Chapitre Onze

Later that evening Kent, dressed entirely in black, stealthily enters the grounds of a large

villa surrounded by dark cypress trees. The villa is isolated from other residences, on a

promontory jutting out into the sea. Starting at the water's edge is a high stone wall,

along which there are wide steps.

Kent is carefully making his way up these steps under a moonless sky. Although the

night is nearly pitch black he can see the steps rise up toward the front of the house. He

can hear no sound above the slight breeze whispering through the cypress trees. He

stops near one of the trees to listen but hears nothing unexpected near the villa.

Looking up at the villa he sees a light behind the shades of a second floor right room,

which soon go out.

Toward the side of the villa, within the dark shrubbery beyond, he notices a slight

movement in the foliage, which could be the breeze. In this dim light the shadows seem

to move. He holds his breath to enhance his hearing. He thinks he hears, in the

distance, the slip and grind of gravel, as though someone was stepping cautiously over

it.

He glances across a stretch of lawn at a series of short trees, realizing that any one of

them could be mistaken for a man. One or two of them move slightly in the breeze.

Looking back down toward the stone steps, which lead to the water, he can hear the

waves swirling around the rocks below.

Kent flattens his body against the darkest part of the nearest tree. He sees the other low

hanging trees shudder successively down the wall, as though someone was passing

behind them.

The wind comes in a brief, noisy gust as Kent is savagely choked around his neck.

Twisting and turning violently, he gets a quick glance of Foussard, Bertani's wine

steward tightening his hold as the two of them silently struggle.

Kent glimpses another man's arm raised above him, about to crash a club onto his head.

Kent quickly spins around so that the repeated blows intended for him rap viciously on

Foussard's head. Suddenly the hand with the club hesitates as the sound of shouts and

police whistles reach them from a distance.

Foussard's grip loosens and his arms let go after having received the blows intended for

Kent, who twists free of the other's body. Foussard steps back falteringly, spins, and is

lost to sight as he tumbles over the rail of the sea wall.

Kent runs to the railing in time to see his attacker hit the rocks. At the increased sound of

approaching police he disappears into the shrubbery.

Arriving soon behind him are half a dozen running police with flashlights. Not seeing

anyone they look over the sea wall and their lights pick out the sprawled body below.

They quickly make their way down the stone steps to the rocks, almost immediately

finding the body of Foussard.

The next morning Lana and Nell are out for a walk when Nell says, "Lana, you can't

keep beating yourself up over your mistake."

"I did him a serious wrong…one that I think has hurt him…I don't know, maybe

disappointed him, " she says, walking with her head down, concentrating only on the

thoughts plaguing her. "Nell, that night I felt closer to him than any person…,"glancing at

Nell to see if she has taken this statement the right way, understanding that it was not

intended to diminish her relationship with Nell, "…you know…in that way…"

"I know dear, you've kissed many a frog, "Nell says, smiling, "only to find your prince in

thieves' clothing."

"No more…now I know that is his past…"lifting her head, she says firmly, "I want…I hope

to be his future."

"You two need to talk, "Nell says as they pass a street corner news stand with a headline

poster that reads in large black letters: "LE CHAT EST MORT". Coins are being tossed

into a cigar box, and many hands are pulling papers off the pile.

About a dozen people are standing around the news stand, reading the front page of the

paper.

Not able to read French, Nell does not realize the significance of the headline, "Looks

like quite a fuss over some local news."

"Just a minute…," Lana says quickly, seeing the headline.

She moves toward the news stand, and buys a paper. Once she looks at the headline,

she holds the paper in front of her, and she reads the article as walks slowly along the

sidewalk.

"What is it, Lana? At first you looked like someone you knew had died."

Lana looks up, "No…no…it can't be…it says the…. The Cat burglar is dead," her voice

breaking.

Clark…please…not like this…not without…

Nell is alarmed, "What, your Clark Kent?"

Lana is frantically scanning the paper. "Oh…god…it was a man named Foussard—a

wine steward from a restaurant, " she says, feeling a weird sense of relief at someone

else having died.

Lana stares past the paper into space, her face strained with emotion.

Nell says, her voice full of relief, "Honey, you'd better start practicing your apologies. In

two languages, parlez vous?

Across town, in a small office, Lepic is seated at his desk, while Hughson stands along

side the desk. The latest edition of the newspaper lies in front of Lepic, with his picture

included with the story.

Hughson holds a check in his hand as he says, "You're positive Foussard was the Cat?"

