held out my hand to him.

  ‘But I thought that you were going on to Geneva?’ he said.

  I replied that I had other business to attend to first.

  When I had got out of the compartment, he leaned through the window and called to me. ‘Mr. Lime, don’t forget. When in Paris, come to see us. I insist.’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ I shouted back. ‘When next in Paris your home wilt be my first port of call;’

  As the train pulled out or the station, I was asking the stationmaster the time of the next train to Paris.

  Twelve hours later, I was ringing the doorbell of 1149 Rue de Villiers. It was the address on the card that Duval had given me. I told the manservant who answered that M. Duval had invited me to call. I stood in the hall while he went to see if Madame would see me.

  I could hear their voices through the door.

  A woman’s voice said: ’Tell him that M. Duval will not be back until the thirtieth, Andre.’

  I started to whistle a little tune that had often been on my lips during the early days of the war. I must have whistled it more loudly than I thought, for Madame Duval changed her mind, and I was quickly ushered into her presence.

  She stood at that far end of the room with the morning light streaming through a window on to her auburn hair. ‘M. Duval is, unfortunately, out of town,’ she said as the servant closed the door. As soon as he was gone, she went on: ‘Harry! .In heaven’s name! Where did you come from?’

  I lit a cigarette. ‘I just pop up.’ I remarked.

  ‘And disappear again.’ Her tone was bitter.

  ‘I like to move about.’

  ‘It wasn’t very kind of you not to show up /or our meeting at the Savoy in London. I waited all evening.’

  I remained silent. Maybe I had been a little harsh on her.

  ‘Never a word of explanation then or ever.’ she went on. ‘I was afraid you were hurt, had been buried in an air-raid. Oh, Harry, I searched all over London for you. I was frantic.’

  There was a pause. Then I tried to change the subject. ‘I met your very dull husband on the train. What a bore he is, even without his giggling.’

  She turned away.

  ‘And he talks too much…about you. He had the vile taste to show me, a stranger, your photograph and boast about his beautiful wife. When I saw the picture, I got off the train and came straight to Paris. I couldn’t resist.’

  She began to talk quickly. ‘When you walked out like that, I thought you were dead. Oh, I knew you were mixed up in something in London, and maybe had to run. But why didn’t you let me know? I’d have waited for you. I’d have followed you if I’d only known where to find you. But you didn’t. I had to live and…and…’

  I completed her sentence for her: ‘You married Duval.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a long pause, after which she continued: ‘He was in the Savoy bar. He saw how anxious I was and offered to help. To help me to find you, Harry! *

  Again I remarked that she had married a little bald-headed guy, who giggled.

  ‘He’s been good to me, Harry. In his own way he loves me. He’s proud of me, and…’

  It was time to get to the point. ‘And it all adds up to the fact that you don’t love him.’ I said with finality.

  ‘I didn’t care much after you were gone. It could have been anyone who offered a little security. Life was dull…the struggle for food…blackened ruins of London…the weary faces all around…Why should it surprise you that I should marry a dull man? ’

  ’The place was much the same when I was there,’ I pointed out.

  ‘When you were with me, I never noticed or minded, I suppose.’ she answered. «

  I stubbed out my cigarette, and started to walk’ over towards her. ‘No…no, Harry! Please, I’ve tried to forget you, don’t make me remember.’ she cried. Then her voice broke, and she sobbed: ’Oh, Harry, why did you have to come back? Now I have to start living again! ’

  And she was in my arms.

  A long time afterwards, Andre was helping me on1 with my overcoat in the hallway. I thanked him.

  His voice was low, as he remarked—almost casually—that M. Duval would be very disturbed to know that Madame had greeted me with more affection than a first call had demanded.

  ‘I can imagine his chagrin.’ I replied with a grin.

  Would it surprise you to know that I was about to be appointed to an instructorship in philosophy when the war came.’ he continued.

  ‘Nothing surprises me.’

