Castle in the Air Read online

  "You," Angelo told her, "are a female impersonator." And he turned and walked away.

  26

  In the parking garage where first the gang had assembled, in the lowest parking level deep, deep beneath the city, the twice-stolen truck rumbled at last to a stop. Rudi and Vito and Jean, all very cheerful, hopped down from the back. "We'll unload and make the split right here," Jean said, and turned to see the truck in motion again. "Wait!" he yelled.

  In the truck cab, Lida looked at Eustace in some astonishment. "Eustace? Our friends aren't with us."

  "Dear, dear," Eustace said.

  "Stop!" yelled Jean and Rudi and Vito, in three languages, but the truck didn't stop. They ran after it, and the truck made a great sweeping U-turn in the nearly empty concrete space, and roared away again up the ramp it had just come down. The three men, knowing it was hopeless, stopped running at the base of the ramp and looked upward, hearing the truck engine quickly fade into silence.

  "Bastard!" Vito yelled, shaking his fist at emptiness. "You took me out of retirement for this?"

  Quietly, to the air, Rudi said, "I never trusted him. Never."

  In English, Jean told the other two, "We can't let him get away with this."

  "We have to follow him," Vito told the other two, "and murder him seven different ways, and get our money back."

  "We have to get even somehow," Rudi told the other two.

  Switching to French, Jean said, "We three will have to work together. We are all of us competent criminals in our own right, after all."

  Emphatically, Rudi said, "Now we'll have to work together."

  "We'll have to make plans together," Vito said.

  Silence. The three men looked at one another expectantly. Gradually their confidence and determination faded away, and they finished by staring at one another in bewilderment.

  Jean broke the unhappy silence. In English he said, "Neither of you speaks English?" And in French, "Not French either?"

  Sadly shaking his head, Vito said, "Did neither of you study Italian in school?"

  Rudi looked from face to face. "You have no German?"

  Silence again, broken again by Jean: "How-"

  Rudi: "When-"

  Vito: "What-"

  Another silence, and this time a kind of fatalism gradually overtook all three. They began to smile and shrug at one another, as though to say what-the-hell. With many rueful smiles and shrugs and hand gestures, they shook hands all around, and waved, and slowly backed away from one another.

  "Au revoir," said Jean.

  "Auf wiedersehen," said Rudi.

  "Ciao," said Vito.

  27

  With great concentration Eustace drove the stolen truck filled with stolen goods northward across Paris, while Lida continued to frown at him, in doubt and worry. At last she said, "Eustace?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Aren't we giving the others any money?"

  Eustace smiled, and patted her knee. "More for us," he said.

  "But that isn't proper!"

  Regretfully, Eustace said, "I have to tell you something, Lida. The others all meant to cheat you."

  Wide-eyed, she stared at him: "What?"

  "Those were all hardened criminals, my dear," he told her. "Every last one of them. We had to have such people, of course, to do the job."

  "Yes, of course," said the beautiful revolutionary.

  "But the only way they'd agree to work," Eustace told her, "was if I promised we'd keep all the money for ourselves, and not give halfback to Yerbadoro."

  "What? The people's money?"

  "I know, I know. The sweat of their brows."

  "How could anyone be so low?"

  "Well," Eustace said sadly, "when you associate with the criminal class, that's what you have to expect."

  Frowning, Lida said, "Even that nice Sir Mortimer?"

  "Him especially. 'Money is wasted on the poor,' he always says. 'That's why God gave it all to the rich.' "

  Her expression becoming tender, Lida said, "Oh, Eustace. And you saved it for the peasants."

  "They were never out of my mind," he said, giving her knee another little squeeze. "But here we are," he added, and braked the truck to a stop in front of an old stone building with a large garage-type entrance shut with two big green wooden doors.

  Lida frowned out at the building. "What is this?"

  "A special place," Eustace told her, taking the keys from the ignition. "A hideout nobody knows about." And he stepped out of the truck.

  Lida didn't move. She looked out, seeing that they had come to a deserted steep narrow street in Montmartre, with no pedestrians and no traffic. Eustace came around to open her door for her, but she still didn't move. Frowning now at Eustace, she said, "But why do we have to hide? Why don't we go to the police?"

  In a hurry to get himself and the truck undercover, Eustace impatiently said, "Because, my dear, we're hiding from the police."

  "But why?"

  Accepting the fact that he would have to give the girl an explanation, Eustace spoke with controlled haste: "Because," he said, "if we're caught with this part of the castle, the police will give it back to your President Lynch."

  "But why?"

  "Technically," Eustace reminded her, "it belongs to him. Now, come along, dear."

  Still dubious, Lida at last stepped down out of the truck and walked with Eustace to the green garage doors, saying, "But shouldn't we get out of Paris, then?"

  "Tomorrow," Eustace told her. "Our former friends are all over the city right now, so we should go to ground. We'll be perfectly safe here, I arranged this place myself. Nobody else knows about it." And Eustace pulled open the big green door to show Herman standing there, a savage smile on his face.

