The Blackbird

Fifteen

The truck stopped.

Grofield roused himself from a brown study. “We there?”

“No no,” Marba said, smiling. “We have a long way to go yet. We’re just stopping for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Grofield looked at his wrist, but his watch wasn’t there any more, it had gone away with his gabby clothing.

“Nearly one o’clock,” Marba said. “Shall we go?”

The others had already started to get out of the truck, and Grofield and Marba joined them, stepping down into cold clear sunlight on a quiet street in what looked like a neat New England town. Grofield said, “Am I allowed to know where I am?”

“Certainly. This is Roberval, on Lake Saint John. We’re about a hundred and seventy miles north of Quebec.”

“I don’t see the lake.”

“I believe it’s in that direction.”

“What’s north of here?”

“Very little. Woods, mountains, lakes.”

“Roads?”

Marba smiled. “All in good time,” he said, and took Grofield’s arm. “We’ll pay for lunch, of course.”

The restaurant was a smallish white clapboard building, converted from a private home. Three bearded men in hunting jackets sat in a corner sharing a bottle of red wine and speaking together in French. There had been ten people in the truck, nine in the back and the driver, and they now spread themselves over three tables, generally segregating themselves by race. There were three Orientals, and they sat at one table. The driver was a Caucasian, possibly an American, and he sat with the two Latin Americans. That left Marba and two other blacks, who took the table beside the window overlooking the side street where the truck was parked. Grofield joined this latter trio, staying close to Marba.

The waitress spoke only French, but it turned out to be a language Marba knew, so there was no trouble. Grofield chose a veal cutlet and asked, “Does your expense account cover wine?”

“I believe so,” Marba said, and ordered.

While waiting for their food, Grofield tried to start a conversation with the other two, but Marba said, “I’m sorry, they don’t speak English.”

Grofield looked at their stolid faces. They were both young and strong-looking, with burly shoulders and thick necks. Bodyguard types, who wouldn’t be expected to communicate with words. “They speak French?”

“No. Nothing but a dialect you wouldn’t have heard of.”

Grofield looked at him. “Would I have heard it on that tape?”

“Tape?” Marba looked blank.

“The one your people played for me.”

“Oh! Grofield, I’ve already assured you we didn’t murder your friend Carlson.”

“Have you listened to the tape?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you recognize the language?”

“Toward the end, do you mean?”

“While he was killing Carlson, I mean.”

Marba shook his head. “No, it wasn’t familiar to me. But I don’t believe it was an African language. It didn’t seem to be related to any of the African languages I know.”

Grofield looked around the room. “We’ve also got Asians,” he said. “And Latin Americans. And God knows what else.”

Marba smiled. “We could be termed heterogeneous,” he said. “But I will tell you that we played that section of tape for different members of our party, and none of them recognized it. It doesn’t appear to be an Oriental tongue, and it certainly isn’t Spanish or Portuguese or any dialect derived from them, which would eliminate Latin America.”

“You’ve eliminated the whole world,” Grofield said.

“Not entirely. Ah, here comes our wine.”

Grofield waited while the waitress poured wine into their glasses, and when she’d gone away again he said, “What part of the world is left?”

“A few corners,” Marba said, and sipped at the wine, “Quite good,” he said, and put the glass down. “Principally eastern Europe, of course,” he said. “And here comes lunch.”