Murder in Montparnasse

by Howard Engel

  “His new book will have familiar wings in it,” I said.

  “Is that your cue to blame it all on me again? I do wish we could shut up about Pamplona. I did rather spoil everyone’s fun. But I wasn’t myself. If I was a writing sort of chap, I shouldn’t think I’d get two hard, hopeless lines out of all our shenanigans.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Anson protested. “I’ve read some of his stories about northern Michigan. He talks about the deep woods, the trout streams and Indians with primitive passions. I know that country. It’s potato-growing country. He never says that. But when you know it’s being farmed by the locals, you can see that it’s only primitive to a city boy, to a kid from Oak Park. Old Waddingstein’s a bit of a magician.”

  “I don’t see the crime in leaving things out, Anson. Maybe that makes the stories stronger. You can’t put in everything anyway. So, writing is always selecting. Isn’t that right? That’s the way it is at the news service.”

  “I count three empty glasses on this table, chaps. That’s bad luck where I come from.”

  “Where exactly do you come from, Biz?”

  “I left the Ritz bar less than half an hour ago. Anson saw me coming up the rue Delambre and rescued me from the taxi driver, who was holding me for ransom.”

  “Not quite ransom, Lady Biz. Simply his just and honourable reward.”

  “You’re so literal, Anson. Waddington would never mention a thing like that.”

  “He wouldn’t have paid the driver. I know that!” said Anson.

  “I thought you chaps were off Waddington? Have you decided to let him publish and be damned?” I asked.

  “If he publishes, we’ll certainly be damned. Waddington’s not to be trusted. He gets everything wrong. He can no more see into the heart of a woman than he can walk through a doorway without banging his head. That’s why George — you remember George, Mike? — George has been speaking to the family solicitor. The family takes its name very seriously.”

  “So, there will be legal action?”

  “Among other things. I hear Waddington’s had a brush with the police.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Extraordinary how the news of his infatuation with Laure Duclos was brought to their attention.” Anson looked at Biz, who was examining the weave of her skirt. Freddy sent a boy over to the table with a tray of drinks. When he had finished, I asked:

  “Did you know that Hal Leopold has been going about armed in case he sees Wad? That could get him into trouble. The French don’t take firearms as lightly as you Americans do, Anson. French jails are no summer camps.”

  “For once, I think Harold has the right end of the stick.”

  “Come on, Biz! You can’t be serious!”

  “As serious as a beak in a black cap about to pronounce sentence: an eye for an eye, a scalp for a scalp and the devil take the hindmost. Come on, Mike, be honest! How would you like it if a chap started making notes about your private affairs?”

  “From what I’ve heard, none of the affairs Wad has written about were very private. What do you say to that?”

  Biz squirmed and shifted her coat from her shoulders to the chair. “There may have been a circle of friends who knew what was happening, but Waddington means to broadcast these seeds far beyond our little thistle-strewn garden. Don’t you see that, Mike? This is to be a real book, now, not a published-in-Paris pretend book. My dear old mother will read about it and, worse, George’s mother will read about it.”

  “Is that very likely? Come on, both of you. How many American novels do they read in a year? You’re assuming that this book is going to set the world on fire. What is more likely to happen is that the book will not even be reviewed in the big papers. Wad’s just one of dozens of writers returned from the war. People are getting sick of books about the walking wounded who survived into this decade. At best he’ll get a pat on the head and be told to try again. Really, Anson, aren’t you flattering yourselves a little when you think that the outside world gives a damn about who did or did not make an ass of himself on the far side of the Pyrenees?”

  “You’re forgetting that I wasn’t among that happy few, Mike. I was cutting and stitching in Neuilly. But maybe it’s important to let Waddingstein know that you can’t kidnap whomever you please into a goddamned book just to be a hell of a fellow on the literary scene. And, as for the book not causing a stir, you’re forgetting that Wilson O’Donnell has been writing to a lot of influential people about that foul book. Wad might be a nobody, but O’Donnell isn’t. When he talks, people listen.”