  "So, Eustace," Herman said, "we meet again."

  "Ack!" said Eustace, recoiling, throwing his hands up defensively. The truck keys, still in his right hand, leaped out of his grip and sailed up into the air, winking in the sunlight. Herman and Eustace both gaped at the keys rising through the air, but it was Lida who launched herself upward like a collie catching a rubber ball, snatched the keys at the apogee of their climb, and landed running.

  For a second longer, both men merely stared, as Lida raced rapidly but gracefully away; then Herman brushed Eustace out of his way and went loping off after the girl like a wolf after a deer. "Wait!" cried Eustace, and joined the chase.

  Lida made a turn at the corner, ran uphill, ran downhill, made another turn, and all at once she was in Montmartre Cemetery, a hilly ancient necropolis so crowded it gives the impression its citizens are buried standing up. Rushing in among the stones and mausoleums, Lida quickly was lost to sight.

  Herman, still wolflike, entered the cemetery and quartered this way and that, as though trying to recapture a lost scent. Eustace, winded, barely entered the cemetery before coming to a stop and leaning against a handy statue of a saint inexplicably holding a sword and a pineapple. When he'd caught his breath, Eustace shouted, "Lida! Look out for him, he's after you!"

  No response. Amid the tall stones, statues, narrow outhouselike mausoleums, Eustace caught occasional glimpses of Herman, inexorably moving, but of Lida he could see nothing. "Lida!" he shouted. "Head back this way, we'll fight him off together! Come around this way. Throw me the keys!"

  Again there was no response from Lida, but now Herman, too, began to call out, in a hoarse but penetrating voice: "Lida!" he shouted, "listen to me! I came back to help you! Eustace meant to rob you!"

  "He's a liar!" Eustace yelled. "Who could believe him? He's already betrayed us once!"

  "That was to protect the money for you and Yerbadoro!" yelled Herman. "I knew what they planned to do, all of them!"

  "Lida!" cried Eustace. "We've been together from the beginning! You know you can believe me!"

  "I am an officer and a gentleman!" roared Herman. "You can rely on me totally!"

  "You've been safe with me, Lida!"

  "Don't let Eustace catch you, Lida! He's des
perate!"

  A flash of color; both men saw it at once, and it was Lida, climbing over the low wall, picturesque with bird-droppings. "Lida!" both men yelled, and both ran forward, and Lida was off again, racing like a rabbit on the cobblestone street, back in the direction she'd come from.

  The truck was still parked at the now-open green door. Lida came around the corner below it, raced to the truck, and Herman appeared behind her, running hard; then Eustace, panting hard and weaving from side to side.

  Lida jumped into the truck, fumbling with the keys, but there wasn't time to start the engine; Herman's image filled the rearview mirror. Frantic, Lida released the brake and clutch, and the truck rolled backward, rapidly gaining speed on the steep street.

  Herman leaped toward the truck as it approached, but then had to leap again, out of its way, as it juggenauted by, Lida trying to steer one-handed backward while straining her terrified head out the window. Eustace, staggering uphill, looked up to see the truck descending on him like a fly swatter on a fly; with a shriek, Eustace flung himself to the side and plastered himself against a wall as the truck thundered past.

  When Eustace could next focus, it was to see the truck whipping away backwards around a corner, while in the other direction Herman was hurriedly inserting himself into a small black Simca. Shaky but determined, Eustace unpeeled himself from the wall, ran across the street, and clambered into the passenger seat of the Simca just as Herman was starting its engine.

  Herman glared, without friendliness. "Get out of here," he said. "I stole it, it's mine."

  "I'm going with you," Eustace said. "Period."

  There was really no time for Herman to argue the point. "Tchah," Herman said, in lieu of discussion, and spun the wheel. The Simca made a teetering U-turn and hurried after the truck.

  Which had plummeted around another corner and was now backing rapidly upward, up another narrow street, which came to an abrupt end in midair, with a railing and a flight of stone steps downward. Lida, gaping backward, saw this sudden terminus of street, gave a despairing cry, and huddled down into the seat, eyes squeezed shut, hands over face.

  The upgrade slowed the truck, slowed it, and at the very edge of the precipice the truck banged gently against the iron railing, stopped, paused a millisecond, and began to roll forward.

  On the next street, Eustace was pointing, saying, "She turned that way."

  "I know," Herman said, and savagely spun the wheel, and the Simca roared around the corner to find the truck now racing forward, zooming down the street, knifing straight down at the Simca. "Mein Gott!" cried Herman, steering a thousand ways at once, while in the truck cab Lida could be seen struggling to insert the key in the ignition, paying no attention to steering or speed or anything else.

  Herman got most of the Simca out of the way; most, but not all. The truck, en passant, nicked the Simca's left rear fender, clipping it just enough at exactly the moment when Herman had decided to turn sharply leftward, that as the truck roared on, its engine at last coughing into life, the Simca very slowly, very gracefully, almost casually, fell over on its right side.

