They reached the staircase and started up the steps. Below on the right, the conservatively dressed, middle-aged operator was speaking quietly into the extended mouthpiece, nodding his gray-haired head almost wearily, as if assuring the party on the line that their world was as serene as it should be.
Bourne stopped on the seventh step, the pause involuntary. The back of the man’s head, the outline of the cheekbone, the sight of the thinning gray hair—the way it fell slightly over the ear; he had seen that man before! Somewhere. In the past, in the unremembered past, but remembered now in darkness … and with flashes of light. Explosions, mists; buffeting winds followed by silences filled with tension. What was it? Where was it? Why did the pain come to his eyes again? The gray-haired man began to turn in his swivel chair, Jason looked away before they made contact.
“I see monsieur is taken by our rather unique switchboard,” said Madame Lavier. “It’s a distinction we feel sets Les Classiques apart from the other shops on Saint-Honoré.”
“How so?” asked Bourne, as they proceeded up the steps, the pain in his eyes causing him to blink.
“When a client calls Les Classiques, the telephone is not answered by a vacuous female, but instead by a cultured gentleman who has all our information at his fingertips.”
“A nice touch.”
“Other gentlemen think so,” she added. “Especially when making telephone purchases they would prefer to keep confidential. There are no spoors in our forest, monsieur.”
They reached Jacqueline Lavier’s spacious office. It was the lair of an efficient executive, scores of papers in separate piles on the desk, an easel against the wall holding watercolor sketches, some boldly initialed, others left untouched, obviously unacceptable. The walls were filled with framed photographs of the Beautiful People, their beauty too often marred by gaping mouths and smiles as false as the one on the mask of the inhabitant of the office. There was a bitch quality in the perfumed air, these were the quarters of an aging, pacing tigress, swift to attack any who threatened her possessions or the sating of her appetites. Yet she was disciplined; all things considered, an estimable liaison to Carlos.
Who was that man on the switchboard? Where had he seen him?
He was offered a drink from a selection of bottles; he chose brandy.
“Do sit down, monsieur. I shall enlist the help of René himself, if I can find him.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m sure whatever you choose will be satisfactory. I have an instinct about taste; yours is all through this office. I’m comfortable with it.”
“You’re too generous.”
“Only when it’s warranted,” said Jason, still standing. “Actually, I’d like to look around at the photographs. I see a number of acquaintances, if not friends. A lot of these faces pass through the Bahamian banks with considerable frequency.”
“I’m sure they do,” agreed Lavier, in a tone that bespoke regard for such avenues of finance. “I shan’t be long, monsieur.”
Nor would she, thought Bourne, as Les Classiques’ partner swept out of the office. Mme. Lavier was not about to allow a tired, wealthy mark too much time to think. She would return with the most expensive designs she could gather up as rapidly as possible. Therefore, if there was anything in the room that could shed light on Carlos’ intermediary—or on the assassin’s operation—it had to be found quickly. And, if it was there, it would be on or around the desk.
Jason circled behind the imperial chair in front of the wall, feigning amused interest in the photographs, but concentrating on the desk. There were invoices, receipts, and overdue bills, along with dunning letters of reprimand awaiting Lavier’s signature. An address book lay open, four names on the page; he moved closer to see more clearly. Each was the name of a company, the individual contacts bracketed, his or her positions underlined. He wondered if he should memorize each company, each contact. He was about to do so when his eyes fell on the edge of an index card. It was only the edge; the rest was concealed under the telephone itself. And there was something else—dull, barely discernible. A strip of transparent tape, running along the edge of the card, holding it in place. The tape itself was relatively new, recently stuck over the heavy paper and the gleaming wood; it was clean, no smudges or coiled borders or signs of having been there very long.
Instinct.
Bourne picked up the telephone to move it aside. It rang, the bell vibrating through his hand, the shrill sound unnerving. He replaced it on the desk and stepped away as a man in shirtsleeves rushed through the open door from the corridor. He stopped, staring at Bourne, his eyes alarmed but noncommittal. The telephone rang a second time; the man walked rapidly to the desk and picked up the receiver.
