“I have no ashtray,” Poindexter complained.
“Throw your ash on the floor.”
The ambassador went quiet, smoking and looking at Épaulard, who was looking at him. After a moment he spoke again.
“Political kidnapping is not appropriate for a civilized people.”
“I’m not a civilized people.”
“Very funny,” said Poindexter with a disdainful smile.
Épaulard made no reply.
“Aren’t you going to try and convince me of the correctness of your political views?” asked the ambassador, staring at his cigarette.
“No.”
“I thought that was customary in such circumstances.”
“Kiddo, you were a high-level servant of the State. Now you are nothing, just a thing.”
“Why not just say it: a piece of shit.”
“No, a thing. A pitiful thing.”
“You’re anarchists,” said Poindexter. “I can tell because you said ‘servant of the State’ with such hatred.”
D’Arcy came in with two sandwiches on a plate.
“All right,” said Épaulard. “I think this conversation ends right here.”
He rose. He covered D’Arcy with his automatic as the alcoholic placed the two sandwiches on the ambassador’s knees and stepped back with the plate.
“Don’t trust him,” said Épaulard. “The guy is a talker. He comes off as straightforward, but he’s slimy. He’s fishing for information.”
“Got it.”
D’Arcy took the automatic and sat on the chair.
“Later,” said Épaulard, and left.
“It’s devilishly cold in this house, don’t you think?” said Poindexter to D’Arcy.
“Shut up, you!” replied the alcoholic. “Be quiet or I’ll flatten you with this gun. I don’t feel like chatting.”
“As you wish,” said Poindexter, huddling up and pulling the covers over him. The two of them stayed still, watching each other like a pair of china dogs, as the ambassador chewed his sandwiches.
22
COMMISSIONER Goémond’s expression grew more and more mournful, although with him this did not signal sadness. He contemplated the room of Buenaventura Diaz. He circled it cautiously, leaning over to make out the titles of two or three books piled up by the bed. His deputies circled in the opposite direction, sniffing about.
“Look here,” said one of them, “an anarchist pamphlet, Black and Red—plain enough, I’d say.”
“You’re a fool, man,” said Goémond. “That’s a novel by Stendhal.”
“Excuse me if I beg to differ,” said the deputy, “but this, this talks about ‘anarchist collectives in revolutionary Spain.’ You must be mixed up.”
“Let’s see. Oh, it’s true. That’s strange, I would have sworn . . . but you’re right: I must have been thinking of The Charterhouse of Parma. Okay, go through everything. I’m going back downstairs.”
On the ground floor Goémond found the manager, whose name was Édouard, and showed him a photo of Buenaventura.
“Yes, yes, that’s him all right,” said the man, pale and sweating.
“People play cards at your place?”
“Huh?”
“Poker games at night at your place? Who comes here to play poker at night? Eh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. Americans. Poker is a game played by crooks and Americans. But there are no crooks in your establishment, right?”
“I can swear to that, commissioner.”
“Americans then. American deserters I wouldn’t wonder.”
“I know nothing about that myself, I swear.”
“Stop swearing,” said Goémond.
At this juncture a new deputy came into the manager’s office.
“I’m coming from the station,” he said. “I have the photographs. Friends of the dago that we have files on.”
“Sit down,” said Goémond to Édouard. “You’re going look at these for me.”
“Whatever you want, I sw—I assure you, commissioner. I can’t say I know everyone that comes and goes, but I’ll try.”
“You do that. You try.”
The photos were placed on the table in two piles. In one pile, American deserters; in the other, French friends of Buenaventura Diaz. Édouard the manager scrutinized them as intently as he could. Among the deserters, he said he fancied he recognized a few. Among the French, he put his finger on one particular snapshot.
“This one, I’m certain.”
Goémond noted the image’s number and consulted the file: Treuffais, Marcel Eugène, b. 3/4/41, Paris X / PSU 60–62 / Libertarian Assn of Paris XV (Errico Malatesta Group) 62–63 / Worker-Student Action Cttees, Paris XV 68. Etc.