  “You’re talking figuratively, Anson. Nobody ever listens to Wilson, even when he is sober enough to be presentable.”

  The argument raged through three more rounds of drinks. At one point George was in the fray. The arguments got stormier, but the logic crumbled into the wet rings on the marble-topped table. It need only be said that it was a very late hour when I pressed a few bills on Anson, who was taking the others home in our shared horse-cab. Even the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves didn’t stop the talk. I think we had a late supper somewhere near Les Halles, but I’m uncertain. As I wound my way up to my room, I wondered whether talk dissipates action. Are talkers doers? Did this evening of blather help Wad in the end? I hoped so, I hoped so.

  CHAPTER 24

  Waddington met me after I finished work the next day, and we walked to the inside courts at the American Club. I never much liked an inside game; it made me feel large and clumsy. This showed, of course, in the final score, which delighted Wad. I took his crowing with a patient spirit until he began to demonstrate where my game went awry. By the time he’d finished, I was in an uncharitable mood.

  “What do you say to a beer, Michaeleen? I’ll explain more what I mean about your backhand.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got things —”

  “Oh, come on! You can’t let a man drink alone. It’s unchristian. Leads to unprofitable ruminations. Take pity, Wardo.”

  “Alright, I’ll have a demi if you know a good place nearby.”

  “Hey, you are in a mood! Can you tell a fellow?”

  “Will it end up in print?” I could see I’d hit him below the belt. He said nothing. We walked along in silence. The boulevard Raspail is not one of my favourite streets. It is like a stuffy London street that wandered across the Channel in the fog. There were few places that invited us to sit down and have a drink. In the end, we found a stand-up zinc bar on the rue du Montparnasse. Each of us ordered a shot of marc, which we could see behind the bar. There was no draught beer or foreign spirits. The marc was sharp and hard and we had another two.

  “That was a mean thing you said, Mike. If you weren’t a friend, I’d resent it. You know you can talk to me. I thought we were pals?”

  “Sure, we’re pals, Wad, but have you any idea how the people around you are stewing about your book? They feel violated. They think you took advantage of them, that it was an unfriendly act.”

  “That’s too bad about them! Good night, nurse, who do they think they are that they can try to get me to suppress the best thing I’ve done so far? I didn’t use anybody’s real name, so if they tell people that they are so-and-so, they’ll only have themselves to blame. You know yourself, Mike, a novelist is many people, if he’s any good.”

  “I’ve heard Wilson say something like that. Still, one of those people is the friend who was part of whatever went on down in Pamplona.”

  “Aw, Mike, I’ve seen it a hundred times. They’re all saying ‘Stop it, I love it!’ That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Hal Leopold is carrying a gun. I don’t think he’s loving it. Do you?”

  “How do you know that? Carrying a gun? Is he looking for me?”

  “That’s what I understood from what Freddy at the Dingo told me.”

  “I’ve got to talk to him. I haven’t seen anybody for days.”

  “I’m sure he does the rounds of your old haunts. You can see him any night you want.”

  After I’d se
ttled with the bartender, we left the bar and walked up the rue du Montparnasse towards the boulevard. Wad said he’d catch the next one. He told me that he had a couple of things he had to do and that if I liked I could tag along. I had nothing pressing in my diary, so I went along with him to Lavenue, the restaurant, which was his first stop.

  “I’ve got some stuff I have to leave for Burdock,” he said. “Burdock’s trying to set up some guaranteed memorable dinners for a dozen of his friends. Being sensitive souls, they all like to drink deep at the Pierian spring and anywhere else that has licensed hours. I think he’s pre-sold the series on the strength that Joyce will be there. I don’t know if he’s told Joyce that he’s to be feted in this way. At least they’ll get a good dinner, whether Joyce arrives or not. That’s what literary lions care about.”

  “Who are these literary lions?”

