Venom Business Page 5

  The worst customs officials were the young ones, new to their jobs, careful and meticulous, searching for the slightest irregularity. The older men were secure in their jobs, softened by many years of monotonous work, and geared to discover only minor infractions. They were looking for suspicious characters, and for suspects who might be smuggling out only a few commodities—money, diamonds, heroin, marijuana, cameras, and watches. But nothing more.

  Certainly nothing big: that was the secret of Raynaud’s success. The smuggling of large articles was a bygone craft. Mostly, it was done by sea. Nobody had the guts to carry something large through a major international airport, or a border crossing.

  As a result, border officials did not expect large smuggled items. Certainly nothing so large as a woman, like the one Raynaud had taken from Switzerland to Montreal. That had been an unusual assignment; the girl was Austrian, blond, and very beautiful. She was the mistress of a Canadian aluminum processor who had met her one winter in Baden. Unfortunately the industrialist was married and could not bring the girl over openly; Raynaud had been hired, through a friend, to see that the girl got to Canada as a naturalized citizen.

  Raynaud accepted the assignment and considered various possible approaches; however, after meeting the girl he decided that marriage was the most reasonable solution. He married her for a period of twenty-four days, enjoyed himself thoroughly, and deposited her on the industrialist’s doorstep after obtaining a rather unusual annulment. The industrialist was furious, but unfortunately he had paid in advance.

  Raynaud made fifty thousand dollars on that transaction. He also contracted a painful illness and considered cabling the industrialist to that effect, but decided not to since the man had been so unpleasant.

  At the time, fifty thousand dollars had seemed like a lot of money. Now it was routine: five or six times a year he took on jobs as large, or larger. He had met discriminating collectors, and demanding ones. It was no longer possible to deal in low-grade merchandise; these men wanted gold, silver, and jade pieces—and were willing to pay for them.

  Men, for example, like Houghton Graham.

  3. GRAHAM

  “YOU’RE LATE,” HE SAID, in a disgruntled voice. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

  He sat like a small animal curled up in a leather chair at the far end of a vast library, which occupied nearly the entire floor of the mansion. His voice was muffled by the books that covered every wall, from floor to ceiling.

  “Come closer,” Houghton Graham said. “I can’t see you from a distance.”

  Raynaud approached. Graham watched him with bright, intense eyes. He was an old man, past seventy, and very pale. He was short, with a delicate thin body and a long birdlike neck. His face was heavily creased; beneath his chin hung folds of loose flesh which made him look rather like a turkey. The folds quivered as Graham spoke.

  “Please sit down. You look well.” He smiled wanly. “I have been looking forward to your arrival; there is a party tonight.”

  Raynaud sat down. “In my honor?”

  “Ostensibly.” Graham chuckled. “In fact, it is to celebrate the demise of the Duchess of Wooster, who died one year ago today. A grand occasion. Did you know her?”

  Raynaud shook his head.

  “Nasty woman,” Graham said. “Wouldn’t let poor Edgar drink, while he was alive. Killed him off at an early age. At least, what seems to me an early age.”

  Graham sat forward. Though it was a hot May day, a fire blazed in the fireplace.

  “Ah,” Graham said, rubbing his hands. “You’ll have to excuse me. I can’t seem to keep warm any more. Did you say brandy?”

  “Yes,” Raynaud said. He had learned years before that Graham drank brandy, day and night, and disapproved of anyone who did not.

  “Good. Excellent.” The old man’s voice was crisp and surprisingly strong. It was the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders, but then Houghton Graham was one of the most phenomenally successful authors of the twentieth century.

  He watched as Graham poured from a crystal decanter into two snifters. The man had a delicate, almost feminine way of moving. He was graceful as only a small man can be.

  “To your health,” Graham said.

  “To yours,” Raynaud said.

  They drank, and Graham walked to the window, where he could look out over the vineyards that surrounded his mansion. He had bought it twenty years ago, a cavernous house in the wine country south and west of Paris.

  “No indeed,” he said, “my health does not need toasting. I am sorry to say that my doctor visited me yesterday and informed me I would live to be a hundred.” He allowed himself a slight smile. “Damn his black medical soul.”

  “I should think it’s good news.”

  “Ummm,” Graham said, swirling the brandy in his glass. “You’re young, that’s the reason. When you’re young, you want to live forever, but you’ll get over that.” He smiled again, as if inwardly amused by something. “Where are you staying?”

  “The George Cinq.”

  “Good God, Charles. You mustn’t. Move out immediately. The only people who stay in the George Cinq are alcoholic dukes and internationally known, sexually depraved actresses.” He snorted. “Move out at once. Did you have a good trip over?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  “No trouble with customs?”

  “None.”

  “It must be very dull, being a customs officer. Watching people come and go, moving about. And always you just standing there. Ghastly dull. I have always thought the most boring job in the universe is held by Saint Peter. Can you imagine being the customs officer of heaven? A hellish fate. You’re much fatter, Charles.”

  “Not really.” Raynaud smiled.

  “You must be prospering.”