The deputy leant over to Goémond.
“Wasn’t in the film.”
“I know.”
Édouard the manager continued his perusal but could make no further identifications.
“This guy,” said Goémond, waving the picture of Marcel Treuffais, “this guy, did he come here often?”
“Yes, yes. Two or three times a week for a period.”
“What period?”
“Last year. Or I should say, in the spring.”
“And before that?”
“Don’t think so.”
“And since?”
“Yes, yes. But less frequently.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Well, come to think of it, the beginning of the week, Tuesday, no, Monday evening, at least I think so. They were arguing, if that helps you at all, commissioner, sir.”
“Arguing?”
“Yes, at any rate that was my impression. Diaz and he were exchanging insults. In Diaz’s room, I mean. But I overheard them, I mean I had gone upstairs because the toilet was clogged. I shouldn’t bore you with such details, but the fact is I was up there with my plunger and I heard them through the door tearing into each other.”
“A sexual conflict?”
“No, no. More like political, you might say. I mean one of them was calling the other a Marxist. Or a revolutionary. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“That’s not very clear,” said Goémond. “We’ll get back to it.”
“Why are you looking for him, this Diaz?” asked Édouard the manager.
“You mind your own business. Listen, though, he’s not wanted, got it?”
“Got it, commissioner. But if he comes in, I’ll phone you, huh?”
“Yes, do that.”
“Will I have problems?”
“We’ll see,” said Goémond. “Your joint is illegal, a gambling den.”
“That’s not true, I swear. In any case, how am I supposed to know what goes on in the rooms? I don’t listen at doors.”
“I’m not after gambling anyway,” said Goémond. “Fly right and you’ll have no trouble. And if you see any of the guys in these photos you’d be well advised to get on the horn to me fast, you follow?”
“Yes, yes.”
The telephone rang. The deputy picked up, listened, and handed the receiver to Goémond.
“Yes,” said Goémond. “Are you sure? Since ’62? That makes sense. Yes, I understand. I’ll note it.”
The deputy passed him something to note with. Goémond noted: André. Épaulard. Date of birth. Date of return to France. (“He didn’t lose any time, that one,” he observed.) Address. Goémond thanked his interlocutor briefly. He hung up. He drew the deputy out into the hallway.
“They have identified another one on file thanks to the film and had this confirmed by the brothel keeper. An old file. A hardened veteran of the Communist Resistance. National Liberation Front networks in the Algerian war. I have his address. You come with us.”
On Rue Rouget-de-Lisle the cops double-parked, almost completely blocking the narrow street. Goémond went up with two men. A third stopped by the concierge’s lodge and rejoined the others on a landing with a passkey. They went in; th
ey gave the place a once-over; they came up with the Chinese automatic at the back of the armoire.
“Won’t the minister be happy!” said one of the deputies. “We’re going to treat him to an international conspiracy, and a monster one at that.”
Goémond shot a withering glance at him, and he fell silent.
A man was left on guard at the apartment while the commissioner and his two most reliable officers set off for the fifteenth arrondissement. Night had completely fallen by the time they reached Treuffais’s. The unemployed philosophy teacher answered at the second ring of the doorbell. He opened the door halfway.
“What is—”
Goémond kicked the door panel with all his might. Treuffais was thrown backwards. The three policemen were very quickly inside the apartment. As soon as he heard the door slam shut behind him, the commissioner grabbed Treuffais, who was regaining his balance, by the hair, banged his head against the wall, landed a left to his kidney, and kneed him in the groin. Treuffais doubled over, a croaking sound came from his throat, then he fell to his knees and vomited onto the parquet floor. Goémond recoiled just in time to avoid being splashed and sent a flying kick to the side of Treuffais’s head. The young man fell to the floor and curled up against the wall. He was trying to protect himself. Goémond stamped on his hand, once again seized his hair, and dragged him along the floor through the hallway and into the living room. There he knelt down on the teacher’s belly, grabbed his ears and slammed his head against the floor.
