Tanner’s Tiger

Chapter 8

I had breakfast ready when Arlette awoke the next morning. I scrambled eggs, buttered toast, browned spicy sausages, and perked coffee. All but the last of these efforts turned out to be superfluous as far as the Unmaid of Orleans was concerned. She grunted unintelligibly, poured herself a cup of coffee, tasted it, made a face, laced it liberally with cognac, and sulked over it in a corner.

Few persons are at their best in the morning. I cannot honestly recall what it was like for me, the process of waking up, but I do know that it was something I did every day for eighteen years, and I can’t believe I could have done it very well. The whole concept of being torn roughly from the fantasy we call dreams to the other fantasy we call reality – what is it, in fact, but the trauma of birth repeated at twenty-four-hour intervals throughout the whole of a person’s lifetime.

If I had to pick one reason above all others for treasuring my permanent insomnia, it would be simply this – I never have to get up.

Arlette did, though, and poorly. I tried to pay as little attention to her as possible for the half hour during which she came gradually to life. This was not only simple courtesy but a matter of personal taste. She was less than charming. Her ragged mop of hair, so charming a few hours earlier, now looked like the coiffure of a small-time Medusa, a nest of lifeless earthworms. Her complexion bordered on jaundice. Her eyes were puffy. And her entire demeanor was the sort only to be viewed in those horror movies in which corpses walk.

Rebirth took half an hour. It was like a death scene – the last act of “Camille,” say – filmed via time-lapse photography and then shown backward. The eyes un-puffed, the mouth ungrimaced, the body firmed up, the whole person came back to the land of the living. At last she was sufficiently in control of herself to find her way to the bathroom, from which she emerged as the Arlette I had known and loved (and loved, and loved) just a little while earlier.

“Evan, my heart,” she said. “What a beautiful morning!”

It was all of that, bright and warm and clear. “And you are beautiful, Arlette.”

“I am horrid in the mornings. Such beautiful food you created, and I could eat none of it.”

“I ate your share myself.”

“Commendable. But how could you eat with such an apparition as myself in the room?”

“You are always beautiful in my eyes, Arlette.”

“And you tell magnificent lies. Did you sleep well, Evan?”

“I have not slept better in years.”

“And why should we not be tired, eh?” She chuckled, then turned serious. “But your little girl,” she said. “We must act, is it not so?”

I had told her of Minna the night before, somewhere between Acts Two and Three, and she had been madly indignant, wildly anxious about the girl’s fate. She had wanted to do something at once, but I pointed out that there was nothing to do before morning, at least as far as Minna was concerned, but that there was something we could do, just the two of us, without leaving the apartment. Shortly thereafter Minna was, for the time being, quite forgotten.

“I meant to get the newspapers,” I said.

“You should not leave the apartment. I will go.”

“All right.”

Once again she purchased all the papers, the English-language ones as well as the French, and once again I worked my way through all of them. There was some marvelous copy about me that Arlette insisted upon clipping. I was presently the object of the greatest manhunt in Montreal ’s history since Francois Somebody butchered seven young boys with a straight razor in 1911. I was somewhat relieved to learn, however, that I had not butchered anyone. A dozen persons had been treated for injuries in the auto wrecks Prince Hal had caused, but all but two had been sent home immediately, and those two would live.

So would Sergeant William Rowland, RCMP, although it would be a while before he was back on a horse. He had landed on his head, all right, but I guess his Smoky The Bear hat served a purpose, because he came out of it alive. He had a fractured skull, but it takes more than that to impair a Mountie.

Prince Hal had not turned up by presstime. I found this pleasing news, too, and only hoped the little boy was taking good care of him.

And I, I was thoroughly castigated by every newspaper around. It no longer looked as though my capture would result in prompt extradition to the States. The Canadian authorities had a score of their own to settle with me, and charges would be brought against me for everything from subversive conspiracy, malicious mischief, resisting an officer, assault with a deadly weapon (a horse?), and unlawful flight to running a red light and jaywalking. By the time they sent me back to face the kidnaping charge, I would be at least a hundred and fifty-three years old.

It looked as though it would not be a good idea to let them catch me.

It also looked as though the police did not have Minna, did not know where she was, and did not especially care. Almost all of the papers mentioned the girl, referring to her variously as my daughter and my “young female friend” – I suppose they planned to add statutory rape to my list of crimes. The general journalistic opinion seemed to be that Minna was being cared for by terrorists with whom I was associated, although one scandal sheet – in French, yet – hinted that I had murdered her and floated the body out to sea.

I put the last paper aside and looked up at Arlette, who had been waiting more or less patiently.

“Well?”

“They don’t have her.”

“Who does?”