  28

  Pedestrians passing the ground floor offices of the Paris-based International Herald Tribune can look through the plate glass window imprinted in gold with the paper's name and see within a traditional newspaper office, with many desks and few workers and much buzzing purposeful activity. All of this activity, however, came to an abrupt stop when without warning a truck came crashing and smashing through that plate glass window, trampled a couple of empty desks, and jolted to a stop half-in and half-out of the office.

  The newspeople stared. A pin was heard to drop.

  The truck door opened, and a shaky but triumphant Lida stepped out onto the running board. Gathering her strength, she raised an arm in a clenched-fist salute and gave voice: "Long live Yerbadoro!"

  29

  Fortunately, a photographer in the Tribune's offices that day had been quick-witted enough to snap a picture of Lida in that moment of victory, creating an unforgettable and prizewinning image of Girl Revolutionary Rampant, a somewhat stylized drawing of which, superimposed with the word YERBADORO above and the words CORREO AEREO-1000 PESERINAS below, appeared on the stamp on the envelope containing the letter which, ten months later, a smiling Eustace read in the back seat of his limousine, traveling along Boulevard St. Germain in Paris's Left Bank. The letter read:

  Dear Eustace,

  Well, now that Manuel and I are back from our honeymoon, I am content to be merely a housewife from now on. Manuel has completely gotten over his distress and unhappiness, caused by that long dreadful wait in the hotel room alone and friendless, never knowing what was going on, and he has now happily settled down to his Congressional duties.

  I'm so glad, Eustace, that our political influence helped to free you and your friends from prison, and I hope you have made wise investments with the reward money our new government gave you. You know, in spite of everything, I still am fond of every one of you.

  Yours, for a progressive Yerbadoro,

  Lida

  "Ah, Lida," Eustace murmured, with another smile, and he tucked the letter back into its envelope, paused for a moment to study the dear girl's face on the stamp, then pocketed the envelope as the limousine came to a stop at the canopied entrance of a very elegant, very expensive, tres chic restaurant, its name emblazoned on the canopy: Le Yerbadoro. Eustace waited, and his chauffeur-Bruddy, in fact-came around to open the door for him. Eustace emerged, smiled genially at the world around himself, and said, "I think-ten tonight, Bruddy."

  Nothing would ever make Bruddy actually deferential, but his manner was at least calm and obliging as he said, "Right," did not quite touch his uniform cap, and drove the limousine away.

  Eustace approached the restaurant's entrance, where Jean, resplendent in his doorman's uniform, stood holding open the door. "Afternoon, Jean," said Eustace.

  "Afternoon, Eustace. Lovely day."

  "Lovely."

  Eustace entered the restaurant and smiled upon the cashier, who happened to be Maria Lynch, one-time first lady of Yerbadoro, wife of the former El Presidente. Discreet enquiries and delicate negotiations had been necessary before Escobar and Maria Lynch had been persuaded to join Eustace and the others, but it was only sensible for the forces to combine, and in the end sensibility won the day. The Lynches' hidden hoard had been lost to them forever, but there was still the rest of the castle, containing much of value. The Lynches held title, Eustace and company held the castle, and a meeting of minds was seen to be possible.

  "Lovely day," Eustace told Maria, who was at the moment frowning in disapproval at a stack of checks from lunch. She looked up, transferring her frown to Eustace: "Going to rain tomorrow," she said.

  "Ah, well, perhaps," said Eustace, and passed on into the restaurant proper, a plush, hushed room with a distinct South American flavor. The last of the luncheon diners were gone, the first of the dinner diners had not as yet arrived, and to one side headwaiter Herman was speaking very severely to his staff of waiters: Rudi, Angelo, Vito and Otto. "Last night," Herman was saying, marching stiffly back and forth before his troops, "there were three complaints about delays in service. Tonight we shall do better. You will do better, and you will smile." Eustace moved on, just glancing in at the bar, where Andrew and Sir Mortimer were already at work, preparing for the evening's custom. Continuing, Eustace passed the blackly gleaming grand piano, where Charles, in a tuxedo, tickled the ivories while chatting with Renee, the cigarette girl. Beyond, Eustace opened the kitchen door and glanced in, seeing Rosa, in chefs cap and apron, yelling at her Portuguese staff in every language she knew and some she didn't.

  Eustace closed the door again and continued to the very rear of the restaurant, where the sommelier, Escobar Diaz McMahon Grande Pajaro Lynch, ex-El Presidente of Yerbadoro, stood frowning at a bottle of wine. Eustace said, "Everything all right?"

  "Perhaps not," said Escobar. "I think this St. Emilion
has started to turn."

  "Then don't give it to any Frenchmen," Eustace said. "Scandinavians, English and Americans only."

  Escobar was too professional to be insulted. "Of course," he said, and put the bottle down.

  Smiling, Eustace turned to survey his domain. "You know," he said, "I would never have guessed it, but there is something pleasant about being an honest man."