horse-racing old-time friend; the hostess had been a film star, now retired into a life of retaining her wonderful looks day by day, and keeping her clothes, which she changed frequently, fresh and ironed all the time.
“It’s remarkable,” she said, “how much Walker resembles you. I thought he was you last night when he walked across the lawn to the house.”
“So strange,” said the host, “I thought so too.” After two months it was nearly time for Lucan to move on to his next aiders and abetters.
“I will give you Walker,” said the kindly Mexican.
“You may take Walker with you. He’ll come in useful.” Walker was a butler-keeper and head groom (for the establishment was constituted on hierarchical lines). “I don’t know,” said his wife, “if I can manage without Walker.”
“I give him to Lucan,” said the man, very casually, as if he was presenting the Earl with a silver dish. “What should I do with him?” said Lucan the comparative blockhead.
“You can use him a thousand ways,” said the all-knowing, all-experienced host. “He could be arrested in your place, if necessary. You must train him up a bit, make him more your double, teach him your voice.” “He is very intelligent,” said the wife.
“If he was very intelligent,” said the sage brown fellow, “he wouldn’t be working for us. However he will do as I say. Besides,” he said wearily, “I will of course make it worth his while. I give him to Lucan. Get his chin modified, Lucan, and his nose straightened a bit. He’s the very image.”
That had been ten years ago. Walker had not needed to make frequent trips to Mexico to collect his former employer’s bounty. Unlike Lucan, he was safe with bank transfers. As Walker, no one was looking for him, although as Lucan he had several times fallen under suspicion. As Lucan he had been “sighted” on the beaches of the world, in cafés. He had been a temporary secretary of a sports club in Sydney, and sighted there. He had been a riding instructor at a school at Lausanne, from where he had to flee from a “sighting.” Interpol never caught up with him, and if they had, he was, after all, Walker, with Walker’s passport, Walker’s birth certificate, Walker’s own blood group. Lucan, meanwhile, was always elsewhere, in and out of jobs, or lounging in hotel gardens. He painfully avoided the casinos, where he knew he would be looked for.
The Mexican was not his only patron, but he was the richest. When he died in 1998, Lucan was left with only two firm friends of the past, the actress-wife having cut off Walker’s allowance and Lucan’s handout without explanation. Walker and Lucan went to Paris.
Lucan was always anxious about Walker’s voice.
Walker had adopted the slightly plummy full-fruited accents of Lucan’s speech, but still it was not quite right. Lucan knew that although Walker’s looks could pass for a twenty-year-later Lucan with his old friends, the voice, perhaps, could not. So far, he preferred to go “collecting” by himself.
But money was getting short for both of them.Walker made it plain to Lucan that they were not, ever, to separate. By the time they hit on Hildegard and her past, they needed her more for genuine psychiatric help than for what she could yield through blackmail. Lucan, in Scotland for his latest collecting venture, received a phone call from Walker.
“Don’t think,” said Walker, “don’t so much as let it cross your mind to fail to return to Paris. I need you here.”
Lucan said, “I’m coming to Paris.” In fact he had nowhere else to go. He hated Walker, but there was no escape from him. And now he had begun to find out more about Walker, who knew so much, so very much, about him, if only through those books and articles that had probed every aspect of his past life.
Walker and Lucan, Lucan and Walker, they were bound together.
Walker, for his part, could hardly bear to look at Lucan’s melon-shaped head, exactly
“It’s remarkable,” she said, “how much Walker resembles you. I thought he was you last night when he walked across the lawn to the house.”
“So strange,” said the host, “I thought so too.” After two months it was nearly time for Lucan to move on to his next aiders and abetters.
“I will give you Walker,” said the kindly Mexican.
“You may take Walker with you. He’ll come in useful.” Walker was a butler-keeper and head groom (for the establishment was constituted on hierarchical lines). “I don’t know,” said his wife, “if I can manage without Walker.”
“I give him to Lucan,” said the man, very casually, as if he was presenting the Earl with a silver dish. “What should I do with him?” said Lucan the comparative blockhead.
“You can use him a thousand ways,” said the all-knowing, all-experienced host. “He could be arrested in your place, if necessary. You must train him up a bit, make him more your double, teach him your voice.” “He is very intelligent,” said the wife.
“If he was very intelligent,” said the sage brown fellow, “he wouldn’t be working for us. However he will do as I say. Besides,” he said wearily, “I will of course make it worth his while. I give him to Lucan. Get his chin modified, Lucan, and his nose straightened a bit. He’s the very image.”
That had been ten years ago. Walker had not needed to make frequent trips to Mexico to collect his former employer’s bounty. Unlike Lucan, he was safe with bank transfers. As Walker, no one was looking for him, although as Lucan he had several times fallen under suspicion. As Lucan he had been “sighted” on the beaches of the world, in cafés. He had been a temporary secretary of a sports club in Sydney, and sighted there. He had been a riding instructor at a school at Lausanne, from where he had to flee from a “sighting.” Interpol never caught up with him, and if they had, he was, after all, Walker, with Walker’s passport, Walker’s birth certificate, Walker’s own blood group. Lucan, meanwhile, was always elsewhere, in and out of jobs, or lounging in hotel gardens. He painfully avoided the casinos, where he knew he would be looked for.
The Mexican was not his only patron, but he was the richest. When he died in 1998, Lucan was left with only two firm friends of the past, the actress-wife having cut off Walker’s allowance and Lucan’s handout without explanation. Walker and Lucan went to Paris.
Lucan was always anxious about Walker’s voice.
Walker had adopted the slightly plummy full-fruited accents of Lucan’s speech, but still it was not quite right. Lucan knew that although Walker’s looks could pass for a twenty-year-later Lucan with his old friends, the voice, perhaps, could not. So far, he preferred to go “collecting” by himself.
But money was getting short for both of them.Walker made it plain to Lucan that they were not, ever, to separate. By the time they hit on Hildegard and her past, they needed her more for genuine psychiatric help than for what she could yield through blackmail. Lucan, in Scotland for his latest collecting venture, received a phone call from Walker.
“Don’t think,” said Walker, “don’t so much as let it cross your mind to fail to return to Paris. I need you here.”
Lucan said, “I’m coming to Paris.” In fact he had nowhere else to go. He hated Walker, but there was no escape from him. And now he had begun to find out more about Walker, who knew so much, so very much, about him, if only through those books and articles that had probed every aspect of his past life.
Walker and Lucan, Lucan and Walker, they were bound together.
Walker, for his part, could hardly bear to look at Lucan’s melon-shaped head, exactly
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