I stood up, performed my caged-lion imitation, then turned to face her again. “I keep coming back to those damned Cubans,” I said. “I can’t think what motive they might have had-”

“Nor could I. After all, she is not the Queen of England!”

She was the someday Queen of Lithuania, but I had not brought this fact to Arlette’s attention. She was also my little friend and ostensible daughter, but I had similarly failed to tell Arlette that I was an American agent, much as I had failed to tell the Chief that I wasn’t. I had to agree, though, that she was not the Queen of England.

“Let’s forget motive,” I said. “I have a hunch something funny is going on in the Cuban Pavilion. If she had just gotten lost, she would have gotten found by now. Even if something, uh, bad happened to her” – I did not want to think about this – “uh, they would know by now. I think she must have been kidnaped, and the only place that could have happened was inside that Cuban nuthouse.” I began pacing again. “Something’s going on there. I walked through the place twice yesterday and couldn’t figure it out, but there is sure as hell something going on. If I took another look around-”

“It is impossible, Evan. You would be recognized.”

“I could disguise myself-”

“Your photograph is everywhere. Even if you covered your head with a paper sack, you would be recognized. I will go.”

“You?”

“Of course. Am I wanted by the police? Am I one to arouse their suspicions? Am I even one who has been within the pavilion? No, no, no. And so why should I not go?”

“You wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“What would you look for?”

“Well, uh-”

“You see?” She spread her little hands in triumph. “Even you do not know what it is that you wish to find. And so I will go. It is settled.”

“You really ought to be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Don’t do anything, well, unusual.”

She smiled reminiscently. “Sometimes I am fond of doing unusual things, cabbage.”

“I know.”

“Or perhaps you do not regard as unusual-”

“I know, I know.”

She stepped close to me. Her hand fastened on my upper arm. It was impossible to believe that just a little while ago she had emerged from bed looking like incipient death. But most people, and especially women, look better entering a bed than leaving it.

“Emile will arrive in an hour,” she said.

“How unfortunate.”

“You do not recall? He wishes to meet with you to plan the arrangements for the Queen.” Her eyes flashed. “I know you will develop a brilliant plan, Evan. It is vital to us.”

“I know.”

“And when he arrives, I will leave. Or perhaps I will go just before he gets here, to the fair. To the Pavilion of Cuba. You follow me?”

“Anywhere.”

“Pardon? But Emile will not arrive for an hour, cherished one. If I were in fact Jeanne d’Arc I might choose to spend that hour in prayer, beseeching my Maker for guidance. How I worshiped the Maid when I too was intact! I addressed my prayers to her, I wished to grow up in her image.” She shook her head sadly. “And then when I was just fifteen, a boy touched me right here, can you imagine?” I could imagine. “And I had the most extraordinary reaction! And since then, why, I have been a terrible woman! A creature of the Devil himself, do you not agree?”

“The spawn of Satan.”

“But certainly.” She shook her head again. “Since then I cannot so much as light a candle to Sainte Jeanne. How could I do this? It would shame me. It would be – Evan, do not touch me like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I will have the most extraordinary reaction.”

“Well, fine. My own reaction-”

“Ah, but of course! Two portions of eggs, no?”

“It would not have done to let them go to waste.”

“Nor would it do to let this go to waste. Let us become unclad, eh?”

And shortly before Emile arrived (and shortly after we did): “I will tell you this about the Maid, Evan.”

“Eh?”

“In a way, I am her superior. I blaspheme, you say?”

“I say no such thing-”

“But my words are true. With all of this, I remain passionately devoted to my country, to my people. But if Jeanne had ever had a taste of this, she would have let France go hang. I swear it!”

Emile brought friends. The Berton brothers, Jean and Jacques. Both were about my height, with wavy black hair, long, straight noses, and sharply defined features. I could not place their accents at first but later learned that they were from Algeria. Though still in their middle twenties, both had fought valiantly with the OAS in a last-ditch attempt to keep Algeria in French hands. Before De Gaulle managed to disunite the two countries, it had seemed that only two possible solutions to the Algerian question existed – one might liquidate eight million Arabs or one million French colons. Jean and Jacques had done their best to bring the former solution into being.

Jean, the older of the two by a year, had annihilated a variety of persons by hurling bombs into markets in the Casbah. Jacques had raided a Moslem hospital, firing Sten gun bursts into bedridden Arabs. They had not exactly played by the Marquis of Queensbury rules, but then neither had the FLN. When The Magnificent Charles began to cool things, both Jean and Jacques did what they could to cool him instead, and failed.