  ‘I tell you this to show you what the war can do to people. I was once an idealist. Now I think nothing of peeping on you and Madame/

  He opened the door, and then added apologetically:: ’One has to look out for one’s self/

  I turned towards him: ‘Andre, you don’t deserve an instructorship. I learned that by myself when I was ten years old! ’

  Of course it was Andre who proved to be the nigger in the woodpile. Some days later, Karen burst into my hotel bedroom: ‘We’ve been discovered.’ she cried. ‘Andre saw me in your arms, and he’s threatening to tell my husband. Unless I keep him on, and say nothing about his little racket.’

  This sounded interesting. I calmed her down a bit, and then extracted her story.

  She had been suspicious of Andre for some time. People had been coming to his room in the basement at all hours of the night. So she had done a little exploring, and had found a lot of perfume—of the kind that her husband manufactured—hidden amongst his things. When she had asked him about it, he had merely laughed, and when she had given him notice, he had threatened to tell her husband about us.

  I asked for more details about the racket, but she knew very little. ‘Black market of some kind.’ she answered. ‘It must be very profitable. His bookcases are filled with first editions, and his cupboard is full of better wine than we can buy. But I don’t care about that. What must I do? ’

  I thought it over. ‘Nothing…for the present.’ I said at last. ‘Andre and I are going to have a discussion.’

  ‘About us, Harry?’

  ’That may enter into it, but the main topic will be business.’ I said, as I showed her to the door.

  We had our little conversation that same evening. His racket, it appeared, was very simple. American soldiers had money, and wanted Duval’s Lure of Eros Perfume. A friend of his at the factory stole it. He sold it—at any price he cared to name.

  I remarked that the racket was very badly organised. After all, I should know about these things.

  ‘Your friend will get caught at the next inventory, and you’ll be out of business.’ I explained.

  He was considering this, while I went on: ‘You need organisation. This racket is one that has to be worked fast, on a large scale, while the Americans are still here, and before the factories can get into full-scale production. Clean up fast, and then fold!’

  Andre remarked that I spoke as if I had had experience.

  Within a few hours we were partners, and the business was already expanding.

  It expanded fourfold in one very easy way, about which I’ll tell you, and, remember, this is only one of the improved methods of production that I introduced.

  Andre and I were standing together
beside a laboratory bench, and I was demonstrating to him: ‘Here are four botdes, three empty and one full of Lure of Eros. I take a hypodermic needle and draw off three-fourths of the perfume…so. Now I put a quarter of an ounce in the three other bottles. Then we will fill all four with distilled water. Then we fill the tiny hole with molten glass, and no one will notice any difference.’

  ‘But when the bottle is opened, it is found out.’

  ’The soldiers send it home, to girls who’ve never had a bottle of the stuff, it will not make any difference. In fact we are spreading happiness to three times as many people, as does Duval with his pure concentrated perfume.’

  He was unconvinced. ‘But after we went to all the trouble to steal a truckload, it seems wrong not to give them the real thing.’

  ‘Reality is in the imagination. We leave enough of the essence to create the illusion.’

  ‘But can a belief based on a false premise be good?’ I had forgotten he was a philosopher, so changed the subject, and asked when Duval was due to return.

  ‘Next week…Friday,’ he replied.

  ‘I must accept his invitation to call, and be officially introduced to his charming wife,’ I remarked.

  Then we went back to work.

  I duly made my social call and was formally introduced to Karen. Duval, however, did not appear to be his normal self. We discovered the reason for this over cocktails.

  ‘I’ve had disturbing news,’ he said. Putting his hand into his pocket, he produced an ounce bottle of Lure of Eros, and handed it to me. I asked him what was wrong.

  ’Under the magnifying glass you would see the bottom has a tiny hole plugged with molten glass. The bottle contains three-parts water/

  I asked him how he had got hold of that particular bottle.

  He replied that he had investigators disguised as American soldiers, and one of them had brought it to him. The matter was in the hands of the police, who thought that an expert gang was operating.