Birth Marks

by Sarah Dunant

  Actually it wasn’t his looks that first caught my attention. It was his suit. It was big and baggy, a touch of the demob with an obvious label to it. He was sitting at the bar reading a paper and playing with the stem of his glass. Hmmn, I thought, interesting. I looked a little longer. It was partly the way he sat, teasing comfort out of a perch designed for posture correction, and partly the body itself, long and loose-limbed as if it didn’t quite fit together. Of course we all know that women, like men, go for different things in the opposite sex. Myself, I’ve never been a buttocks or a powerful-but-sensitive-hands type. I go for the whole torso. His eyes flickered upwards. Women can always feel when they are being sexually assessed, so why not men? The face was slightly older than I had expected, but pleasantly craggy and well lived in. Worth looking at. Hannah, I thought, you’re a sexist sow. Well, why not? Men spent their lives studying women. So tonight it’s the other way round. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong, said a little voice which for want of a better word I will call my conscience, is that you’re working, and business and pleasure don’t mix. I listened, gave it some thought, then put a bag over Jiminy Cricket’s head.

  Nevertheless I kept my distance until it became clear that the interest was mutual. Nothing so crass as direct eye contact, you understand, more a way of not looking. For Jiminy’s sake I considered the possibility that this was no mere pick-up, but a deliberate plant by the evil Belmont empire, just to check me out. But if that was the case they’d picked a real amateur. And since when did common or garden tails wear Jean-Paul Gaultier suits? Anyway, there was one way to find out. If I was doing the following the last thing I would want was for my suspect to engage me in conversation. I finished my drink and took it back up to the bar, placing myself deliberately near to him. He kept his eyes firmly on the newspaper, but his heart wasn’t in it, I could feel. ‘Hello,’ I said brightly.

  He looked up. ‘Hello?’ A slight frown, but nothing to worry about. And grey eyes, with a fleck in them. Nice.

  ‘I could be mistaken, but I’m getting the impression that you are watching me.’ Christ, said Jiminy in a muffled squawk, didn’t your mother teach you anything about the social graces?

  He appeared to give the matter some thought, then shook his head, his bottom lip out just a little, very French, attractive. ‘Actually, I think it would be more accurate to say that we were watching each other.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘The question now, of course, is should we continue?’ In my (admittedly) limited experience it was not the level of repartee you found in your average sleaze-bag tail. It registered in the pit of my stomach as well as my head.

  ‘Maybe we should discuss it.’

  ‘Fine. In English or French?’

  I will admit to just the smallest twinge of hurt pride. ‘It’s that obvious?’

  ‘No, but I think I have an unfair advantage,’ he said, in impeccable and very nearly accentless American. And then he smiled, and I have to say it had something of the Tom Cruise about it, although, thank God, a little more mature.

  ‘That’s very good.’

  He shook his head. ‘Upbringing rather than talent, I’m afraid. I had an American father. And I get a lot of practice in my work.’ So what did we have here? A war baby no doubt. Mother carried away by a member of the liberating armies. Which made him, what forty-four, forty-five? It wasn’t so long ago I thought people that age were brain dead. Which just goes to show how much fun growing older can be. ‘How about you, where does your excellent French come from?’

  ‘I think the word is education. Too many years as a student.’

  He nodded. ‘Not now though?’

  ‘No, not now,’ I said, duly flattered by the possibility it should be otherwise.

  ‘Good. So shall we have another drink? Or would you prefer to go back to a more long-distance appreciation?’

  I pushed my glass towards him and settled myself more comfortably on the bar stool. I said after a short pause, ‘So what do you do that gives you so much practice?’ Making conversation, it’s called. Like making love, only with words.

  ‘I’m a journalist. I work for an American magazine.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘It sounds more exciting than it actually is. Mostly financial matters, I’m afraid. I’m their European Business Correspondent.’