  “Oh, McAlmon, Natalie Barney, Djuna Barnes, Tzara, if he’s in town. Burdock told me that McAlmon wanted to have Josephine Baker on the grounds that she’s turned hootchee-cootchee into high art. But Burdock wouldn’t have it, said it was too accessible, not high enough. He went on to say that Walter Pater would never have appreciated Josephine Baker. McAlmon argued that Pater was a hell of a guide to the twentieth century. Who the hell is this Walter Pater anyway, Mike? Is he somebody I should know about?”

  “Great prose stylist. Oscar Wilde took a ride on his back. He wrote Marius the Epicurean.”

  “Sounds pretty dry. No jokes, right?”

  “That’s Walter. He was never the life of the party.”

  “We should introduce him to Georgia O’Donnell. She’d loosen his necktie and have him running for her drinks in no time.”

  “Alas, Walter has been collected to his ancestors. All in all, that’s more his idea of a good time.” We had reached the corner and crossed the boulevard. It was harder to cross at the busy Place de Rennes. Wad took a package from his gym duffel and I stayed outside reading the menu, while he went into the Lavenue.

  There was a great deal of activity in the triangular place in front of the station. At first, I thought this was the normal bustle of a large railway terminus, but at second glance I could see that a large number of the motor-cars had police insignia on the doors. There were even two horse-drawn Black Marias with narrow, barred windows. Altogether, there were quite a few of the navy-blue uniforms in the square. I hadn’t seen so many in one place since I went to cover a manifestation near the Mutualité on one of my earliest assignments.

  As I looked through the glass into the restaurant, Wad was still busy talking to the manager. I took advantage of the delay to ask the nearest flic what was going on.

  “Circulez! Circulez, monsieur! Ce ne sont pois vos affaires.” I explained to him that I was a journalist and he pointed out a senior officer to whom I should address myself. I did that.

  “We think we have Jack penned up in the station, monsieur,” he said. For a moment I thought he’d said “in the oven,” the way the assistant headsman had, but what the policeman said was “enfermer,” not “enfourner.” My ear sometimes lets me down. But the difference between being penned up in Gare Montparnasse and put in the oven was not all that great, if you allow for an oven of that size.

  “What’s going on?” Wad asked, when he saw me coming back towards the restaurant.

  “They think they’ve got Jack run to ground in the station.”

  “That’s like trying to catch water in a sieve. If he knows the terrain at all, he’ll run for the freight sheds south of here.”

  “I suppose he could have bought a ticket for Versailles. He’s probably miles away by now.” We watched the police moving about in front of the station. Waddington wore a superior smile: so much wasted effort.

  “The old bugger in there didn’t want to take responsibility for the stuff I wanted to leave,” he said at last, turning his back contemptuously on the scene we’d been watching. “I’ll have to come back tonight.”

  “You might even get to meet the great man.”

  “Oh, Mike, I met Joyce years ago. You’re the only man in town who hasn’t kissed the hem of his garment.”

  “Yes, because I’ve seen those worn hems from fairly close. It could be that his life is poorer for not having met me. Try to think of it that way. Is he as daft on the subject of Gertrude Stein as she is on him?”

  “Never heard him mention her. Most of the time he talks about the tenors he has heard and those he’d like to hear again before he dies. He’s very musical. Plays the gramophone.”

  “Where to next?”

  “I’ve got some money for Miro, the painter, to give to his dealer. I bought a picture from him for Hash as a peace-offering.”

  “He’s the Catalan I’ve been hearing about. They say he’s good.”

  “He’s too shy to hang out around the cafés. He’s the real thing, Michaeleen. Not like Pascin, who’s always talking and never at work. Miro holds the time clock when I go boxing. You sure you don’t want to put on the gloves again, Mike? I think I could take you.”

  “I’m sure you could. That’s why you’re not going to get the chance. You may think I’m hiding a champion under these tweeds; I know I’m not.” While we were talking, I followed Wad down the rue du Départ. At number 26, he turned into a cobblestone courtyard with an outside tap marked eau non potable. Wad led the way into a stairway on the left side and we began the inevitable climb up the steps.

  “Miró is meeting me at the Dutchman’s studio. He says André Breton has taken over his place. An actor named Artaud is turning his studio upside-down. So he’s begged a corner at the Dutchman’s.”