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Read any good books lately?”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I,” Graham said. “In desperation I have taken to reading labels of things: wine labels, catsup labels, directions for canned soups. It’s the only interesting reading left.”

  Raynaud said, “Do you want to see what I’ve brought you?”

  “Not now. First lunch. I am already hungry, and looking at anything beautiful always makes me famished. I suppose,” he said with a frown, “that the psychiatrists could make something sexual of that. But then, psychiatrists always can.”

  They had lunch on the terrace at the rear of the house, looking out over the vineyards. The meal was simple, chicken with tarragon cooked in a cream sauce, but carefully done. They had two bottles of wine, and afterward, smoked cigars.

  “You know,” Graham said, “I’ve never asked you how you feel about smuggling.”

  “Dastardly business,” Raynaud said.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  Raynaud puffed the cigar and paused a moment. “Actually, I like it.”

  “You give that impression,” Graham said, nodding. “Does it amuse you very much?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “And what else do you do, Charles?”

  Raynaud frowned. He sipped his wine and set the glass down. “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, what other kinds of work.”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged.

  “I know all about that absurd snake business you pretend in Mexico.”

  Raynaud was stunned, but he did not blink. “Oh?”

  “A friend.” Graham smiled. “He spoke of it.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  Graham wagged a finger. “Secret.”

  He leaned back from the table and looked at Raynaud for a long moment.

  “You see, Charles, I always had a rather simple view of you. A straightforward person. Smuggles a bit, makes a lot of money, has a bit of fun and adventure. Enjoys playing two roles. That sat quite comfortably with me for a long time.”

  “But now your view has changed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The party
tonight,” Graham said.

  “What about it?”

  “I had the most frightful pressure put on me to have it. All sorts of queer people bothering me about it. And all suggesting that it be held tonight. By some queer coincidence, the very day you cabled me you were arriving.”

  Raynaud shook his head. “Coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in them.”

  “Then how do you account for it?”

  “That’s not the point,” Graham said, laughing his high-pitched; chirping, birdlike laugh. “The point is, how do you account for it?”

  “I don’t,” Raynaud said. “I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

  “Charles,” he said, “you are the most superb liar I have ever met. Shall we take coffee in the library and look over your things?”

  It was late afternoon, and light was fading in the library. Graham switched on a lamp and peered at the necklace, running his hands over it.

  “Exquisite,” he said. “This is from Tikal?”

  “Yes. Exceptionally well preserved, too, considering it is a thousand years old.”

  Graham nodded.

  The first time Raynaud had visited the author, bringing him a small carved jade face, he had calmly told Graham a wild story about the discovery of the piece in the Sacred Well of Chichén. Vividly, he described the scene: a young girl painted yellow as were all sacrificial victims in the Mayan civilization; priests painted blue, flinging her off the cliff into the murky pool and allowing her to drown as a gift to the gods, while the warriors, young men painted black, stood and watched.

  Graham had said nothing, but had poured himself more brandy. And Raynaud talked on, this time about jade. In all Mexican civilizations, jade was highly valued. There were no known deposits of jade in the country, and the stone was considered more precious than gold. The Aztecs used to believe they could find jade by climbing a hill on a misty morning and watching how the vapors rose from the stones. Because it was so valuable, jade could only be worn by priests or noblemen; farmers, if caught with jade, were killed.

  Graham had listened with interest, then said, “Fascinating. But this piece didn’t come from Chichén.”

  Raynaud had been confused, but Graham had merely laughed.

  “I like a good liar,” he had said. “There are so few left.”

  And the two men had been good friends since. Raynaud had made three more trips to France, bringing artifacts for Graham. But he never again made the mistake of telling him a story about the pieces.

  They were admiring the necklace when the butler came in to announce that there had been a mistake; a hundred cases of champagne had been ordered but only ten delivered.

  “Damned fools,” Graham said. “Order up another ninety. To be delivered before tonight.”

  “Sounds like quite a party.”

  “They usually are,” Graham said.

  “Will I be suitably dressed for the evening?” Raynaud asked, looking down at his blue suit.

  “For these parties,” Graham said, in a half-irritated, half-amused voice, “suitable dress is usually nudity.”

  The first guests began to arrive at eight, and Graham unaccountably disappeared to his room. Raynaud was left alone, but fortunately Alex, Graham’s personal secretary, was there to introduce him around.

  Raynaud was unprepared for the variety of people who came. There were distinguished-looking men with gray hair, wearing tuxedos; young girls in miniskirts; men in dungarees, sandals, and sportshirts. They were mostly French, and most seemed to know each other. After a while, Raynaud moved over to the bar.

  Some of the younger girls were interested in him, and came over, one by one, to talk. One worked for Olivetti and loathed Italian men; another was a student and talked passionately about Reich; a third wanted to know all about the jungle, which she had heard was terribly hot.

  Raynaud was beginning to wonder how he might make an unobtrusive exit when Graham appeared. He arrived without fanfare, slipping among his guests, shaking hands, talking briefly. Raynaud noticed that he was not always pleasant: to one middle-aged woman he said, “Celia, dear, how nice to see you. Is it true you’re flat broke these days?”