"I see no reason to change the story that I have given to the newspaper," Lepic says

dryly.

"That's hardly a direct answer, Chief Inspector."

Lepic says with some impatience, "I cannot give you another. Now if you excuse me— "

Hughson interrupts him, "One more point, Monsieur Lepic," as he holds up a piece of

paper. "This is a check for eighty thousand dollars. Since you have caught, and

unfortunately killed, The Cat— "

"In our opinion, he killed himself attempting to escape justice."

"Either way. I've been instructed by my company to pay off the Lang claim. I'd rather not

do this, if recovery of the jewelry is imminent, Hughson asks. "Is it?"

Lepic pauses for a long moment and then says, "…it will take time."

Just then Kent walks in the open door, and having heard Lepic's words he says, "it will

take several centuries."

Both the men turn toward Kent, who is dressed in fine linen paints and a light jacket over

an open collar dress shirt. He has a look of slight amusement on his face, as he briefly

leans up against the open doorway.

"Congratulations on your capture, Chief Inspector Lepic." As he sits down in a nearby

chair with the two men watching him, he says, "All's well that ends well.

"What is it you want Monsieur Kent, an apology for rough handling? "Lepic sneers.

"No, that would certainly be expecting too much from our esteemed police, "Clark says,

a slight smile on his lips. "Everything is fine now. The newspapers have their headlines.

The rich tourists can relax. You, Lepic, have your publicity and possibly a

commendation from the Paris office. We all got something good out of it, except of

course Hughson's company. But, they can afford it, eh, Hughson?

"Well it has cut into company assets."

Clark says, "Poor Foussard. I never would have guessed it was him. An ordinary wine

waiter. A family man. And a wooden leg." At this last description Hughson is suddenly

startled. He puts the check back into his pocket.

Clark looks knowingly at him. "Oh, didn't you know? Lost it in the War. Isn't it

remarkable? A man with a wooden leg teaching himself to climb up walls and over roofs

with the agility of a four–footed cat?

Hughson quickly looks at Lepic. "Is that true?"

Lepic grudgingly admits, "I believe he had a—bad leg."

Clark gets up from the chair and says calmly , "And it was certainly in good taste of you

to keep it out of the newspapers."

He walks to the door and says, "Well, I think it's only fitting to attend Foussard's funeral

and pay my last respects." He stops and turns to look at the two men, "…and at the

same time, I should be able to get a good look at the real Cat—who will certainly be

there, purring at this good news."

Hughson looks very interested in this last statement, "You know who the Cat is?"

Clarks says, "—I do."

Lepic tenses, moves forward and upward a little in his chair, looking intently at Kent.

"Well— tell the Chief Inspector who it is, " Hughson says.

Smiling, Clark says, "He wouldn't believe me, " nodding to Lepic.

"Then try me," says Hughson.

"You would also find it hard to believe. When I catch the Cat on a rooftop, with a handful

of stolen diamonds, then—"

Lepic jumps to his feet, his face scarlet, and interrupts, "Monsieur Kent! It is only

because I have given this story to the newspapers that you are free! But the day where I

catch you on the top of a roof, with or without jewels, I shall be more than happy to end

your career!", he says, with a grim expression.

Clark smiles pleasantly, pretending not to notice the threat, "Lepic—that's all I wanted to

know. Good day, gentlemen." He goes out the door, and down the corridor, whistling a

light melody. Lepic sits down heavily in his chair, fingering his revolver, annoyed by

Clark's whistling.

After leaving Lepic's office, Kent makes his way to the Cap Ferret Cemetery. There, a

gathering of about fifty people surrounds a grave site with an array of flowers displayed.

Along the wall overlooking the cemetery are groups of sightseers that have come to the

funeral because of the notoriety of the deceased- the infamous Le Chat. Photographer's

flashbulbs periodically throw a stark, white light onto the faces at grave side. There are

newsreel photographers present, and a number of uniformed police throughout the

crowd.

While most of the mourners are men, also present is Foussard's daughter, Loilan. She is

standing, black–clothed, among them. There are very few women around, except among

the spectators. At the head of the grave is a priest, and beside him a small altar boy

holding a container of holy water, reciting the burial service in Latin.

Kent stands among the mourners at one end of the grave, his eyes moving slowly over

the faces of the other mourners.

