The Venetian Affair Read Free Page A

nipping from aflask? He had been slow at coming out of the plane, but he was putting on speed. He stopped to put down the small case he was carrying, shifted his coat to his left arm, picked up the case with his right hand, and was off again. And don’t look around at me, Fenner told the departing back, I’m not following you: I’m just going where we’re all going. Well, where was I—oh yes, Walt Penneyman...
    An odd assignment—an interview with a professor named Vaugiroud, whose interests were entirely political and had nothing to do with the theatre. It would be simple enough, something that Fenner would have treated as routine six years ago, when he was a foreign correspondent, but now—unusual. As odd, in fact, as Penneyman’s urgency yesterday morning when he had asked Fenner to look in at his office. “You’re leaving for Paris tonight, Bill? You’re just the man I need.” It was always flattering to be needed. Besides, this Vaugiroud character sounded like an interesting type.
    He stepped into the glass palace and smiled for the little hostess, who waited worriedly for the last one of her flock. “That way,” she showed him, pointing to the cluster of people ahead. He had his passport and landing card all ready, so she forgave him. “The luggage will be examined when it reaches the arrival hall,” she told him. Now he saw that her worry was not about him.
    “Baggage will be opened?” he asked her in surprise. That wasn’t usual at all.
    “It won’t take long,” she said soothingly. “A formality.”
    The well-trained nurse, he thought. If she knows, she is not telling. Nor was the welcoming committee, waiting patiently in the vast stretch of light-coloured wood and glass with theslightly jaundiced eye that French officials keep for those who have time and money to waste on travel.
    Fenner’s luck was in. He saw his suitcase and week-end bag travelling smoothly along a moving belt, and signalled to a blue-smocked porter. They were quickly placed on the counter. “ Vous n’avez rien à déclarer, monsieur? ”
    Fenner shook his head, produced his keys. “Excuse me,” he said to the passenger standing beside him, and moved a couple of feet for elbow room. It was the man in the brown suit, who had been in such a hurry and now was waiting for his luggage. He didn’t look well, Fenner noted: he was no longer energetic and business-like; he was almost listless, withdrawn into some overwhelming worry—he hadn’t even noticed he was standing in Fenner’s way.
    The French officials were serious-faced, silent. The innocent tourist was probably the least of their problems this bright and pleasant morning. Algiers and generals in open revolt had put the peaceable traveller into proper perspective: someone not necessarily likeable, but not inimical either. Yet, Fenner noted, the quick fingers examining his luggage were extremely thorough; the eyes glancing over him were equally searching. What interested them?
    Nothing, so far. The Customs official saw just another American in a dark-grey suit, blue shirt, dark-blue tie; neatly cut brown hair, grey eyes, well-marked eyebrows, bone structure of his face noticeable and pleasant, an easy smile. He was fairly tall, thin, relaxed. He had a raincoat over one arm, a bundle of newspapers and magazines under the other, a hat which he preferred not to wear, and nothing to declare. Nothing? the sardonic French eyes seemed to ask; no failures, fears,frustrations? “And what is that? In the pocket of your raincoat, monsieur? Thank you. Ah—”An eyebrow was raised in pleased surprise. “You are an admirer of our Comédie-Française?”
    Fenner nodded. As it once was, he thought, and as it may be again. But he didn’t risk saying it. This, he felt, was not the year for plays upon words or double meanings. Beside him, he heard a hiss of breath—or was it a slow sigh of impatience?—from the man in brown. His suitcase had arrived. He leaned on it heavily. His