Murder in Montparnasse

by Howard Engel

  At that moment, Anson got to his feet. His face was white with agony and tension. In a second he had knocked Hal out of his way. Zamaron himself was sent sprawling as a chair fell on top of him. The man in plain clothes made a dash after him, but Tyler was through the door and out in the rue Delambre before any of us fully realized that he had made a dash for it. It was so sudden and dramatic that I was reduced to uselessness itself, and I saw the others standing equally impotent. Wad, especially, was still sitting, his mouth half fallen open. Not exactly the picture of the man who had singlehandedly taken Jack de Paris just a few hours earlier.

  I extended a hand to Zamaron, who clambered to his feet. Hal kicked the ownerless umbrella out of his way as he got up himself. The plainclothesman went out the door at last, almost, it seemed, as an afterthought.

  “I have men in the street,” Zamaron said. “He will not get far, I assure you.” The policeman dusted off his dark trousers. There was a short pause, then, from somewhere in the room, Hash was speaking.

  “Come on, Tatie, it’s getting late.” She tugged at the heavy arm in its tweed sleeve. He shifted his weight and slowly got to his feet. There was a question on his face when he turned to me.

  “Before we go, Mike, there’s one thing I have to know.” Wad sounded winded, as though we had just played a set on the red clay courts back of the boulevard Arago, or maybe under the trees in the Luxembourg. “Why did he take my manuscripts?”

  “Because he hated your writing, Wad. He loved you like a brother, but he was so jealous of your apparent ease with words that he had to try to destroy your work. Don’t look for a rational explanation. You won’t find it. Anson saw you as an unworthy competitor, getting ahead of him and apparently not even aware of the effort that he had expended. He was angry, Wad, because you’re so damned good at what you do. He doesn’t know the blood it’s cost you; he only sees the sentences one after another put down with precision and simplicity. I guess it was his way of tearing your talent out of you. To him, with your talent for friendship, your sloppy manner around the Quarter — maybe he thought you were unworthy of your genius. A genius has to be humble, he thought — I’m really only guessing — and Wad, you’re a lot of things, but humble isn’t one of them. You weren’t his idea of a serious artist.”

  “The poor son of a bitch,” O’Donnell said, quoting himself. “I hope he gets away.”

  “Come on, Goofo, let’s get out of here. Have you ever thought of jumping the fence and climbing up the Eiffel Tower at night?”

  CHAPTER 28

  Of course they caught him. He was crossing the railway lines behind the Gare Montparnasse, not far from where Wad and I had put an end to another murderous career, and he very narrowly missed being killed when a train bound for Versailles cut off his escape. They say he put up a damned decent fight before they overpowered him. Rien ne va plus. Les jeux sont faits.

  This information would be carried in the afternoon papers, but it was still the small hours of the morning when we slouched out into the rue Delambre. The air hit us like an alpine blast. I could see our breath riding on it as Freddy closed the Dingo’s door behind us. The shutters were up on the shops across the way; only a glint of light from the bar shone on the brass discs above the doorway of a Hussier de Justice an avocat, a notaire and a Commissaire Priseur. Lawyers. There was going to be a need for lawyers.

  We broke up into groups of two or three as we turned towards the boulevard. Wad caught up to me, with Hash and Julia coming in behind us. Wad shook his head. “We used to talk about writing. Quite a lot. He was serious. He didn’t like it the way I didn’t like talking about particular effects. Damn it, I hate talking about it. Never could get that through to him. It’s like making love and calling everything by the names in Gray’s Anatomy. I don’t want to spook the Muses. But he could never get enough of dissecting things; always doing a post mortem on my stuff. I got so I could smell the formaldehyde.”

  When we got to the corner, the group came together again before parting. Zamaron shook hands with all of us. When he came to Hash, he asked her, “Mme. Waddington, do you remember the date of your unfortunate departure from the Gare de Lyon? I assure you I’m not trying to stir up the unpleasant memory for a frivolous reason.”

  “I’m cursed with a good memory, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ll never forget that date. It’s engraved on my heart. It was Friday, the fifteenth of December.”