  The climb was not as high as I expected it to be. I was beginning to be impressed by the Dutchman. He could afford the higher rent of a third-floor space.

  It was, in fact, the Dutchman who opened the door. He was a large man wearing a cook’s apron over his street clothes. Wad spoke to him in English and soon Miró was pointed out, asleep on a couch with a fur rug pulled up to his chin. The Dutchman explained in a whisper that they had shared some wine at luncheon and offered the remainder of the bottle to us. Wad at first refused politely, then accepted a glass, as did I, when it was handed around. Waddington addressed the Dutchman as “Pete,” or, more correctly, “Piet.” Both of us admired the paintings on the wall, which to me looked more like designs for wallpaper than fine art. But I was not au courant with much of what the new people were doing. Judging by the discarded pieces of cardboard on the floor, Piet first designed his pieces on the insides of cigarette packages torn open and then transferred the drawings to canvas. Miró slept on.

  When he awoke, about twenty minutes after we’d arrived, Miro was immediately happy to see Waddington. They talked in Spanish or Catalan — “Qué tal, hombre?” or something on that order. Wad tried to give the painter a handful of French banknotes, which the little Catalan at first declined. I could see that this, like the invitation to share the last of the wine, was a ritual, where one declined in the first exchange and accepted a few innings later. Miró was made very happy by the money. I think that an arrangement was made for the painting to be delivered on the following day. Miró was sorry I couldn’t see the picture, which was of a farm, but it was, sadly, back in that madhouse of a studio on the rue Blomet. He protested that, like his Dutch friend, he loved the quiet life. He hated noise, discord and arguments. And noise, discord and arguments had been his lot since he had first become associated with the Surrealists.

  “Tristan Tzara may be the maddest of them all, but at least he isn’t noisy,” he said to me in French.

  A knock at the door introduced a smart young policeman, clicking his heels and saluting tidily. The Dutchman invited him into the studio.

  “Sirs, we are searching this whole block of apartments. We have reason to believe that a fugitive may be hiding here. Have you observed anything out of the ordinary in the neighbourhood? Are there strangers lurking about?”

  “Is this the same operation as we saw in front o
f the Gare Montparnasse?” Wad asked. The policeman shook his head, either in ignorance or a professional dislike of giving out information. “If it is the same job, your net’s too big. How do they know it’s Jack, anyway?”

  “Monsieur will understand that information is in short supply just now. But I believe the suspect attempted to attack a woman going into one of the studios above the Café de Versailles. He ran off in this direction.”

  “How can they be sure it’s him?” I asked.

  “The woman was hurt, monsieur, stabbed superficially. She was taken to Val de Grâce to be treated. The woman was a model, like the others.” He then shrugged to indicate that this was not his idea, whatever we thought.

  After the policeman left, we heard him hammering on the doors along the corridor. We had a drink of schnapps that the Dutchman kept for special occasions, and then, in another few minutes, the tall painter and the short one walked us to the head of the stairs and waved goodbye. With me I carried away a memory of the designs on the torn cigarette packages, the pure, clean colours corralled between black vertical and horizontal lines. I remember the white space in the pictures, the round table set with a cleanish cloth and large, northern coffee bowls. Last of all, I realized that the arrangement of the wicker furniture was also along geometric lines.

  We crossed the Place du Maine and began walking south. “You’ll like Miró when you get to know him,” Wad said, as I puffed along trying to keep up. “I’ve been learning Catalan from him. It makes Valéry Larbaud sore when I use it. He talks Spanish like a native. Learned it from Argentinians when he was at school.”

  “Larbaud? I thought you didn’t know Larbaud.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea? Met him at Sylvia’s years ago.”

  “Couple of weeks ago you’d never heard of him.” Wad kept going, but he shot me a glance that told me to be careful. Funny, being careful when we were alone, I thought. I was wondering what other messages he had on his mind. I was also getting weary of walking. “Where are we going now?” I asked. I think some of my anxiety showed in my voice, because he answered: