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‘So this bird wants to get out of the car …’ one of the photographers was saying.
‘Speak a little more quietly,’ said the English writer. ‘I’m going to recite a sonnet.’
‘Belt up,’ said the photographer over his shoulder. ‘This bird wanted to get out of the car …’
‘Baudelaire,’ said the writer. ‘Violent, macabre and symbolic.’
‘You leave bollicks out of this,’ said the photographer, and his friend laughed. The writer put a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Look my friend …’ The photographer planted a right jab into his solar plexus without spilling the drink he was holding. The writer folded up like a deckchair and hit the floor. A waiter grabbed towards the photographer but stumbled over the English writer’s inert body.
‘Look here,’ said Byrd, and a passing waiter turned so fast that the half-bottle of whisky and the four glasses of ice were knocked over. Someone aimed a blow at the photographer’s head. Byrd got to his feet saying quietly and reasonably, ‘You spilled the drink on the floor. Dash me, you’d better pay for it. Only thing to do. Damned rowdies.’ The waiter pushed Byrd violently and he fell back and disappeared among the densely packed dancers. Two or three people began to punch each other. A wild blow took me in the small of the back, but the attacker had moved on. I got both shoulder-blades rested against the nearest piece of wall and braced the sole of my right foot for leverage. One of the photographers came my way, but he kept going and wound up grappling with a waiter. There was a scuffle going on at the top of the staircase, and then violence travelled through the place like a flash flood. Everyone was punching everyone, girls were screaming and the music seemed to be even louder than before. A man hurried a girl along the corridor past me. ‘It’s those English that make the trouble,’ he complained.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You look English.’
‘No, I’m Belgian,’ I said. He hurried after the girl. When I got near the emergency exit a waiter was barring the way. Behind me the screaming, grunting and breaking noises continued unabated. Someone had switched the music to top volume.
‘I’m coming through,’ I said to the waiter.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No one leaves.’
A small man moved quickly alongside me. I flinched away from what I expected would be a blow upon my shoulder but it was a pat of encouragement. The man stepped forward and felled the waiter with two nasty karate cuts. ‘They are all damned rude,’ he said, stepping over the prostrate waiter. ‘Especially waiters. If they showed a little good manners their customers might behave better.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Come along,’ said Byrd. ‘Don’t moon around. Stay close to the wall. Watch the rear. You!’ he shouted to a man with a ripped evening suit who was trying to open the emergency doors. ‘Pull the top bolt, man, ease the mortice at the same time. Don’t hang around, don’t want to have to disable too many of them, this is my painting hand.’
We emerged into a dark side-street. Maria’s car was drawn up close to the exit. ‘Get in,’ she called.
‘Were you inside?’ I asked her.
She nodded. ‘I was waiting for Jean-Paul.’
‘Well, you two get along,’ said Byrd.
‘What about Jean-Paul?’ Maria said to me.
‘You two get along,’ said Byrd. ‘He’ll be quite safe.’
‘Can’t we give you a lift?’ asked Maria.
‘I’d better go back and see if Jean-Paul is all right,’ said Byrd.
‘You’ll get killed,’ said Maria.
‘Can’t leave Jean-Paul in there,’ explained Byrd. ‘Close ranks, Jean-Paul’s got to stop hanging around in these sort of places and get to bed early. The morning light is the only light to paint in. I wish I could make him understand that.’
Byrd hurried back towards the club. ‘He’ll get killed,’ said Maria.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. We got into Maria’s E-type.
Hurrying along the street came two men in raincoats and felt hats.
‘They are from the PJ crime squad,’ said Maria. One of the men signalled to her. She wound the window down. He leaned down and touched his hat in salute. ‘I’m looking for Byrd,’ he said to Maria.
‘Why?’ I asked, but Maria had already told them he was the man who had just left us.
‘Police judiciaire. I’m arresting him for the murder of Annie Couzins,’ he said. ‘I’ve got sworn statements from witnesses.’
‘Oh God,’ said Maria. ‘I’m sure he’s not guilty, he’s not the violent type.’
I looked back to the door but Byrd had disappeared inside. The two policemen followed. Maria revved the motor and we bumped off the pavement, skimmed past a moto and purred into the Boul. St Germain.
The sky was starry and the air was warm. The visitors had spread through Paris by now and they strolled around entranced, in love, jilted, gay, suicidal, inspired, bellicose, defeated; in clean cotton St Trop, wine-stained Shetland, bearded, bald, bespectacled, bronzed. Acned little girls in bumbag trousers, lithe Danes, fleshy Greeks, nouveauriche communists, illiterate writers, would-be directors – Paris had them all that summer; and Paris can keep them.
‘You didn’t exactly inspire me with admiration,’ said Maria.
‘How was that?’
‘You didn’t exactly spring to the aid of the ladies.’
‘I didn’t exactly know which ones were ladies,’ I said.
‘All you did was to save your own skin.’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got left,’ I explained. ‘I used the others for lampshades.’ The blow I’d had in my kidneys hurt like hell. I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.
‘Your funny time is running out,’ said Maria.
‘Don’t be aggressive,’ I said. ‘It’s not the right mood for asking favours.’
‘How did you know I was going to ask a favour?’.
‘I can read the entrails, Maria. When you mistranslated my reactions to the injections that Datt gave me you were saving me up for something.’
‘Do you think I was?’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps I just salvaged you to take home to bed with me.’
‘No, it was more than that. You are having some sort of trouble with Datt and you think – probably wrongly – that I can do something about it.’
‘What makes you think so?’ The streets were quieter at the other end of St Germain. We passed the bomb-scarred façade of the War Ministry and raced a cab over the river. The Place de la Concorde was a great concrete field, floodlit like a film set.
‘There’s something in the way you speak of him. Also that night when he injected me you always moved around to keep my body between you and him. I think you had already decided to use me as a bulwark against him.’
‘Teach Yourself Psychiatry, volume three.’
‘Volume five. The one with the Do-It-Yourself Brain Surgery Kit.’
‘Loiseau wants to see you tonight. He said it’s something you’ll enjoy helping him with.’
‘What’s he doing – disembowelling himself?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Avenue Foch. Meet him at the corner at midnight.’ She pulled up outside the Café Blanc.
‘Come and have coffee,’ I suggested.
‘No. I must get home,’ she said. I got out of the car and she drove away. Jean-Paul was sitting on the terrace drinking a Coca-Cola. He waved and I walked over to him. ‘Were you in Les Chiens this evening?’ I asked.
‘Haven’t been there for a week,’ he said. ‘I was going tonight but I changed my mind.’
‘There was a bagarre. Byrd was there.’
Jean-Paul pulled a face but didn’t seem interested. I ordered a drink and sat down. Jean-Paul stared at me.
19
Jean-Paul stared at the Englishman and wondered why he had sought him out. It was more than a coincidence. Jean-Paul didn’t trust him. He thought he had seen Maria’s car in the traffic just before the Englishman sat down. What had they both been plotting? Jean-Paul knew that no woman could be trusted. They consumed one, devoured one, sapped one’s strength and confidence and gave no reassurance in return. The very nature of women made them his … was ‘enemy’ too strong a word? He decided that ‘enemy’ wasn’t too strong a word. They took away his manhood and yet demanded more and more physical love. ‘Insatiable’ was the only word for them. The other conclusion was not worth considering – that his sexual prowess was under par. No. Women were hot and lustful and, if he was truthful with himself, evil. His life was an endless struggle to quench the lustful fires of the women he met. And if he ever failed they would mock him and humiliate him. Women were waiting to humiliate him.
‘Have you seen Maria lately?’ Jean-Paul asked.
‘A moment ago. She gave me a lift here.’
Jean-Paul smiled but did not comment. So that was it. At least the Englishman had not dared to lie to him. He must have read his eyes. He was in no mood to be trifled with.
‘How’s the painting going?’ I asked. ‘Were the critics kind to your friend’s show the other day?’
‘Critics,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘find it quite impossible to separate modern painting from teenage pregnancy, juvenile delinquency and the increase in crimes of violence. They think that by supporting the dull repetitious, representational type of painting that is out of date and unoriginal, they are also supporting loyalty to the flag, discipline, a sense of fair play and responsible use of world supremacy.’
I grinned. ‘And what about those people that like modern painting?’
‘People who buy modern paintings are very often interested only in gaining admittance to the world of the young artists. They are often wealthy vulgarians who, terrified of being thought old and square, prove that they are both by falling prey to quick-witted opportunists who paint modern – very modern – paintings. Provided that they keep on buying pictures they will continue to be invited to bohemian parties.’
‘There are no genuine painters?’
‘Not many,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Tell me, are English and American exactly the same language, exactly the same?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Jean-Paul looked at me.
‘Maria is very taken with you.’ I said nothing. ‘I despise all women.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they despise each other. They treat each other with a cruelty that no man would inflict upon another man. They never have a woman friend who they can be sure won’t betray them.’
‘That sounds like a good reason for men to be kind to them,’ I said.
Jean-Paul smiled. He felt sure it was not meant seriously.
‘The police have arrested Byrd for murder,’ I said.
Jean-Paul was not surprised. ‘I have always thought of him as a killer.’
I was shocked.
‘They all are,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘They are all killers for their work. Byrd, Loiseau, Datt, even you, my friend, are killers if work demands.’
‘What are you talking about? Whom did Loiseau kill?’
‘He killed Maria. Or do you think she was always like she is now – treacherous and confused, and constantly in fear of all of you?’
‘But you are not a killer?’
‘No,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Whatever faults I have I am not a killer, unless you mean …’ He paused before carefully pronouncing the English word, ‘a “lady-killer”’
Jean-Paul smiled and put on his dark glasses.
20
I got to the Avenue Foch at midnight.
At the corner of a narrow alley behind the houses were four shiny motor-cycles and four policemen in crash helmets, goggles and short black leather coats. They stood there impassively as only policemen stand, not waiting for anything to happen, not glancing at their watches or talking, just standing looking as though they were the only people with a right to be there. Beyond the policemen there was Loiseau’s dark-green DS 19, and behind that red barriers and floodlights marked the section of the road that was being evacuated. There were more policemen standing near the barriers. I noticed that they were not traffic policemen but young, tough-looking cops with fidgety hands that continually tapped pistol holsters, belts and batons to make sure that everything was ready.
Inside the barriers twenty thick-shouldered men were bent over road-rippers. The sound was deafening, like machine-guns firing long bursts. The generator trucks played a steady drone. Near to me the ripper operator lifted the handles and prised the point into a sunsoft area of tar. He fired a volley and the metal buried its point deep, and with a sigh a chunk of paving fell back into the excavated area. The operator ordered another man to take over, and turned towards us mopping his sweaty head with a blue handkerchief. Under the overalls he wore a clean shirt and a silk tie. It was Loiseau.
Hard work,’ he said.
‘You are going into the cellars?’
‘Not the cellars of Datt’s place,’ Loiseau said to me. ‘We’re punching a hole in these cellars two doors away, then we’ll mousehole through into Datt’s cellars.’
‘Why didn’t you ask these people?’ I pointed at the house behind which the roadwork was going on. ‘Why not just ask them to let you through?’
‘I don’t work that way. As soon as I ask a favour I show my hand. I hate the idea of you knowing what we are doing. I may want to deny it tomorrow.’ He mopped his brow again. ‘In fact I’m damned sure I will be denying it tomorrow.’ Behind him the road-ripper exploded into action and the chiselled dust shone golden in the beams of the big lights, like illustrations for a fairy story, but from the damp soil came that sour aroma of death and bacteria that clings around a bombarded city.
‘Come along,’ said Loiseau. We passed three huge Berliot buses full of policemen. Most were dozing with their képis pulled forward over their eyes; a couple were eating crusty sandwiches and a few were smoking. They didn’t look at us as we passed by. They sat, muscles slack, eyes unseeing and minds unthinking, as experienced combat troops rest between battles.
Loiseau walked towards a fourth bus; the windows were of dark-blue glass and from its coachwork a thick cable curved towards the ground and snaked away into a manhole cover in the road. He ushered me up the steps past a sentry. Inside the bus was a brightly lit command centre. Two policemen sat operating radio and teleprinter links. At the back of the bus a large rack of MAT 49 sub-machine guns was guarded by a man who kept his silver-braided cap on to prove he was an officer.
Loiseau sat down behind a desk, produced a bottle of Calvados and two glasses. He poured a generous measure and pushed one across the desk to me. Loiseau sniffed at his own drink and sipped it tentatively. He drank a mouthful and turned to me. ‘We hit some old pavé just under the surface. The city engineer’s department didn’t know it was there. That’s what slowed us down, otherwise we’d be into the cellars by now, all ready for you.’
‘All ready for me,’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Loiseau. ‘I want you to be the first into the house.’
‘Why?’
‘Lots of reasons. You know the layout there, you know what Datt looks like. You don’t look too much like a cop – especially when you open your mouth – and you can look after yourself. And if something’s going to happen to the first man in I’d rather it wasn’t one of my boys. It takes a long time to train one of my boys.’ He allowed himself a grim little smile.
‘What’s the real reason?’