  “Good,” he said. “Merci beaucoup, Madame. You have rendered a great service.” Hash explored Zamaron’s face for a moment, as though trying to discover more, but it was clear that at the moment he was unwilling to speak further to her, or to Wad and Julia, who were hovering close to us. A few minutes later, when the others were trying to scare up taxis from the rank in front of the Dôme, Zamaron passed an envelope to me. Opening it, I found a small piece of card, which at first looked like a bus ticket. It was a platform ticket marked “Gare de Lyon.” Under a street lamp I was able to make out some numerals on the back. With difficulty, I was able to read “15:XII:22,” the fifteenth day of the twelfth month, 1922. I read it aloud. Zamaron smiled and took the ticket from me; he replaced it in the envelope and put that in his breast pocket.

  “It’s amusing, is it not?” Zamaron said. “This little ticket confirms something to me, but it will mean nothing at a trial. I knew that you would like to see it.”

  “You found it on the barge?”

  “Among some other things of interest. In a suitcase.” He looked at me significantly. “I will examine it all in the morning. My young assistant tells me that he found stories with Jason Waddington’s name on them.”

  “Congratulations!” I said. He smiled.

  “I will naturally return the manuscripts to their rightful owner when we have no further use for them. They may be needed to prepare the case against Dr. Tyler. In all events, I shall inform M. Waddington about the recovery of his property in the morning. I see no reason why he may not make copies of the writing for his own purposes in the meantime. It will give me a chance to show off my paintings.”

  “I think your news will cheer up my friend enormously.”

  “You think so? I hope you are right. I will see him just as soon as I have confirmed to my own satisfaction that the contents of the suitcase are indeed what we suspect they are. I would speak to him now, but there are too many people with him for a private conversation. And tomorrow, he will already be ‘yesterday’s hero.’ No, I will speak to him tomorrow.”

  “You are very considerate, Monsieur.”

  “And what will you do now, M. Ward? Will you be able to return to your work happily?”

  “I have no choice, Monsieur. I must work to eat,” I said.

  “Ah, you are no true artist, I see. Somehow the proposition presents itself differently here on Montparnasse. I can see that you do not paint.”

  “Nor do I collect, Monsieur. But, following your example, I might begin.”

  “Excellent!” he said.

  “And what will you do now that you have one Jack behind bars and another giving your men a merry chase?”

  “I shall continue to collect paintings. I have a feeling, my young Canadian friend, for two things: painting and playing cards. Gambling is my other passion. When I win, I buy more pictures; when I lose, an Utrillo leaves my happy home.”

  “You will speak to Waddington tomorrow?”

  “I assure you, M. Ward,” he said. “And, before I say good night, may I say thank you for your assistance. It was quite irregular, but it was welcome all the same. Will your stay in Paris be a long one?”

  “I hope so, M. Zamaron.”

  “Then I will only say au revoir. Good night.”

  I continued walking down boulevard Montparnasse after Zamaron had been picked up by a police motor-car. He was lucky to be out of the weather. Gusts were coming along the wide boulevard, bending the empty branches of the trees and cutting through the defences of my coat. Paper and leaves had been pressed against the wall. I
read DÉFENSE D’AFFICHER on the wall as I passed. The year of the law was stencilled just underneath.

  Some of the others were still in view: the O’Donnells and the Waddingtons, with Julia holding onto Hash’s arm; Arlette and Tolstoi had disappeared, as had Hal Leopold. Perhaps he’d gone to drop his pistol into the river as he’d been instructed. I could imagine him standing on Pont Neuf, leaning over the dark water.

  I felt an arm hook through mine. It was Biz, and she was leaning close to me. For a few moments we walked in silence. Our feet were in step. “Poor Anson,” she said at length. I agreed with her. We walked around a pile of stacked chairs and under the yellow light of a brasserie. There were no customers. “Why couldn’t he be happy being a good doctor?” I didn’t answer. “Poor lamb, he wanted more from life than life gives to a chap.”

  “Poor lamb”: that had been Laure’s pet expression. I’d forgotten.