He sees most of the kitchen staff men from Bertani's restaurant. Next to them is Claude

from the Beach Club, the man Clark suspected of going through his jacket to look over

the list of wealthy individuals. One by one each of these men notice Kent, glancing

indifferently at him, their expressions uniformly sad at Foussard's funeral.

Kent looks compassionately at Loilan, who has her head bowed. Despite her recent

unwanted attentions he still thinks kindly of her, that she is simply young and driven by

her emotions, not sure yet of what she really wants. He is thinking that this is a hard

blow for her, knowing that she wears her emotions on her sleeve.

Bertani catches Kent's eye and gives him a slight nod and smile of recognition. He starts

to move towards Kent. Claude follows closely behind him, like a bodyguard.

Kent does not acknowledge Bertani's nod, wondering what the older man will have to

say. Kent studies him for a moment until Bertani is standing slightly behind him.

Bertani speaks to him in a low whisper. "A most unhappy affair, eh, Kent?"

"Unhappy because it isn't me down there?," probing the other man to determine his

feelings.

Bertani doesn't respond directly, instead he says, "Poor Loilan—I have great

compassion for her."

"I'll look out for her," Kent says. "What do you suppose happened to the things he stole?"

Bertani shrugs and says, "That's a mystery. The Police have looked in every one of his

known hangouts."

"Someday the stolen items will turn up."

"The boys owe you many thanks," Bertrani says.

"What for?," Kent says, looking at Loilan to see how she is holding up.

"You know... for you risking prison to capture Le Chat."

"Oh…that, "Kent says, as though it is of no importance.

Bertani smiles, "But you have no reason to complain, eh?"

"I don't know what you mean. "

"I'm talking about the American girl—what's her name?"

"Oh—Lana Lang," Kent says, feigning ignorance, as the name pierces him. "That the

one?"

"What deal huh? A beautiful woman, in love with you–rich

beyond your dreams—"

"If that were all it took…," Kent says, his voice tight.

"Sorry, what did you say…?" Bertani asks.

"Nothing," a quick smile to hide his thoughts.

"When are you going to America?"

"Didn't know I was going…," Kent says.

"You will make a great mistake if you don't marry her and

return to your native country, " Bertani says.

"A few days ago…perhaps…now…that would be quite a mistake. Tell you what, why

don't we talk about it at the Sanford Gala party this weekend—between your catering

duties.

"But, you are not invited," Bertani says.

"I will be."

Bertani pauses before asking, "What costume will you wear?"

"Oh, I'll figure out something to surprise you."

"Good luck," Bertani offers.

"Well, that is very generous—considering that you have so little luck to spare, "Kent says

to Bertani.

Their conversation is interrupted by Loilan, her voice raised as she walks toward them

along the edge of the open grave. "Nous enterrons mon pere— We bury my pere —",

she barks at Kent, "who asked you to come here? Nobody invited you. Without you, my

pere would still live."

Clark is stunned, and puzzled by her behavior, thinking it must be her grief speaking.

Everyone turns to look at him as the news photographers close in and begin taking

pictures. The priest breaks off the funeral service with a shocked expression on his face

as he hears Loilan shouting.

Loilan steps closer to Kent and says, "Voila ce que vous etes—un ignoble assassin,

cynique et sans pitié! You are a Killer!, she shouts, " It's because of you he's dead!"

When she quickly comes close to Clark she is stopped by Bertani. She pushes his arm

aside.

"Loilan, You are wrong, " Bertani tells her.

"If nobody dares to say it, I shall make it clear. You are all a band of leeches "her hands

are waving violently, her face contorted with anger, " Get out of here you American

killer—voleur—murderer—!"

Clark slaps her sharply across the cheek. Loilan stops her tirade, blinking quickly,

stunned by his reaction.

Everyone is frozen in place, not making a sound, shock and indecision written on their

faces. Kent first stares Loilan, his disappointment apparent, then turns slowly and moves

up to the crowd and threading his way through them. Several men attempt to block his

path as he grimly looks each of them in eyes, firmly placing his hand on their chests and

moving them. He moves away from the grave as the people fall back to create a

passage for him. Press photographers hurry forward. The silence has become a low

murmur.

A few of the men advance threateningly toward Kent while Bertani comforts Loilan, who

is now sobbing. The priest resumes the service. Kent ignores the reporters and

photographers, and makes his way through the now thinning edges of the crowd toward

the gate.

Behind Kent are the staring faces of the crowd, who one by one turn their attention back

to the burial services. Kent feels a sense of melancholy coming over him.

