A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  Through the grogginess he must be getting an idea of where he is – or where he isn't. I don't suppose he thought much beyond killing me. He's stalling now; I can tell by his breathing that he knows the game's up.

  I never tortured any of my captives during the war. They got a bit of rough treatment from my sergeants, but what's a black eye or two between friends? For all of its horrors and for all the bullets and shells that come your way, you can't take war personally. When somebody follows you, hits you over the head, and throws you in the river to drown – that, you can take personally. This fellow here, Pascal Blanchart, is going to find out what that means.

  I have bound his arms, legs and torso to the chair. Grabbing the hair, I pull his head back and stuff an old sock into his mouth. He starts to struggle without getting very far. Now that he is unable to, he looks as if he is trying to talk. I pour myself a whisky and, after taking a swig, I throw the remainder in his eyes. He flinches and his eyes turn red. Tears stream down his face. From what I remember of having whisky thrown in my face he won't be able to see very well for a few minutes now. If I can convince him early on that I'm going to break him bit by bit then I probably won't have to. I slip the knuckle duster onto my right hand.

  I aim my punches around his torso, causing some serious bruising and, I suppose, a few cracked ribs. To finish, I land one blow to the side of his face. Not as heavy as the ones to his ribs; I don't want to break his jaw. When I replace the duster on the desk I make sure he gets an eyeful of the razor.

  'Now then, young fellow, you might like to tell me first off what your name is.'

  I walk over and remove the sock from his mouth. He chokes and spits on the floor.

  'Stop hitting me, you son of a bitch.'

  I think about putting the sock back and beating him again. I don't – if I start hitting him again there's a chance I'll puncture a lung and then he won't be able to talk.

  'So who are you?'

  'Blanchart, Pascal Blanchart. You have my wallet on the desk you can check in there.'

  'Who sent you here?'

  'My boss.'

  I clasp my hands on to each side of his face and leave them there. I crouch down so we are almost nose to nose.

  'Try to anticipate what I want, Pascal. "My boss" doesn't help me very much. What colour shoes was your boss wearing when you saw him last?'

  'Colour? Brown, I think.'

  'There now, a boss with brown shoes. How can we narrow this down any further? What colour eyes does he have?'

  'Brown.'

  'Eyes to match his shoes, very natty. You're doing well, Pascal. Now think hard – what is your boss's name, and where does he live?'

  'I can't tell you that!'

  The sock is in his mouth again before he has the chance to say more. I take the blackjack from the table and strike him across the shins of his right leg. His body tightens with the pain. By the time he has calmed down I'm on the other side and strike him across the left leg. I replace the blackjack on the table and then remove the sock.

  'Please! Please...'

  'Can you remember the question or do you need me to remind you?'

  'He'll kill me!'

  'You can't kill a dead man, Pascal, and the way things are going I can't see you leaving here alive.'

  Before he can reply the sock goes back. This time I have to pinch his nose and force it in. I lay the chair down so that Pascal is lying on his side. I then walk around behind him and pace up and down for a bit. I'm not sure what to do next. I don't really want to kill him. That is to say I do want to kill him, but I will not. Pacing around where he can't see me will give him time to think about the hopelessness of his position.

  There have been nights over the last few weeks when I have fantasized about this moment. I dreamt of smashing in the face of the man who tried to kill me. I would break his fingers, then his arms, and then his legs. When he was about done in from the pain I'd smash his head in and leave him, dead in a dark alley. The victim in those daydreams was always an evil entity – the vile force who tried to finish me off. My brutality is an act of retribution, justified and exonerated. This guy in the chair is a man, trying to cover up his fear. Now I have beaten him I feel no sense of justice - I feel sickened. I'll have to change tack. The next round will be purely psychological. The violence I have already inflicted may have been enough.

  'I'm going to give you a second chance, Pascal.'

  I lift the chair up again.