“Where is the ambassador?”
“Go fuck yourself,” muttered Treuffais.
Goémond let go of him and stood up, smiling.
“Don’t you want to ask me who I am? All the same, you knew right away that we were the cops, didn’t you? You don’t ask me what ambassador? Or what I want to talk about? You got it straightaway. Strange, huh?”
Treuffais looked at him.
“You’re from the police?” the philosophy teacher exclaimed. “I don’t believe you. Let me see your ID.”
“Don’t play dumb. It’s too late for that,” said Goémond, sitting down in the father’s chair. “You know we’re the cops. Unless of course you think we might be the CIA hunting for Poindexter. Yup, that idea must have crossed your romantic little noddle. Well, forget the romanticism and get real. We’ve got Buenaventura Diaz and André Épaulard. Épaulard is a hard nut. He doesn’t want to talk. But your pal Diaz—I’m sure you have his measure—is a swine. Personally I find him disgusting. I’ve seen lots of guys roll over, but never so quickly. After a quarter of an hour he gave us your name and address. He even claimed it was you who killed the motorcycle cop. But I didn’t believe him because I know that you weren’t there. I am well informed, you see. No point your bothering to hold out.”
Goémond smiled again and awaited a reply. None came.
“Where is Ambassador Poindexter?” the commissioner asked again.
Silence. Goémond sighed and signaled his subordinates with a nod. They grabbed hold of Treuffais and began to give him a real beating.
“When you’ve had enough, you can tell us,” said Goémond.
23
MEYER, Buenaventura, Épaulard and Cash shared their meal in the common area before a superb crackling log fire. They hardly spoke. Then Buenaventura went upstairs to relieve D’Arcy with the prisoner, and the alcoholic came downstairs to eat and drink in his turn. They dawdled for hours by the fire. They shared memories. They spoke slowly.
“I don’t understand your motives,” said Épaulard.
“You understand your own,” said Cash. “That’s enough.”
“If it was just up to me, this kidnapping would never have happened.”
“Same here,” said Meyer, who hardly ever said anything. “I was sick and tired of life as we live it, yes, and something had to give. Maybe I’d have killed my wife. Or robbed a gas station. But this . . . what we did? No, never. It was Buenaventura and Treuffais who cooked it all up.”
“But politically it’s stupid,” said Épaulard.
“So you think like Treuffais then?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I don’t know what Treuffais thinks.”
“Treuffais pissed his pants,” said D’Arcy. “He’s an intellectual. All his life he’ll continue to eat shit and say thank you and cast blank ballots. But modern history doesn’t give a rat’s ass about shit eaters.”
The alcoholic poured himself a glass.
“I drink to us,” he said, his voice thick. “I drink to desperadoes. And I don’t give a fuck about being politically right or stupid. Modern history created us, which only shows that civilization is on the eve of destruction one way or the other. And believe you me, I’d sooner finish in blood than in caca.”
He emptied his glass.
“You’re all deadly boring,” he went on. “Stop talking. Can it. You’re pissing me off.”
Cash got up.
“I’m going to sleep. Come on, you,” she said to Épaulard.
Épaulard gave a short laugh and got up too.
“Good night,” he said to the others.
“Good night, comrade,” said Meyer.
“Good nooky, lovebirds,” said D’Arcy.
Épaulard went up. Cash had gone ahead of him and when he entered the room she was waiting for him, shivering under the covers of the double bed. Épaulard undressed with a certain nervousness, then lay down with Cash, proved to be increasingly nervous, and everything was over quickly. Épaulard seethed with shame and disappointment. After a moment or two he tried again. He thrashed about for a long time. His efforts were fruitless. Cash pushed him aside gently. With his face in the pillow, Épaulard panted like a mule and ground his teeth. Cash kissed his shoulder.
“I’m no good for anything anymore, on any level,” he said.
“You old fool,” said Cash tenderly. “It’s the stress. The anxiety. Things will go better tomorrow.”