He catches sight of a car that has just pulled up, and Lana stepping out as she spots

Kent.

Kent momentarily looks at her, hesitating, some part of him wanting to find comfort in her

arms—and then moves on.

Seeing him look at her with what appears to be a pained expression, Lana calls out,

quickly moving to him, "Clark!"

He stops, not yet committed to walking away from her…he turns, waits for her to reach

him.

Lana quickly closes the distance between them and says, "Are you going to make it hard

for me to apologize?"

He stares at her, taking in her expression and all that he has previously seen in her face,

and says, "Not at all. I'm sure you're sorry, " his voice quiet, held in reserve.

"You know I am. You must feel that I betrayed your trust…I myself feel as though I've let

you down. I am terribly…sorry…" she looks pleadingly at him, her hand on his arm,

groping for words to convey her feelings.

He stands, not moving, listening.

"Clark, until my aunt told me, I had no idea the things you were up against with this

business of the Cat," she says, standing close to him, "and I didn't help things by

foolishly jumping to the wrong conclusion."

"We all make mistakes—only some are a little closer to the mark than others."

Lana takes a deep breath to help control her racing heart, " Clark, what are your plans,

now?"

Clark interrupts her to say, "Now…what?"

"Now that The Cat burglar is dead," she says.

Clark looks toward the cemetery, "Foussard isn't The Cat."

Lana follows his glance, "…but the newspapers—"

"The man had a wooden leg."

"But wasn't he caught at a villa—trying to rob it?", Lana asks.

"He wasn't there to rob. He was there to kill me."

"Why…are you ok?"

"Yes…ok. I was getting too close to finding out who The Cat is, " he says.

Lana asks, "Then—who killed him?"

"I'll let you know when I find out, " he forces his resisting body to turn away from her, "

Goodbye, Lana." He says.

She reaches for his arm, "Clark—why bother?"

Her touch…I would trade all the flowers in the world were it given honestly…

"It's sort of a hobby of mine—the truth, " his saddened eyes searching hers.

"Let me do something to help you, to make up for my mistake, " Lana pleads.

Now…standing here…I'm more convinced than ever…he is my one…

"The one time you helped me was enough—for both of us."

Annoyed now, Lana says, stepping close to him, "Oh, don't talk like a film actor!"

Impatiently Clark says, "Look—I'm all out of thrills. I'm down to the hard work now. It's

not your style. Go find a playboy to have fun with."

"Somehow I knew you were going to act like this —injured, childish, unforgiving."

"Lana, you've made your apologies—now don't take up our time with a scene from some

old page in your diary." He starts to move around her.

She stops him, confronts him with her body blocking his movement. "Clark —I was

wrong about you, I think —you could be wrong about me."

He says, "I'm doomed to go through life never knowing. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have

a bus to catch."

Lana says forcefully, "I won't pardon you. I'm in love with you." She stops, uncertain, as

though she hadn't meant to say it.

I have to put myself out there…to let him know how I feel…no matter the

consequences.

I want to believe her…perhaps I don't deserve her…what kind of life could I offer

her…

They stare at each other for several long moments. Both now feeling caught in the

momentum of their disagreement, their disappointments, looking for a way forward.

"Now that's…not an honest thing to say, " he says, uncertainly.

"Is it?"

"With you, words like that are routine playthings."

Lana says in firm voice, "Were…playthings…not now, now with you..."

He pauses, considering what she has said, "I'll tell you what. Here's a sporting, romantic

offer for you."

Can we somehow make this work…I want to try…

Lana says hesitantly, I—don't know if I'm up to it now."

"Get me an invitation, and I'll take you to the Sanford Gala."

"It's a costume party, Clark. Nobody can go without a costume."

"What will you be wearing?"

She'd look lovely in any costume…

"A Louis the Fifteenth ensemble. Nell and I got them from Paris.

"I'll have Germaine make me something to go with your costumes —I'll call you in a day

or so. He starts away, but then turns back. She stands there, watching him with an

expectant look.

"Lana, you're probably wondering why I want to go."

One reason I want to go is…you…

"I have an idea," she says.

"I Thought you might get a kick out of seeing a real live burglar," he says with a smile

that does not reach his eyes. "Of course, it won't be all laughs."

Lana says with concern, "And perhaps a little dangerous?"

He nods and smiles, "I figured you'd go for it. I'll try not to let you down. So long, Lana.

We'll see what comes of this…

He turns and walks away as her eyes brim with tears, while her expression is

determined.