  And who says that life doesn’t come gift-wrapped sometimes? Jiminy Cricket, eat your heart out. I put out my hand. ‘On the contrary, I’m sure it’s absolutely fascinating. I’m Hannah Wolfe. I work in security. And I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  He took it, and I must tell you it was a good clean grasp, like the opening of a boxing match. ‘David Mercot. So. Shall I buy this round or will you?’

  And thus it began. The chat-up of Hannah Wolfe and David Mercot. I’ll spare you (or maybe me) the more excruciating bits of the next half hour. Courtship is, after all, a private affair and not, at this stage at least, directly relevant to the plot. Suffice it to say that as Frenchmen go he had a pleasantly self-deprecating sense of humour and a certain je ne sais quoi, as well as what was clearly some tasty insider gossip on the French industrial scene. Jiminy Cricket would have been proud of me after all. To make it look a little less like I was picking his brains, after the second drink I suggested dinner. He accepted. Call it the Mata Hari school of detection. Except, of course, you’re not supposed to tell them you’re a spy. Over the first course I put some effort into being interested in his job.

  ‘You know it’s not often I meet a woman so enthralled by the state of European industry. Is this a professional curiosity or just a hobby?’ The food was so good it was hard to think. His choice. I had decided not to look at the prices. Like a tourist I had gone straight for the moules poached in wine and herbs and was having trouble keeping a sense of dignity as I dive-bombed chunks of bread into the sauce. I wiped my chin with the crisp white napkin and swallowed. ‘Since you ask, a bit of both.’

  ‘Security, I think you said. You selling alarm systems or information?’

  Hard to lie to someone with that face. I just smiled.

  ‘I see. All highly confidential.’

  I smiled again. ‘You’ve seen the movies.’

  ‘So, do you want to know about the industrial scene in general or one particular company?’

  Sometimes it’s a fair cop. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t the only reason I invited you out to dinner.’

  He looked at me for a moment. ‘I know. If it had been I wouldn’t have accepted. I just hope your client has given you generous expenses. Why don’t we agree to eat first and talk later. I can recommend the lamb.’

  He was right; suffused with garlic and served on a bed of new peas with a cloud of le rat potatoes whipped into a cloud of butter and cream and sprinkled with parmesan it was, as they say in the cookery books, ravissant. Later came the lamb’s tongue and rocket salad, made sweet by the cut of lemon and olive oil. Simple but subtle. I took it as my cue.

  ‘Belmont Aviation, eh? I feel almost embarrassed about taking your hospitality. Most people on the street could tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘It’s that well known?’

  ‘It or him, hard to say which. Jules Belmont. He’s one of those original legends in his own lifetime. Built the company up from scratch and dedicated his life to it. Started after the war, a resistance hero building a New France out of the ruins of occupation. The rest is modern folklore.’

  ‘The war. How old is he then?’

  ‘Now? Oh, late sixties, going on seventy maybe. I don’t think anyone asks any more. The only figures people quote are his yearly profits.’

  Seventy. Now here was a fact to do serious damage to my ‘charismatic businessmen seducing gorgeous young ex-dancer’ theory. Maybe he didn’t look his age. ‘What’s he like?’

  He shrugged. ‘Like all successful businessmen, dedicated, a little obsessive, good at backing the right horse.’

  ‘Aviation?’

  ‘Now, not t
hen. I believe he made his first fortune from the newspaper business: a couple of provincial papers that had fallen into collaborators’ hands. I think he was given them as a gift for services rendered. Then he went into construction, dabbled in electronics—chasing the Japanese by the tail—and from there the sky was the limit. Most of the airlines you ever flew owe something to Belmont Aviation. And most of them have paid well for the privilege.’

  ‘Is he straight?’

  ‘If he isn’t I’ve never heard about it. Of course, he’s got friends in high places. But then so do all national heroes. Nepotism isn’t a crime providing you produce the goods. And Belmont produces.’

  ‘What about his private life?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s your client?’

