The Venetian Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

disastrous. “So Walt Penneyman came over himself to see what it was all about?”
    “Found out nothing, of course. None of us could. If he had paid attention to my reports, he could have saved himself a journey.”
    If Ballard imagined that Penneyman had lost interest in finding out, he couldn’t be very much in Penneyman’s confidence. It was just as well, Fenner decided, that Mike Ballard’s garrulity had interrupted his remark on Professor Vaugiroud. “Well,” he said, “Walt Penneyman has always been a great Francophile. You can’t blame him for being upset when his favourite foreigners seemed to be spitting right in America’s eye.”
    “Oh,” Ballard said with a laugh, “it would have all ironed out anyway.” And he really believed that. It made crises easier to bear, perhaps. Certainly it made life simpler. “Walt Penneyman fusses too much. Well—here’s the hotel. I’ll see you in and if you ask me to stay for a cup of coffee, I won’t refuse. Can’t wait long, though. I’ve got to clear some things up at the office and catch a plane by noon. No, this is mine!” He had his black crocodile wallet out with a flourish. Changed days, Fenner thought as Ballard paid their driver, changed days from New York and Ballard’s dogged news coverage over atthe United Nations when he had always looked as if he needed a good square meal, a haircut, and still more information. “Don’t worry about your luggage,” Ballard was telling him. “This place really takes care of its guests.”
    Fenner repressed his amusement. Was he just the New York country boy come to town? He gave a last look at the Place de la Concorde, with its sea of cars flowing in a steady surge, their chrome and glass flickering like the ripple of small dancing waves in the early sunlight. The man-made sea with its man-made roar, he thought: I’ll probably end up as a true country boy on a Vermont farm.
    “There’s no place like it,” Ballard said at his elbow as they crossed the broad sidewalk, newly watered and swept. He looked around at his adopted city with proprietary pleasure. “Ever think of coming to work here?”
    “No.”
    But Ballard didn’t quite believe him. He is coming up for that cup of coffee, Fenner thought, just to make sure where I stand with Penneyman. How do I make it clear that I’ve no interest in his job without showing him I know the real reason why he met me at the airport? This called for more tact than he felt capable of mustering after a night journey. Besides, he was handicapped by a qualm of memory: Walt’s words, yesterday, at the end of their meeting. “You used to be good at finding the threads of a story, Bill. Never feel the itch to get back to international politics again? No? Well, enjoy your trip. Call me as soon as you’ve talked with Vaugiroud.” He had thought nothing of that casual question at the time. Now, it had taken on more meaning. So had the Vaugiroud assignment. Was Walt Penneyman trying to make him feel that itch again?
    “There’s no place like it,” Ballard was repeating.
    “It has its points,” Fenner agreed, his eyes following two pretty girls for a brief but adequate moment. Two very pretty girls, neatly cinched at the waist, dark hair piled high, slender legs under floating skirts.
    Ballard said, “I’m old-fashioned in one thing: I still prefer blondes. By the way, did you know your wife was living in Paris?”
    Fenner’s step hesitated. Then he went in through the giant doorway, past the elegant waiting-rooms and the colonnades and the elevators. Behind him, Ballard greeted someone in the lobby, stopped to speak. Fenner had finished all the usual routine at the reception desk before Ballard rejoined him.
    “Sorry about that,” Ballard said awkwardly.
    “I had no trouble. You laid it on well.”
    “About Sandra, I meant.” There was no malice, only curiosity glancing out of his dark eyes. “I thought I’d better tip you off, in case you ran into