  'When I pull that sock out of your mouth you will start talking. If you don't answer my questions I'm going to take you to that window and drop you to the street below. You might just survive the fall - providing you can dodge the metal railings.'

  I take a step towards him.

  'Nod your head if you are going to talk, or shake it if you want me to drop you out the window.'

  He nods his head. Lucky really, with a weakened arm and leg I'm not too certain I could have lifted him up to the window.

  I pull the sock from his mouth. He spits a globule of cotton onto the floor. Before he has the time to vocalise the hatred in his eyes I ask him again: 'Who do you work for and where are you based?'

  'Antoni Girondé,' he says. 'Montmartre.'

  'Where in Montmartre?'

  He looks down at the sodden glob of cotton. Something about the way he turned his head enrages me. I leap forward and grab him by the lapels on his jacket. In one flowing movement I lift him and the chair and toss them towards the window. He travels half a metre before crashing down and hitting his head on a desk leg.

  He's a pathetic sight. I move towards him and hear him make a spluttering noise. He turns his head towards me. Blood dribbles from a fresh cut on his forehead.

  'We work out of this house in Montmartre. It's a real shit hole, but one of the downstairs rooms is all right for us to meet.'

  I heave the chair back to the upright. The hatred in his eyes has been replaced with fear. I've finally gotten through to him that, while he is strapped to that chair, I'm more dangerous than Girondé.

  The adrenaline is causing my knees to tremble. I take a seat myself and light a cigarette. Before I say anything more I want to make sure I'm feeling calm, that my voice is calm. If he senses any nervousness on my part the game will be up. I'll either have to throw him out the window or let him go and I don't want to do either.

  'And?' I ask.

  'Girondé has a café he uses. People can telephone him there. He comes to the house to give us our orders. Somebody called to let him know I'd failed to kill you the first time. He sent me again as a last chance.

  'And what were you going to do this time?'

  'I was going to kill you and make it look like a mugging,' he says.

  His head hangs down; I think he is trying not to cry. Why do I feel sympathy for him?

  'Well, Pascal, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take you upstairs and put you in my wardrobe. Then I'm going to pay a visit to your boss. If all goes well I will return and release you. If all goes badly you will have nothing but the smell of your own shit to contemplate until you finally die of thirst.'

  He looks up with a start. 'There's something else you need to know,' he says.

  'I thought there might be.' His mind is focused by the prospect of dying in my wardrobe.

  'There are lookouts. To get into the house without being seen you will need to go around the back. You will see a narrow passage. Walk along there until you get to the back wall of the building – you'll see a small grey gate in the wall. The building is falling down. Half the floorboards are rotten so watch how you go. If you go upstairs, test each step. We don't go up there anymore – someone fell through and broke his leg last time anyone tried.'

  'This Girondé... what is he like? What does he do?'

  'He is a nasty scar-faced brute from the South. Now that he has marked your card, you are a dead man. It won't matter what happens to me now – he'd kill ten of me if he thoug
ht there was a little money in it.'

  'He won't be so keen to kill me when he realises there is no money in it.'

  'You can't tell. He acts on whims,' Pascal says.

  'Aside from killing detectives, what does our man do?'

  'Anything and everything. He has a fat finger in every pie. Runs girls, sells drugs, steals, and runs gambling joints. If you owe money, he will lend. If you can't afford to repay him, he mutilates you. He doesn't kill debtors – deformities are a greater deterrent than headstones.'

  'So what's he doing in a ramshackle Montmartre house?'

  'Montmartre's where the action is. The house was deserted so we took it. We can talk there without being overheard.'

  'Thanks, Pascal.'

  The sock goes back in his mouth. Throwing him out the window would have been easier than lugging him and the chair up these stairs. Leaving him in the dark of my wardrobe, I head out to Montmartre.

  The Métro ride is dull; when my leg is better I'm going to give up the Métro altogether. In fact I'm going to fix my bicycle and start using that instead.