  I raised one back. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘All right. But for dessert I suggest we have a bottle of Tokay. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Let me see. Three times I think. The first wife was killed by the Germans. The second died in a car accident nine, ten years ago. She and their only child, a little boy. It was a big tragedy. This one is number three. I believe her name is Mathilde. I think they’ve been married for five or six years. It’s a common enough scenario, at least in the business world: rich old man, younger good-looking wife plucked from the typing pool. Except the rumour is they’re devoted to each other. Against all the odds a happy marriage.’ And I heard a crash in the back of my head. It was the sound of theory number three finally hitting the dust.

  ‘Not the kind of man to play around then?’

  ‘His name isn’t in the gossip columns, if that’s what you mean. Why? Does your client say differently? No, don’t tell me. I’ve seen the movies. Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. How’s his health?’

  He shook his head. ‘Some men age quicker than others. Until two years ago he was indestructible. Then suddenly, pow. Two heart attacks one after the other. The doctors told him to slow down. He didn’t. Last year was a third. He ought not to have survived it. But then he is Jules Belmont. I gather he’s taking it slower these days.’

  ‘What about the company?’

  ‘It’s a family firm. The mantle was meant for his son. When he died ten years ago he started grooming his nephew. He’s one of the directors now.’

  Seek and ye shall find. ‘Don’t tell me, Daniel Devieux.’

  ‘Well, at last. I was beginning to wonder if you really were any good at your job.’

  I resisted the temptation to bad-mouth him back. Work first, fun later. ‘What about him? Is he a worthy successor?’

  ‘You’d have to ask his uncle. Certainly the company isn’t suffering.’

  ‘And personal life?’

  ‘Not much to say. Divorced, I think. He used to be a pilot with Air France. Now he just lives for Belmont and the company. A dull man by all accounts. No real personality at all.’

  ‘So not what you’d call a ladies’ man?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on your taste. You’d have to ask the ladies. Now, do you think we could look at the dessert menu?’

  Knowing when to stop; it’s half the secret. I squirrelled away my spoils and turned from work to fun. Not even Jiminy could accuse me of not earning it. The waiter brought the dessert menu. I let him do the choosing. When it arrived it was more an expression of indulgence than hunger: a glass of frozen pink champagne so clear that you could almost count the bubbles. Plus, of course, the Tokay. It was magnificent. So, no doubt, was its cost. What the hell. Intelligence doesn’t come cheap.

  ‘So, is this my turn to ask the questions for a while?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I said, with my mouth full of melting bubbles.

  He watched me for a moment, then took a long sip from his glass. It crossed my mind that we were both drinking a fair amount. I wondered if it mattered. ‘Well, where shall we start? How about the job. Most French girls I know either want to be air hostesses or Ministers of Culture. There’s not a lot of interest in security. How did you get into it?’

  I had been expecting the usual ‘What’s a nice girl like you…’ routine and the question caught me off guard. I found myself giving him something near to the truth. ‘I dunno. More chance than vocation I guess. I was in between jobs and I replied to an ad for an office manager, just to pay the rent. I found myself answering the phones for a crazy ex-detective just starting out and ended up joining the firm.’

  ‘He must have been an interesting man.’

  ‘Yes.’ I thought about Frank, cleaning his nails with a paperclip while he used the nailfile to show me how to jemmy a desk drawer. ‘I suppose you could call him that.’

  ‘What did you do before?’

  Before? I had this flash of a rather intense young woman freed from the deathly dull arena of EEC politics and out to change the world. In retrospect it seemed like a case of mistaken identity. ‘I worked for the Civil Service.’ I paused. ‘Fascinating, eh?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said with an admirably straight face. ‘Why did you leave?’

  At the time I had had a little speech about this one. Heartfelt. Now it just sounded pompous. ‘I got fed up with not achieving anything. Bureaucracy and government policy. The perfect equation for apathy breeding corruption. It got to the point where either I stayed in and kept my mouth shut or I got out.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘See. You didn’t take me for the moral crusader type, did you?’