It had thus become imperative for them to leave Algeria and to stay out of France. They went at first to Israel – though they were not Jews, they were anxious for the opportunity to go on killing Arabs. Their OAS experience, however, had not prepared them for the task of distinguishing between enemy Arabs and the presumably friendly Arab citizens of Israel, and it presently behooved them to find another home. They were now in Montreal; I wondered where they would go next.

“I have brought Jean and Jacques to this meeting,” Emile said, “not only because they are experienced and intelligent” – the brothers beamed – “but also because they are among the more levelheaded and peaceable of our contingent.”

The brothers exchanged glances.

“They realize the distinction between valid political action and the perpetration of an outrage. While such as Claude-”

“Claude is a fool,” Jean said.

“A madman,” Jacques echoed.

“It would be sheer folly,” said Jean, “to assassinate the Queen.”

“Before,” said Jacques, “our demands have been announced.”

“If they are then refused, it is another matter.”

“Then she would of course be killed. She would be tried, found guilty, and executed.”

“There is a difference between execution and assassination.”

“The difference between planned terrorism and madness.”

I looked at Emile, who looked substantially less alarmed than I felt he ought to. If these bright boys were his moderates, I didn’t want to have anything to do with his extremists.

“The longest journey begins with a single step,” he said.

“In the wrong direction?”

He sighed. “One takes things a step at a time, my friend. A step at a time. One must not be too intent on working out every little detail too far in advance. The picture can change, is it not so?” He drew on his pipe. “One has a vision, a picture of a bright tomorrow. But it is not sufficient merely to have a vision. One must take steps to achieve it.”

“I could not agree more. But-”

“But no. One takes steps. One feels one’s way, and when two forks in the road present themselves” – or even one fork, I thought – “one unerringly selects the right path. If the vision is always in sight, if the steps are certain-”

“If anything happens to Mrs. Battenberg, they’ll be able to bury Quebec in a matchbox.”

“Mrs. Battenberg? I do not-”

“Her married name. Before he changed it. The hell with it. I’m getting a headache.”

“You have been thinking too much.” He shook his head in reproach. “It is no time for thought, my comrade. We must plan.”

I honored that statement with a moment of silent devotion, and then we did in fact get down to the serious madness of planning Mrs. Battenberg’s abduction. One of the OAS lads unfolded a map, and we spread it out on the floor and huddled over it, tracing the route that the regal barge was virtually certain to take, noting the natural defenses that presented themselves, and taking into account everything but the tides and the signs of the zodiac in planning our ambush.

I got rather wrapped up in it.

Well, why not? It was an idiotic game, but it was also, as the gentleman said, the only game in town. If we were going to abduct the Queen of England, the least I could do was make sure the operation went off as well as it possibly could. If nothing else, I could try to ensure her being kidnaped instead of abducted. And I might be able to have her released safely.

And, when you came right down to it, wasn’t there a certain appeal, a certain unmistakable beauty, in the notion of kidnaping Britannia’s gentle sovereign? I could have a few words with her, no doubt. Not merely about Quebec but of other things as well. Like her abdicating in favor of Prince Rupert, for example. Or her restoring the six northern counties to the Republic of Ireland. Or-

Emile was absolutely correct. It was no time to think. It was a time to plan.

When Emile and the Berton Boys left, I made a fresh pot of coffee and rummaged through Arlette’s refrigerator and cupboards. Evidently the girl had solved the problem of what to do with leftovers; she chucked them out. I eventually gave up trying to find something already prepared and began improvising a pilaff of rice and onion and raisins. Arlette didn’t have many of the right sort of spices on hand – the dish could have done with a bit of coriander – but in cookery, as in secret agentry, one must work with the materials at hand. I ate well and drank more coffee and listened to the radio. The bright, clear, early morning gave way to deadly hot midday. I sat around perspiring, bathed, dressed, and began perspiring some more.

Then Arlette came back with color in her cheeks and a glint in her eye and a spring to her step. A few hours of simple inertia had taken more out of me than she had spent running around in the sun. “Ah, my Evan,” she said, and kissed me furiously. “But such a building! Three times I went through the Cuban Pavilion. If only all our membership and sympathizers could be led through that edifice. How formidable! What an inspiration!”

“So the socialist revolution appeals to you?”

“Socialism? I spit upon socialism. But does it matter? It is not the nature of revolutionary sentiment that makes the pavilion so exciting. It is the fervor of revolution itself. How dramatically it is portrayed! How the slogans scream at one, how one can hear within one’s head the chatter of machine guns and the roar of the bombs. An inspiration, Evan.”

“When one is in a revolutionary mood, any revolution will do.”

“Precisely.” She lit a Gauloise. “It took me until my third visit to overcome the emotional impact of the pavilion. I was transported, I could barely look for whatever it was that I sought. But then the effect of the displays dissipated for me. I was able to observe dispassionately. I think-”

“Yes?”