“Allô?” There was silence as the intruder listened, head down, concentration on the caller. He was a tanned, muscular man of indeterminate age, the sun-drenched skin disguising the years. His face was taut, his lips thin, his close-cropped hair thick, dark brown, and disciplined. The sinews of his bare arms moved under the flesh as he transferred the phone from one hand to the other, speaking harshly. “Pas ici. Sais pas. Téléphonez plus tard …” He hung up and looked at Jason. “Où est Jacqueline?”
“A little slower, please,” said Bourne, lying in English. “My French is limited.”
“Sorry,” replied the bronzed man. “I was looking for Madame Lavier.”
“The owner?”
“The title will suffice. Where is she?”
“Depleting my funds.” Jason smiled, raising his glass to his lips.
“Oh? And who are you, monsieur?”
“Who are you?”
The man studied Bourne. “René Bergeron.”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Jason. “She’s looking for you. You’re very good, Mr. Bergeron. She said I was to look upon your designs as the work of an emerging master.” Bourne smiled again. “You’re the reason I may have to wire the Bahamas for a great deal of money.”
“You’re most kind, monsieur. And I apologize for barging in.”
“Better that you answered that phone than me. Berlitz considers me a failure.”
“Buyers, suppliers, all screaming idiots. To whom, monsieur, do I have the honor of speaking?’
“Briggs,” said Jason, having no idea where the name came from, astonished that it came so quickly, so naturally. “Charles Briggs.”
“A pleasure to know you.” Bergeron extended his hand; the grip was firm. “You say Jacqueline was looking for me?”
“On my behalf, I’m afraid.”
“I shall find her.” The designer left quickly.
Bourne stepped to the desk, his eyes on the door, his hand on the telephone. He moved it to the side, exposing the index card. There were two telephone numbers, the first recognizable as a Zurich exchange, the second obviously Paris.
Instinct. He had been right, a strip of transparent tape the only sign he had needed. He stared at the numbers, memorizing them, then moved the telephone back in place and stepped away.
He had barely managed to clear the desk when Madame Lavier swept back into the room, a half dozen dresses over her arm. “I met René on the steps. He approves of my selections most enthusiastically. He also tells me your name is Briggs, monsieur.”
“I would have told you myself,” said Bourne, smiling back, countering the pout in Lavier’s voice. “But I don’t think you asked.”
“ ‘Spoors in the forest,’ monsieur. Here, I bring you a feast!” She separated the dresses, placing them carefully over several chairs. “I truly believe these are among the finest creations René has brought us.”
“Brought you? He doesn’t work here then?”
“A figure of speech; his studio’s at the end of the corridor, but it is a holy sacristy. Even I tremble when I enter.”
“They’re magnificent,” continued Bourne, going from one to another. ‘But I don’t want to overwhelm her, just pacify her,” he added, pointing out three garments. “I’ll take these.”
“A fine selection, Monsieur Briggs!”
“Box them with the others, if you will.”
“Of course. She is, indeed, a fortunate lady.”
“A good companion, but a child. A spoiled child, I’m afraid. However, Ire been away a lot and haven’t paid much attention to her, so I guess I should make peace. It’s one reason I sent her to Cap-Ferrat.” He smiled, taking out his Louis Vuitton billfold. “La facture, si’il vous plaît?”
“I’ll have one of the girls expedite everything.” Madame Lavier pressed a button on the intercom next to the telephone. Jason watched closely, prepared to comment on the call Bergeron had answered in the event the woman’s eyes settled on a slightly out-of-place phone. “Faites venir Janine—avec les robes. La facture aussi.” She stood up. “Another brandy, Monsieur Briggs?”
“Merci bien.” Bourne extended his glass; she took it and walked to the bar. Jason knew the time had not yet arrived for what he had in mind; it would come soon—as soon as he parted with money—but not now. He could, however, continue building a foundation with the managing partner of Les Classiques. “That fellow Bergeron,” he said. “You say he’s under exclusive contract to you?”