  The streets are busy with Saturday afternoon crowds. The artists have moved away to Montparnasse but the area's reputation remains. This is where the city's visiting dignitaries and rich tourists come to see the real Paris. And the show is put on for them here. Nightclubs with half-naked dancing girls, Josephine Baker in her skirt of bananas, Bricktop in her nightclub beguiling the Prince of Wales. Chorus lines of can-can girls high-kicking it at the Moulin Rouge. Where the painters once lived, you'll now find the gangsters; pimps, drug pedlars, pickpockets and muggers. I don't get up this way often and I do remember why.

  Like the tourists I'm here to see the real Paris. First I think I'll take in the sights. I have a very loose agenda – I'd like to see the Lapin Agile where Picasso used to drink, then Montmartre's vineyard, and oh yes, that house with the murderous dog who ordered my death. The lookouts won't have any idea who I am – I'll be another tourist wondering about, lighting a cigarette, and passing by.

  These long tree-lined stairways, which cut up the Montmartre hills, might look beautiful in photographs but they are playing merry hell with my leg. After limping around for half an hour I stop for coffee, followed by a glass of wine. Sparrows chirp and dart after each other. Music flows from an open window accompanied by a woman's laughter. From here it's two streets to the murderer's den.

  There are two thugs standing in the street with their hands in their pockets and caps riding on the back of their heads. There is no point walking up that road pretending to be lost. Anyone who had any business being there would postpone it and come back when those two had gone to bed. It might be interesting to see how they act if I do stroll past them. On the other – more sensible – hand there's no point tipping them off. I double back and take a different route round to the passage.

  There are no hoodlums standing around the back of the house. I would have placed at least one goon to watch the entrance to the alley. The passage way is very narrow, running between two dilapidated buildings. If I'm to be ambushed, this is the place for it. I take my gun out; nobody is going to buy the lost tourist line here. The middle of the alley is almost pitch back – the sun isn't stupid enough to send its beams down this way. No point dawdling. I run the final few metres, coming out into an area behind the backyards of the two rows of houses.

  I can see the rear of their house through the broken gate. The windows are hidden behind layers of grime. There are two sets on the ground floor. One window on the far left is broken. From the other set comes a flickering yellow glow which indicates candles burning. The gap between the broken gate and the wall is wide enough for me to squeeze through. I get into the yard and climb down on to my belly and crawl towards the candle-lit window.

  There are voices inside – at least three. The words are indistinct but the tone is jovial. I creep over to the broken window. From here I can only be seen if there is someone in this room. I take a look through the break. There are bits of broken furniture, some piled up high and some scattered around the room – one false move and I'll send a tower of chairs crashing to the ground. Here, too, is the source of the city's dust. Mounds of it are piled up over every object in the room. Getting about in there is going to be difficult.

  My hand fits through the break and, with a few heavy yanks, I open the window. The sound of raucous laughter comes from the other room. I climb in through the open window. The dust is pervasive, getting up my nose and in my eyes. I want to sneeze and cough. Tying my handkerchief over my mouth I take a look around. There are places for me to hide in here – and tracks in the dust to give me away. I creep towards the door. My movement is slow and I test each step before I put any weight down. The door is hanging off its hinges and rocking slightly in the draught.

  There are at least three distinct voices coming from the other room. I don't reckon on a fourth, shy, gangster in there. Sounds as if they are playing cards. Glad they are having fun while their pal is out trying to kill me. Or would be trying to kill me, if he weren't bound and gagged in my wardrobe.

  Girondé must be a slob. Instead of having his men play cards he ought to send them to a hardware store. The gap where the door is hanging is large enough for me to crawl through. I could open it, but why take the risk? Before I go any further I lie still and listen. There is no sound of movement from the other room. My plan is to get to the room above theirs so I can listen to them without being visible.

  If they catch me halfway through the door, I'm dead. I couldn't make it easier for them if I stuck my head in a guillotine. They won't know who I am, of course. I will have to bluff it. That should keep me alive for an extra twenty minutes. No doubt, as a payback, I will be made to suffer a little more before I die. Forget bluffing – I'll go down fighting. I take out my knife and hold it between my teeth.