  We walked past the closed front, where the new café showed little sign of progressing. It was still a wood-and-coal yard, but now without the wood and coal. The sign stood on its end, leaning against a wall. There were no signs of builders.

  “He made one mistake, Biz, and he just slipped in deeper and deeper,” I said. “Then he took a chance.”

  “Pretending to be Jack.”

  “If it had worked, he would have been free of Laure, blackmail and the rash act of taking Wad’s manuscripts once and for all. Some people can’t bear to have anyone have a hold over them. Anson couldn’t live like that any longer.”

  “I’m a bit like that, you know, Mike,” she said, turning her face up to look at me. “I hate giving in to George and his life. But what’s a chap to do? I can’t go on living the life of a reprobate. I hate these hole-and-corner affairs. Maybe I should become a nun and say the world’s well lost and spend the rest of my days in contemplation. What do you think?”

  “They won’t let you wear your old felt hat, Biz. But I can’t imagine a lovelier nun than you’d make.”

  “You’re very sweet, Mike. It’s always easy to talk to you. You must have some idea of how much I hate this life. Always telling lies, making fantastic stories to cover things up. I’m sick of all that. I’d just like a moment to rest, to catch my breath, then maybe I can go on.” Again we walked silently as we passed the church of Notre-Dame-des-Champs across the boulevard. It looked grey and dark.

  “George is a good-hearted chap,” she said, almost thinking out loud. “Maybe he’ll give me time to catch up with myself. That’s not too much to ask, Mike, is it? I’m not asking him to take me on forever, just long enough to throw off the hangover of the past few years.”

  “I know George is fond of you, Biz. He’d put you in a castle if it were up to him. His heart is sound.”

  “You wouldn’t think of taking me on, would you, Mike?” I could tell she was looking up at me, but I tried not to see. “I’m a terrible nuisance and I know I drink far too much, but I have always thought I had grit, deep down and hardly used at all.”

  “Biz, you know, I think I loved you the first moment I saw you at the Nègre de Toulouse. But I’m not the man for you. You’re a bright meteor and I’m a pedestrian. I can’t glow like you, Biz. I can’t keep the bar at the Crillon spinning the way you can. You’re a thoroughbred, I’m a cart horse. You’re shimmering with colour and I’m like that church across the street. But, I’ll tell you this, darling Lady Biz, I’ll probably always love you. I’ll never forget you.”

  The wind was still blowing, and Biz held my arm closer as we walked on. When I looked at her, her face was moist. She said it was the wind. I put my arms around her and kissed her under a huge doorway, out of the wind. I kissed her and held the back of her head and felt her close to me. I wanted to stay this close to her always, and I kissed her again and again and hoped that it said what I was feeling. But, in a few minutes, she pulled away and said something about catching up with the others. For a moment, I held her face close to mine, but it was no good. She was already thinking of the next thing even as she smiled at me with her sad, wet eyes.

  “Yes, we should try to catch them,” I said. Of course, there was hardly anyone to catch. The street was nearly empty, except for George, who was waiting at the corner of the rue de Montparnasse. Biz gave me a squeeze, then released me. When I saw her last, she was waiting by the curb while George discussed a proposition with a taxi driver. Very few taxi drivers accept cheques in Paris.

  It was a long way back to the rue Bonaparte. I walked past the building where Alice and Gertrude lived and skirted around the edge of the Luxembourg Gardens until I came to the square in front of St-Sulpice, with its fountains on one side and the police station on the other. Above there, the rue Bonaparte narrowed. I followed it and turned into my doorway just before it emptied out into St-Germain-des-Prés.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was just over a week later that I saw Waddington again. I didn’t know then that it was to be for the last time. I was having dinner in the Nègre de Toulouse when I saw a taxi drive up and park just outside the window. As the door opened and a large back came out into the rain, I recognized it at once as Wad’s. He was carrying a raincoat rolled up over his arm, as though his belief in the weather was not absolute. A figure in the taxi leaned towards him and he moved temporarily back under the shelter of the taxi’s roof. They kissed and held one another while the taxi idled its engine. It was Julia in the back seat. When he pulled his head clear of the taxi a second time, he waved to her through the glass. As he turned away from the street and the departing car, he saw me looking at him through the window. He came into the restaurant and greeted M. Lavigne with a bear hug. Over the restaurateur’s shoulder, he seemed to be adding me up. I don’t know whether the sum turned me into a friend or a foe. On the surface, he was his old friendly self.

