Free The Venetian Affair by Helen MacInnes Page A

to have been advance notice on that. Why not, I wonder?”
    “It was left lying in someone’s in-tray too long,” Carlson suggested. He wasn’t so amused, but he had old Rosie back to normal.
    “They missed you, I guess. When do you return?”
    “Soon.”
    “Oh, you’ve got everything sewed up on your film producer?”
    “Yes and no. I’ve found out a lot. But it’s not enough.”
    “Who says so?”
    “I do. There’s something deeper—”
    “What? I thought you did a pretty good analysis in depth. You know him better than the men who made out his life history for him.”
    “Perhaps there’s a lot they don’t know either.”
    “You mean he is really a big wheel?”
    “If I could find out his real name, I could answer that.”
    “You can’t trace it?” Rosenfeld was astounded. “That really makes him very interesting.”
    Carlson nodded. “I’ll bequeath him to you, once you get the problem of Sandra Fane worked out. By the way, how much did you tell Fenner?”
    “A certain amount, to enlist his co-operation. But it wasn’t enough, obviously.” Rosenfeld frowned and shook his head. “He won’t talk, though. He has learned to keep his mouth shut. Don’t worry about that.”
    “So what’s worrying you about him?”
    “I’m just hurt,” Rosenfeld said with a broad grin. “He doesn’t take us seriously.” He pulled a note from his pocket. “Fenner slipped this into my hand when we said goodbye. Hethought you’d want it back, so that you could burn it and save yourself extra work in searching Dade’s trash basket tonight.”
    “Indeed?” Carlson’s usual quick phrase deserted him. He took the note he had sent Fenner about the coat. He rose, saying, “Keep in touch, will you? I’d like to know how this puzzle ends.”
    “I’ll keep in touch,” Rosie promised. “And thanks for the help.”
    “Thank our critic,” said Carlson wryly, and departed.
    Rosenfeld glanced at his watch and called for his check. Time to get back to the office and be waiting for that woman’s telephone call. Who was she? Dade might have told him. He must have known who she was or else he wouldn’t have given her Rosenfeld’s number. People had odd ways of figuring out the limits of their actions: I’ll give Rosie’s number because this may be important; but if she changes her mind—as women do—and doesn’t call Rosie, then let’s leave her anonymous, and Rosie can’t try to reach her. And if that was the way Dade had figured it, the woman must be pretty important, too. For Rosie, happily married, didn’t go around trying to telephone women unless they were interesting. And “interesting” in Rosie’s vocabulary did not mean glamorous.

6
    Bill Fenner took a taxi to get him across the Seine and along the stretch of tree-lined quays that marked the river’s left bank. He got out near the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, was tempted to loiter among the bookstalls across the street, even sit under the coolness of the green leaves and watch the sun-speckled water swirl past the Louvre’s grey eminence. But there were only twenty minutes to Vaugiroud: ten minutes of walking, ten minutes of margin to find Number 7, Rue Jean-Calas. So he turned to his right, and headed south on a street that was long and narrow and, more importantly for his purpose, remarkably straight.
    It led him, at a good quick pace, past a sprinkling of antique shops and small studios where art objects were displayed or made. Here and there a bakery, with the sweet warm smell of new loaves; little bookstores to remind man that he did not live by bread alone. And everywhere were the people who lived or worked in this quarter: craftsmen out of their workshops fora breath of air; students with books or portfolios of drawings; thick-waisted housewives clopping along in heelless sandals; thin-legged, button-eyed children, carrying pikes of bread as tall as themselves; two sculptors in clay-smeared smocks; girls with alert faces, fine eyes,