“You are right to be suspicious of the Cubans.”

“What are they doing?”

“I do not know.”

“But they’re doing something?”

“I am sure of it.” She drew on her cigarette. “I cannot tell you why I feel so, but the feeling is undeniable. The way the guards act, the way they glance here and there, something about them. The whole” – she gestured vacantly with both hands – “the entire atmosphere, the aura of the building itself. A sense that there was more to it than met the eye or ear. I am chattering like a silly woman-”

“No. I know what you mean.”

“But I did not actually see anything. Do you understand?” She hung her head. “I have found out nothing, in truth. Oh, Evan, I am worried about the girl, the poor little thing. It is not a good place to disappear, that pavilion. I sense it, I feel it. Of all the places where one might vanish, that is the last one I personally would select.”

I turned from her and walked to the window. It opened on an alleyway. I looked at the blank wall of the building opposite. I seemed to be looking at any number of blank walls lately, I thought. I cursed the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and I cursed Canadian Immigration and Customs and I saved special curses for the immortal soul of Jerzy Pryzeshweski. Minna was out there somewhere, and I ought to be out there looking for her, and instead I was cooped up in an apartment while everything went merrily to hell around me. A hot apartment, at that. A damned hot apartment. If I wanted to spend my time doing nothing, I could have stayed in my own hot apartment in Manhattan.

“You met with Emile, Evan?”

“Yes.”

“How did the planning go?”

I gave her a quick rundown on the ambush plans, and she listened more carefully than I spoke, because her heart was in it and mine was not. When I finished, we fell into a listless silence. She took a turn looking out the window, and I went over to the bed and stretched out on it. She came to me, lay down beside me. I did not kiss her.

“My poor Evan.”

“That’s where she disappeared, there’s no question about it. At that damned showplace of the revolution.”

“Cherished one.”

“And she wasn’t lost or strayed. She was stolen. I wonder.”

“What?”

I sat up. “Well, maybe they just like to kidnap people. Maybe that’s it. It’s an ideal setup for it, I suppose. A constant stream of visitors. They can single out the ones who seem to be alone and presumably won’t be missed. But-”

“But what?”

“But why?” I said. “Hell.” I got to my feet. “If we could both go there,” I said. “No, that’s out.”

“Why both of us?”

“One in front and one at the rear. One to count everyone entering the Cuban building and the other to count everyone leaving it. If more people go in than come out-”

“I see.”

“But it would be risky. In order to come up with anything remotely conclusive, we would have to stay at our posts for hours. Even if the police weren’t after me, I don’t think I could stay in one spot for that much time without someone noticing.”

“It would be difficult,” she admitted.

“You’d need a couple of people with a reason for being there. Ice cream vendors, something like that. But the concessions are too rigidly controlled, and an ice cream seller would be too busy selling ice cream anyway to keep an accurate count. I don’t see-”

“I have it.”

“What?”

“The boys.”

“Jean and Jacques?” I grinned. “Somehow I don’t think so. Their approach would be to storm the pavilion with fixed bayonets. They’d be very good at it, too, but I doubt that-”

“Not them. Seth and Randolph.”

“I don’t remember them.”

“You do not know them. They are not of the movement. They are Americans, like yourself. They-”

“It might not be a good idea to bring in any Americans, Arlette.”

“But they are different. They are – how do you call it? They run from the cold.”

“Huh?”

“Pardon. From the draft, the conscription.”

“Draft-dodgers?”

“But certainly.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “They are idealists, but of course, and very young and very sweet.”

“You know them rather well, Arlette.”

“But yes,” she said, and glanced involuntarily at the bed.

“Both of them?”

“They are my very fine friends.”

“Joan of Arc.”

“Ah, but it is only you I love, Evan.” She tucked her arm in mine. “I will call them. They will be perfect, I know they will. They can remain in one spot for hours and no one will pay them the slightest bit of attention. Better than the sellers of ice cream.”

“How?”

“You will see.”

She made a telephone call, telling the boys to come at once and bring their signs. I didn’t know what that meant, but before long they appeared and I found out.

Seth, the taller of the two, had brooding eyes and a full red beard. Randolph had shoulder-length hair and a scraggly mustache. And each wore a sign, sandwich-board affairs that covered them front and back from their shoulders to their knees. Randolph ’s sign said, Hey, hey, LJB, How Many Kids Did You Kill Today? Seth’s read, God Damn, Uncle Sam, Bring The Boys Home From Vietnam!

“I see what you mean,” I told Arlette. “Perfectly inconspicuous. Who would give them a second glance?”