The Aquitaine Progression by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page B

heard your name and I’ve been worried sick! Where have you
been?
”
    “Answering a lot of unanswerable questions down at police headquarters.”
Questions that were answerable, but not by him, not to the authorities in Geneva. Avery Fowler—Preston Halliday—deserved better than that. A trust had been given, and been accepted in death
.
    “Christ, you’re drenched!” cried Henri, intense concern in his eyes. “You’ve been walking in the rain, haven’t you? There were no taxis?”
    “I didn’t look, I wanted to walk.”
    “Of course, the shock, I understand. I’ll send up some brandy, some decent Armagnac. And dinner, perhaps I’ll release your table at the Gentilshommes.”
    “Thanks. Give me thirty minutes and have your switchboard get New York for me, will you? I never seem to dial it right.”
    “Joel?”
    “What?”
    “Can I help? Is there something you should tell me? We have won and lost together over too many
grand cru
bottlesfor you to go alone when you don’t have to. I know Geneva, my friend.”
    Converse looked into the wide brown eyes, at the lined face, rigid in its concern. “Why do you say that?”
    “Because you so quickly denied the police reports of cocaine, what else? I watched you. There was more in what you said than what you said.”
    Joel blinked, and for a moment shut his eyelids tight, the strain in the middle of his forehead acute. He took a deep breath and replied. “Do me a favor, Henri, and don’t speculate. Just get me an overseas line in a half-hour, okay?”
    “
Entendu, monsieur
,” said the Frenchman. “
Le concierge du Richemond
is here only to serve her guests, special guests accorded special service, of course.… I’m here if you need me, my friend.”
    “I know that. If I turn a wrong card, I’ll let you know.”
    “If you have to turn
any
card in Switzerland, call me. The suits vary with the players.”
    “I’ll remember that. Thirty minutes? A line?”
    “
Certainement, monsieur
.”
    The shower was as hot as his skin could tolerate, the steam filling his lungs, cutting short the breath in his throat. He then forced himself to endure an ice-cold spray until his head shivered. He reasoned that the shock of extremes might clear his mind, at least reduce the numbness. He had to think; he had to decide; he had to listen.
    He came out of the bathroom, his white terrycloth robe blotting the residue of the shower, and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers on the floor beside the bed. He removed his cigarettes and lighter from the bureau top, and walked into the sitting room. The concerned Henri had been true to his word; on the coffee table a floor steward had placed a bottle of expensive Armagnac and two glasses for appearance, not function. He sat down on the soft, pillowed couch, poured himself a drink, and lighted a cigarette. Outside, the heavy August rain pounded the casement windows, the tattoo harsh and unrelenting. He looked at his watch; it was a few minutes past six—shortly past noon in New York. Joel wondered if Henri had been able to get a clear transatlantic line. The lawyer in Converse wanted to hear the words spoken from New York, words that would either confirm or deny a dead man’s revelation. It had been twenty-five minutes since Henri hadstopped him on the staircase; he would wait another five and call the switchboard.
    The telephone rang, the blaring, vibrating European bell unnerving him. He reached for the phone on the table next to the couch; his breath was short and his hand trembled. “Yes? Hello?”
    “New York calling, monsieur,” said the hotel operator. “It’s your office. Should I cancel the call listed for six-fifteen?”
    “Yes, please. And thank you.”
    “Mr.
Converse?
” The intense, high-pitched voice belonged to Lawrence Talbot’s secretary.
    “Hello, Jane.”
    “Good God, we’ve been trying to reach you since ten o’clock! Are you all
right?
We heard the news then, around ten. It’s all so