  The woman made a gurgling sound but did not reply. This seemed to delight Graham; he laughed and moved on.

  He came up to Raynaud a few minutes later.

  “So there you are. I might have suspected I’d find you at the bar. You look bored.”

  “No, actually, I—”

  Graham cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Do you seriously think,” he said, “that you can convince me these dreadful parties are worthwhile? Impossible.” He leaned close and said quietly, “I only hold them so they won’t sit about in Paris and say, ‘Whatever happened to Houghton Graham? Is he dead yet?’ I couldn’t bear that, you see.”

  He took Raynaud’s arm.

  “Come along. There are one or two interesting people here.”

  Raynaud was led across the terrace.

  “By the way,” Graham said conversationally, “I take it you’re heterosexual?”

  “Yes,” Raynaud said. He was startled.

  “Then you might contrive to meet the young lady in the corner. The dark one. She’s Vietnamese, or something. I’d introduce you myself, but I’ve forgotten her name. Besides, it’s not my cup. Ah, here we are.” He broke boldly into a group of six people clustered around a man who sat on the grass.

  “Peter,” Graham said to the seated man, “good of you to come. I want you to meet a special friend. Peter Loëve, Charles Raynaud.”

  Peter nodded briefly. He was a tall, thin man with black hair, cropped close, and large, moody dark eyes. His clothes hung loosely on him.

  “Peter is a German, and we all know Germans are pigs, but Peter is an exception. He has a remarkable gift.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” Graham said. “You wouldn’t expect it in a German, actually: he can see the future.”

  Raynaud nodded politely. He had seen mystics and fortunetellers before. There were several in Yucatán, strange old men who smoked hemp and went into muttering trances. Raynaud had never believed any of it.

  “I am especially fond of Peter,” Graham continued, “after he predicted that I would not live past eighty-five. That was a great relief to me. Peter, would you mind telling Charles his future?”

  Raynaud was surprised: “Mine?”

  “Yes,” Graham said. “You’re curious about it, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then have a go. Will you, Peter?”

  Peter stared blankly at Raynaud for some moments, then nodded.

  “Marvelous.” Graham rubbed his hands together, and looked at the half dozen people standing around, watching.

  “One other thing, Peter,” he said in English. “Speak English, so these turds watching can’t figure it out.”

  Peter nodded again, slowly, and closed his eyes. Without opening them, he said, “Sit down, Charles. Close to me.” He spoke English with a thick German accent.

  Raynaud sat. Peter kept his eyes closed and swayed back and forth for some moments in silence. Then he looked up and fixed Raynaud in a cold, hard stare. His eyes did not blink or waver.

  “I feel…that you are afraid of what I will say.”

  Raynaud shrugged.

  “Yes, it is true. You are afraid because…because you have just made a lot of money, and you do not know what will happen next.”

  Raynaud glanced up at Graham. “Did you—”

  Graham laughed. “Haven’t seen him in months, dear boy.”

  “Not long ago,” Peter continued, “you saw death. And you killed, but…I do not think it was a man. No it was not. You killed something else.”

  Raynaud began to feel uncomfortable. He fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. The man was a hoax, of course. If you spoke in sufficiently general terms, the words could apply to anybody. A housewife swatting mosquitoes, anything.

  “Snakes,” Peter said. “That
is what you killed.”

  Raynaud sat upright.

  Graham tittered. “He’s remarkable, isn’t he?”

  “And in the future,” Peter continued, “there will be more killing. Very soon.”

  “When?” Raynaud said.

  “Soon.”

  “What about women?” asked Graham in a sly voice. “Do you see any women for our Charles?”

  “Yes,” Peter said tonelessly.

  “That dark one here tonight?”

  “No, but others. Many others, and then just two. One is old. I cannot see the other one.”

  “Aha,” Graham said. “An affair with an older woman. Peter, that’s wonderful.”

  He clapped the German on the back.

  Peter blinked and looked up irritably. The mood was broken, and Raynaud felt oddly and unaccountably released. He looked down at the cigarette in his hand and saw he had never lit it. He did now, and stood up.

  “I am sorry I could not do more,” Peter said, “but it is late, and I am tired.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Raynaud said. “I don’t know how much more I could have stood.”

  “Did it amuse you?” Peter asked.

  “I’m not sure. Should it have amused me?”

  “Only you can say,” Peter replied, and looked away.

  Graham took Raynaud’s arm and led him away. They walked back toward the bar.

  “Take my advice,” Graham said, “and don’t believe a word of it. He uses little tricks, as you may have noticed. He’s very perceptive, and something about your appearance or manner must have told him you’d been in the jungle. That would account for that hocus-pocus about snakes, eh? Complete rot, the whole thing. But he’s diverting, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Raynaud said. “Very.”

  As they walked, Graham stopped to pick up what looked like a handkerchief lying on the ground. It turned out to be a pair of women’s panties.

  “Dear me,” Graham said, checking his watch. “Ten o’clock, and they’ve already started. It’s one of the curses of having such soft lawns. You’d be astonished at what the gardeners find, the morning after these parties.”