  He shrugged. I got the impression he was enjoying himself. ‘Now you come to mention it…So how does the security business fit in?’

  ‘Ah well, I think I’ve probably mellowed a bit since then.’ I took another drink from my glass. ‘Though you’d be surprised. It’s not all going through peoples’ dustbins or snapping Polaroids of unfaithful wives. You still get some clients who want to know the truth, even if they don’t like it when they hear it.’

  All right, Hannah, that’s enough. Put down your glass, sweetheart. Remember you’re drinking Miss Patrick’s money and nobody needs to know your business but you. Jiminy making a cheeky reappearance. Though this time I’d do well to listen to him. I took a long slug of mineral water. What were we talking about? Ah yes, what was a nice girl like me…I rummaged around in my answers drawer and slipped into something more comfortable. ‘Anyway. It’s got a lot of rewards. The wealth, the travel, the men…The chance to be the white knight on the mean streets. What more could a girl ask?’

  He was silent for a second or two. Then he shook his head. ‘You know, every security agent I ever met always said the same thing. Must be the books they read.’

  ‘Well, ask a mythic question and you get a mythic reply.’

  ‘Shame. I thought for once I was about to get to the truth.’

  But I was beyond temptation now. And even if I wasn’t working, confession is an act of faith best kept for the bedroom, and we were still only in the restaurant. ‘It’ll disappoint you. I don’t like travelling in the rush hour. Or knowing where I’m going to be this time next week.’

  He smiled, but you could see he didn’t believe me. Funny, they never do. Must be the books they read. ‘What about money?’

  ‘I don’t know about France, but in England it’s not polite to ask a lady what she earns.’

  He grinned. ‘France neither. But remember I’m half American. And a business journalist.’

  ‘Then you already know the answer. There’s a lot of dosh in security.’

  ‘Companies certainly. But I’ve yet to come across a firm where the staff do as well as the management.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this isn’t exactly a big firm. I make enough. But then I have modest tastes.’

  ‘So you don’t ever get tempted?’

  ‘You mean if the client is loaded do I fiddle expenses?’ I smiled. ‘Absolutely, utterly, of course not and never.’

  ‘And what about the danger? Do you ever get scared?’

  ‘What is this? You researching an
article?’

  ‘I told you, I never met a woman private eye before. This may be my only chance to sort out the fact from the fiction.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t get scared. There’s seldom anything to be scared about. If there is, you’re doing it wrong.’

  ‘Is that really true? Even when you go behind enemy lines?’

  I shrugged. ‘The same rules apply.’

  ‘So what would happen if Jules Belmont turned out to have secrets that he didn’t want others to know about?’

  Promises, promises. ‘Then once I’d found out what they were, I’d have something to tell my client.’

  He thought about that for a moment, then laughed. ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Can your expenses run to a coffee and Calvados or should I ask for the check?’

  I used the interlude to go to the loo. In the mirror my face looked ghostly and blurred. I applied a little cold water shock treatment. Jiminy had been right, as always. Although it was as much tiredness as booze. And, if I was honest, a little of something else. We were getting on well. Well enough to ignite a flame for the night ahead. The heat from it burned as well as warmed me. But then ten months is a long time, even when it comes to riding a bicycle. And I had talked to him for too long to make him entirely a stranger. I dug out my bag and started reconstructing my face. When I got to the eyes my hand wobbled and I stabbed myself in the eye with the mascara stick. Tut tut, Hannah, not so much drink as nerves. Or maybe it was cruder than that. Maybe I was just a little unsure how to behave. Who knows. He could be feeling the same. Some men say it’s a relief, meeting a woman who’s willing to take the initiative. You can see their point really. It gets cold out there, being in control. I would like to have talked about it, but I didn’t quite have the nerve. It was the sort of conversation you have after, not before.