  “Hello there!” His jacket was wet around the shoulders and the hat in his hand was dripping onto the sawdust on the floor. “Where have you been hiding, kid? I’ve missed you on the inside courts.”

  “Not much of a game for me inside, Wad. I like it when I can judge the sun and the wind.”

  He seemed stockier, more massive, than I remembered him being. Maybe he’d started eating better. Maybe there had been more restaurant meals recently. Maybe he had come into money. I liked that idea. Waddington would know how to use money.

  “You’re off for your winter holiday soon, aren’t you?”

  “Tomorrow night, from the Gare de l’Est. You should come with us, you know, Michaeleen.”

  “Yes, I really should. I think I’d like the mountains.”

  “Then why not? You get along with Hash and Snick. You’ll love the Montaphon Valley and Schruns. And you’ll get a great kick out of some new people we’ve met. They’ve got a lot of gelt to throw around, but they’re not stuffy about it. You could do yourself some good, kid.”

  “It’s a tempting offer, but I’ve got the desk to run by myself until after the new year. You know what it’s like to be the junior man.”

  “Why don’t you chuck it? Come on to Austria. I can get the expenses for both of us, with a little luck. I’m expecting a big advance for one book and a modest one for the other.”

  “I thought you’d burned your bridges with Boni and Liveright?”

  “I have, old boy, I have. But now I’m going to go with Scribners. Just as soon as I get formal notice that Liveright won’t publish the Anderson parody.”

  “So, it was a contract-breaker, just as you said at the Dingo?”

  “That was only half the story. That was to make Hal change his mind about shooting me.”

  “You haven’t retired the Spanish book after all, have you?”

  “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done, Mike. I’m not crazy.”

  “They’ll say you double-crossed them.”

  “You can’t be held to what you promise at gunpoint, old man. Forget it. Max Perkins at Scribners is excited about it. I hope to win over the critics with a barrage of letters, and maybe I’ll
go to New York when it comes out.”

  “It sounds swell, Wad. You’re on your way. Anson Tyler was right. You are going to make a name for yourself.”

  “Ah, McWardo, it’s still me. I won’t change.” He gave me one of his playful jabs. It caught me on the shoulder.

  “By the way, did you ever recover that suitcase full of your stories?”

  “The one Hash lost on the train? Nope, I didn’t.”

  “I thought that it had been recovered from Anson’s barge. Commissaire Zamaron told me that —”

  “You hear all sorts of things in the Quarter, Mike. That’s another reason for getting away.”

  “I was pretty sure you had got the stories back, Wad.”

  “Naw, kid. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s a damned pity, I guess, losing two years of work like that. Almost a legend, really. But one thing I learned in the war is never discuss casualties.” I had to agree with Wad: it did make a better story his way. As he said, a legend.

  “It looks as if everything is working out for you the way you planned, Wad.”

  “Next time you see my name, it’ll be in the New York Times.” He slapped me on the back and gave me a grin. “Aw, come on, kid. Catch the train with us to Schruns. We’ll have some great times skiing and mushing through the passes. And you know Julia. She’ll be joining us too. It’ll be like home with you on the scene. Bring your girl, if you’ve got one.”

  “Sorry, Wad. It just doesn’t cut that way. We’ll see you in the spring, okay?”

  Wad took a deep breath before speaking. “Sure thing, kid,” he said, with his face clouding over and the bounce going out of his voice. “Sure thing. We’ll make it the spring, then.”

  “Give my love to Hash and Snick, you big galoot.”

  “You won’t change your mind?” His moustache was lifted by his one-sided grin.

  “Nope. Got things to do. You know how it is.”