The Spy Quartet: An Expensive Place to Die, Spy Story, Yesterday’s Spy, Twinkle Twinkle Little Spy

18

Les Chiens is everything that delights the yeh yeh set. It’s dark, hot, and squirming like a tin of live bait. The music is ear-splitting and the drink remarkably expensive even for Paris. I sat in a corner with Byrd.

‘Not my sort of place at all,’ Byrd said. ‘But in a curious way I like it.’

A girl in gold crochet pyjamas squeezed past our table, leaned over and kissed my ear. ‘Chéri,’ she said. ‘Long time no see,’ and thereby exhausted her entire English vocabulary.

‘Dash me,’ said Byrd. ‘You can see right through it, dash me.’

The girl patted Byrd’s shoulder affectionately and moved on.

‘You do have some remarkable friends,’ said Byrd. He had ceased to criticize me and begun to regard me as a social curiosity well worth observing.

‘A journalist must have contacts,’ I explained.

‘My goodness yes,’ said Byrd.

The music stopped suddenly. Byrd mopped his face with a red silk handkerchief. ‘It’s like a stokehold,’ he said. The club was strangely quiet.

‘Were you an engineer officer?’

‘I did gunnery school when I was on lieutenants’ list. Finished a Commander; might have made Captain if there’d been a little war, Rear-Admiral if there’d been another big one. Didn’t fancy waiting. Twenty-seven years of sea duty is enough. Right through the hostilities and out the other side, more ships than I care to remember.’

‘You must miss it.’

‘Never. Why should I? Running a ship is just like running a small factory; just as exciting at times and just as dull for the most part. Never miss it a bit. Never think about it, to tell you the truth.’

‘Don’t you miss the sea, or the movement, or the weather?’

‘Good grief, laddie, you’ve got a nasty touch of the Joseph Conrads. Ships, especially cruisers, are large metal factories, rather prone to pitch in bad weather. Nothing good about that, old boy – damned inconvenient, that’s the truth of it! The Navy was just a job of work for me, and it suited me fine. Nothing against the Navy mind, not at all, owe it an awful lot, no doubt of it, but it was just a job like any other; no magic to being a sailor.’ There was a plonking sound as someone tapped the amplifier and put on another record. ‘Painting is the only true magic,’ said Byrd. ‘Translating three dimensions into two – or if you are a master, four.’ He nodded suddenly, the loud music started. The clientele, who had been stiff and anxious during the silence, smiled and relaxed, for they no longer faced the strain of conversing together.

On a staircase a wedge of people were embracing and laughing like advertising photos. At the bar a couple of English photographers were talking in cockney and an English writer was explaining James Bond.

A waiter put four glasses full of ice cubes and a half-bottle of Johnnie Walker on the table before us. ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

The waiter turned away without answering. Two Frenchmen at the bar began to argue with the English writer and a bar stool fell over. The noise wasn’t loud enough for anyone to notice. On the dance floor a girl in a shiny plastic suit was swearing at a man who had burned a hole in it with his cigarette. I heard the English writer behind me say, ‘But I have always immensely adored violence. His violence is his humanity. Unless you understand that you understand nothing.’ He wrinkled his nose and smiled. One of the Frenchmen replied, ‘He suffers in translation.’ The photographer was clicking his fingers in time to the music.

‘Don’t we all?’ said the English writer, and looked around.

Byrd said, ‘Shocking noise.’

‘Don’t listen,’ I said.

‘What?’ said Byrd.

The English writer was saying ‘… a violent Everyman in a violent but humdrum …’ he paused, ‘but humdrum world.’ He nodded agreement to himself. ‘Let me remind you of Baudelaire. There’s a sonnet that begins …’

‘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?’