Peter said: 'Ask him the five questions, why don't you?'
Martel raised his eyebrows. 'Five questions? About myself'
'Not directly.'
Now that the time had come to ask the question, they seemed childish, even ludicrous. The light-operatic note on which the scene had balanced was giving way to opera bouffe. The courtyard under the light, surrounded by the amphitheater of the canyon, was like a stage where nothing real could happen.
I said reluctantly: 'The questions are about French culture. I've been told that an educated Frenchman ought to be able to answer them.'
'And you doubt that I am an educated Frenchman?'
'You have a chance to prove it once and for all. Will you take a stab at the questions?'
He shrugged. 'Pourquoi pas? Why not?'
I got out the two sheets of paper. 'One. Who wrote the original Les Liaisons dangereuses and who made the modernized film version?'
'Les Liaisons dangereuses,' he said slowly, correcting my pronunciation. 'Choderlos de Laclos wrote the novel. Roger Vadim made the cinema version. I believe that Vadim collaborated with Roger Vailland on the screen play. Is that enough, or do you want me to outline the plot for you? It's quite complex, having to do with the diabolical sexual intrigue and the corruption of innocence.'
His voice was sardonic.
'We won't bother with that just now. Question two. Complete the phrase: 'Hypocrite lecteur - '' ''Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere. 'Hypocritical reader, my brother, my - comment-a-dire? - duplicate?'
He appealed to Ginny.
'Mirror image,' she said with a small half-smile. '-It's from the front of Les Fleurs du mal.'
'I can recite many of those poems if you like,' Martel said.
'That won't be necessary. Three. Name the great French painter who believed Dreyfus was guilty.'
'Degas was the most prominent.'
'Four. What gland did Descartes designate as the residence of the human soul?'
'The pineal gland.'
Martel smiled. 'That's a rather obscure point, but it happens I read Descartes nearly every day of my life.'
'Five. Who was mainly responsible for getting Jean Genet released from prison?'
'Jean-Paul Sartre, I suppose you mean. Cocteau and others also had a hand in the deliverance. Is that all?'
'That's all. You scored a hundred.'
'Will you reward me now by disappearing?'
'Answer one more question, since you're so good at answering them. Who are you and what are you doing here?'
He stiffened. 'I'm under no obligation to tell you.'
'I thought you might want to lay the rumors to rest.'
'Rumors don't bother me.'
'But you're not the only person involved, now that you've married a local girl.'
He saw my point. 'Very well. I will tell you why I am here, in return for a quid pro quo. Tell me who is the man who tried to take my picture.'
'His name is Harry Hendricks. He's a used-car salesman from the San Fernando Valley.'
Martel's eyes were puzzled. 'I never heard of him. Why did he try to photograph me?'
'Apparently someone paid him. He didn't say who.'
'I can guess,' Martel said darkly. 'He was undoubtedly paid by the agents of le grand Charles.'
'Who?'
'President de Gaulle, my enemy. He drove me out of my patrie - my native land. But my exile is not enough to satisfy him. He wants my life.'
His voice was low and thrilling. Ginny shuddered. Even Peter looked impressed.
I said: 'What has de Gaulle got against you?'
'I am a threat to his power.'
'Are you one of the Algerie-Francaise gang?'
'We are not a gang,' he retorted hotly. 'We are a - how shall I say it? - a band of patriots. It is le grand Charles who is the enemy of his country. But I have said enough. Too much. If his agents have followed me here, as I believe, I must move on again.'
He shrugged fatalistically, and looked around at the dark slopes and up at the star-pierced sky. It was a farewell look, consciously dramatic, as if the stars were part of his audience.
Ginny moved into the circle of his arm. 'I'm going with you.'
'Of course. I knew I would not be permitted to stay in Montevista. It is too beautiful. But I shall be taking a part of its beauty with me.'
He kissed her hair. It hung sleek on her skull like a pale silk headcloth. She leaned against him. His hands went to her waist. Peter groaned and turned away toward the car.
'If you will excuse us now,' Martel said to me, 'we have plans to make. I've answered all your questions, have I not?'
'Just to nail it down, you could show me your passport.'
He spread out his hands one either side of Ginny. 'I wish I could, but I can't. I left France unofficially, shall we say?'
'How did you get your money out?'
'I had to leave much of it behind. But my family has holdings in other parts of the world.'
'Is Martel your family name?'
He raised his hands, palms outward, like a map being held up. 'My wife and I have been very patient with you. You don't want me to become impatient. Goodnight.'
He spoke quietly, with all his force poised behind the words.
They went into the house, closing the heavy front door. On my way to my car I glanced into the front of the Bentley. There was no registration card visible. The things which Martel had taken from his cabana were piled helter-skelter on the back seat. This suggested that he was planning to leave very soon.
There was nothing I could do about it. I got in beside Peter, and turned down the driveway. He rode with his head down, saying nothing. When I stopped at the mailbox, he turned to me in a sort of violent lunge: 'Do you believe him?'
'I don't know. Do you?'
'Ginny does,' he said thoughtfully. 'She knows him better than we do. He's very convincing.'
'Too convincing. He has an answer for everything.'
'Does that mean he's telling the truth?'
'He tells too much of it. A man in his position, wanted by the French government for plotting against de Gaulle, wouldn't spill his secrets to us. He wouldn't even tell his wife if he was smart. And Martel is smart.'
'I can see that, the way he answered the professor's questions. What's the explanation, if he's lying? Who is he trying to fool?'
'Ginny, maybe. She married him.'
Peter sighed. 'I'm starved. I haven't really eaten since breakfast.'
He climbed out of my car and started across the road to his Corvette. His foot kicked something which made a muted metallic noise. I peered out into the dark. It was the camera that Martel had smashed. I got out and picked it up and put it in my jacket pocket.
'What are you doing?'
Peter said.
'Nothing. Poking around.'
'I was just thinking, they're serving dinner at the club tonight. If you'll have dinner with me, we can discuss what to do.'
I was getting a little tired of his mournful company. But I was hungry, too. 'I'll meet you there.'