  My jacket catches on the door as I'm part of the way through. If they open their door now, it's rest in peace, Salazar. I fish around with one hand and break off a jagged spur of wood. Once freed, I clamber quickly into the hall. No point lying down to crawl now; if I'm on my feet I can fight. Before making tracks to the stairs I listen at their door. I can hear them clearly but understand little. They are speaking a mixture of Parisian and criminal slang.

  The stairs look treacherous. A huge hole halfway up must be where the guy who broke his leg fell through. Some of the stairs look too rotten to try. The banister is spindly and weak; I think it's being held together by cobwebs. To rush here would be fatal – to delay could be fatal. Not a great choice, but I opt for the slow route. I tuck my knife in its scabbard. I ascend using a technique my brother taught me – stand as close to the wall as possible and put your weight down gradually.

  I suppress a yelp as my foot goes through one of the steps near the top. My heart is beating loud enough to be heard by those goons out on the street. That step has taken a patch of skin off my shin. Blood seeps onto my trousers. I lean against the wall and untie the handkerchief from my mouth then wrap it around the cut to stop it bleeding. A door downstairs opens. The voices are louder. I draw my revolver and point it down the stairs. A man passes; I see the crown of his head. If he turns around now I'll have to shoot and then I'll be stuck up here. He opens the front door, and I jump the last couple of steps to the top. The man starts pissing just outside the door – at least they are civilised enough to go outside.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The floor upstairs is every bit as perilous as the staircase. Some of the holes are obscured by fallen debris. The floor reeks like an old bird cage. Pigeons have made a home in one of the rooms, coming and going as they please through a broken window. I thought birds weren't supposed to crap in their nests. Maybe they live next door and use this place as their lavatory.

  The man who went for a piss is coming back. I use his return to take a few bold steps towards the room above theirs. This room is as inviting as the others with one added delight – floor to ceiling cob
webs. I can hear the men clearly through the holes in the floor. This means they can hear me too. I sit against the wall and try not to move. I risk a cigarette, thankful I purchased so many.

  For an hour I sit and listen to the men downstairs talking in their gobbledygook language. Occasionally somebody leaves and returns a few minutes later. They must be taking it in turns to water the garden. At some indeterminable point my fear is replaced by boredom.

  After a further twenty minutes I hear the door to the house open. Someone calls out from the hallway. I hear scurrying in the room below. The door below me opens and someone says, 'Boss.'

  Using the disturbance as cover I get down on my belly and put an eye to one of the holes. I can see four people. One of them is large – Girondé? He is wearing a fedora which obscures his face. Someone brings him a chair.

  'Where is that fool, Pascal?' he asks.

  'Still out,' one of the three replies.

  'I told him to kill the man, not court him and marry him: why must he take so long? Pascal is losing his touch. You,' he jabs a finger towards a skinny, hatless, man who is fiddling with a slender knife. 'Go and find out what has happened.'

  The skinny man departs.

  'Toni,' says one of the two men standing in front of Girondé. 'What'll we do if Pascal fails? Should we give up on the man?'

  'I will kill the man myself,' Girondé says. 'Then I will kill Pascal. Toni Girondé does not fail.'

  'I know but...'

  'You do not know! I will go down there and cut this Salazar's throat. I will cut his wife's throat and I will cut his children's throats.'

  'That would bring a lot of heat. Couldn't we keep the money and tell Legrand to go screw herself?'

  'You are a simpleton. If we do that, what happens next? Who will want to come to me? I am a company with two assets; fear and reputation.'

  That conniving bitch, Legrand. I knew there was something wrong about her. But what does she get out of killing me? Until I walked into the Lacman building we were complete strangers. Ten minutes later she starts forking out money to have me killed. Is it the way I wear my hat? It doesn't make sense – unless she and Marty are lovers.