She caressed his cheek sweetly, but Épaulard sensed her disappointment and there was nothing for it. Cash was mistaken: things would not go better tomorrow. Tomorrow they would be dead.
24
TREUFFAIS was semicomatose. One of the officers was kicking him without conviction. The other was casing the apartment. Seated in the father’s armchair, Goémond was annoyed to see his prisoner prone on the floor and no longer responding to blows. He got up and went into the kitchen, where his subordinate was executing a summary search.
“He’s still not talking?” the man asked.
Goémond shook his head.
“Did you try twisting his nuts?”
“That would be torture,” said Goémond. “We do not torture in France. But, well, if he persists, we’ll see. Have you found anything?”
The officer nodded and spread a few objects out on the kitchen table. A weighted blackjack. Ten or so checkbooks bearing different names. A datebook.
“Stolen checkbooks,” he said.
“Slim pickings.”
“I’m willing to bet they come from the BNP branch that was hit by the Gauche Prolétarienne on May 27, 1970.”
“I’m not seconding your bet,” said Goémond, “but you might be right. That doesn’t get us very far though. Let’s look at the datebook.”
He flipped through it, but the pages were blank. At the back, however, was an address section. The commissioner examined this closely and found addresses for André Épaulard and Buenaventura Diaz.
“Go and call the station,” Goémond told the officer. “I want guys sent immediately to check out all the addresses in this book, see if anything stinks, and whether people are home. Don’t tip them off though. Use good cover stories.”
“Good cover stories for visits in the middle of the night?” protested the officer.
“They’ll manage it.”
“Should we try addresses in the provinces too?”
“We’ll try everything. But wait until tomorrow morning for the provincial ones. I’ll arrange it with the ministry directly.”
“Fine.”
The officer went to telephone in the hallway. Goémond went back into the dingy living room. He had not had dinner; he was beginning to feel tired. Treuffais was still stretched out on the floor. The other policeman had taken off his jacket and was smoking a cigarette. A nonservice Colt .38 hung under his arm in a canvas holster.
“Still haven’t decided?” Goémond asked Treuffais.
“Screw you, slimeball,” mumbled Treuffais.
The officer in shirtsleeves kicked him idly.
“Don’t you understand that we’ll get them anyway, your pals, because we already have Diaz and Épaulard? If you helped us, you’d save a us a little time, that’s all. It’s not dishonorable, after all, to admit defeat when you’re well and truly defeated. Myself, I call that realism. And if you help us, I could do something for you.”
“You’ve already done too much for me, bitch.”
Not bad, thought Goémond. He has decided to open his dumb mouth. That’s progress even if it’s only to call me names. The commissioner nibbled at his mustache.
“You’ll have your balls busted for this, I can promise you that,” said Treuffais feebly. “If you really are cops, you’re not done with me. Because I’ve done nothing, I know nothing, and you, you break in here with no warrant and torture me. I tell you, I’m going to sue you.”
“Poor little lamb!” said Goémond. “It goes on about torture but doesn’t even know what it’s talking about.”
“You can never charge me with anything because I haven’t done anything,” claimed Treuffais in an exhausted voice.
“Receiving stolen checks,” sneered Goémond. “That’ll do for starters. Then we’ll consider threatening the security of the State and being an accomplice to murder. I can hold you as long as I like. And I’ll hold you till you talk.”
“Arrest me then. Put me in jail. You have no right to remain in my apartment and keep me here.”
“No right? Rights are something I can take or leave alone.”
“Okay. If that’s how it is,” said Treuffais, and he began to scream as loudly as he could.
Goémond bounded forward and placed the sole of his shoe on Treuffais’s mouth. There was a brief struggle. The other policeman rushed over. Treuffais managed to sit up and was wailing at the top of his lungs. Goémond got a blackjack out of his jacket and hit the young man over the head. Treuffais went silent and quite limp. Somewhere on the lower floors, tenants disturbed by the racket started banging on the water pipes with broom handles.
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