by Janice Law
Was that a good sign? I wondered. I returned to find the flat empty, and I was annoyed because I could have been out and about for half the evening with my uncle no wiser. But it was maybe not too late to take advantage of his absence. I hustled to change my clothes and I was almost at the door when my uncle returned, flushed and eager.
“I underestimated Chaput. He has been on the job and he has photos of several men, one of whom may be Anoshkin, one of whom he believes is English. We’re going to pick up the evidence.”
All right! Even a visit to dry Monsieur Chaput beat remaining in for the evening. Out front, I was surprised to see, not the van, but a dark Citroën.
“The van is known,” Uncle Lastings said.
I was impressed. Somehow he had managed to tap into government money for an operation while simultaneously running his own dodgy scheme with one of the target’s associates.
As on our previous visit, Uncle Lastings parked a few blocks from Chaput’s agency. I noticed how he checked behind us and scanned the buildings all around, guarding his portable perimeter. I found this more amusing then than I would later.
Upstairs, one, two flights. On the third, he stopped to sniff the air and frowned. Then he took off, taking the steps two at a time. On the upper landing, we saw the door of the detective agency ajar. My uncle stopped and motioned for me to stay back. He edged toward the entrance, pushed the door open gently, and glanced inside. Then he gestured for me to follow.
The outer office was as we had last seen it, wooden chairs on either side of the rickety table. The inner office was another matter. The drawers of the file cabinets had all been pulled out, and folders and papers had drifted over the desk onto the floor. The green glass lamp was smashed, the desk chair overturned, and Monsieur Chaput lay next to it in a mess of shit and blood. My lungs contracted; I took a big gulp of the stinking air and wished I hadn’t. My uncle was swearing softly but steadily.
“The photos?” I asked after a minute. I had a bizarre notion that he might want to make a search.
“They’ll have gotten the photos.” I took a step toward the desk and he added, “Touch nothing.”
I nodded. “Who? Who did this?”
My uncle shrugged. “The Reds, possibly. Or whoever is corrupt at the SIS. Either way, we’re down the rabbit hole, boy.”
“Poor Chaput believed in documents,” I said stupidly.
“He should have stuck to them. Come on. We were never here,” my uncle added as we went on the stairs. “Never.”
Out to the car. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“We need to let Horace know. We use Jimmy at the Parnasse Bar as a contact, but I’m not sure that is possible for me. I’d be spotted for sure if it’s one of our people.”
I felt that quite a lot of champagne would be needed to settle my stomach and take away the stench that lingered in my nose and at the back of my throat. “I could go,” I said. “I was only the twice at the embassy, and the Parnasse is just the sort of place where an English student would drink.”
My uncle gave me an appraising look. “You go in, you have a drink, you tell Jimmy the exact message I’ll give you, and you take a taxi straight back to the flat. There’s no playing about with these people, whoever they are.”
“Absolutely. I could do with a drink.”
I got another look. “One. You’re just getting the evening off to a good start.”
I nodded. I promised. For once, I had every intention of doing just what I was told. He dropped me a couple of blocks away, and if I hadn’t felt both sick and shaky, it could have been one of the lovely evenings of my first days in Paris, strolling the boulevard and going between Le Select, the Dôme, the Dingo Bar, and the Parnasse. Same violet sky fading into a smoky lavender, same gaily lit cafés, dusty plane trees, and stars blooming overhead. Same laughter, same waiters in their long aprons, same painted girls—and boys.
But it was all I could do to walk straight. I tried to put thoughts of poor Chaput out of my mind, but he kept returning, bloodied but still in his overturned desk chair, killed for a handful of incriminating photographs. If a few pieces of celluloid had been enough to eliminate him, how much more vulnerable would Pavel be? It didn’t bear thinking of.
I straightened my tie, rather askew, put my shoulders back as if my military father was still booming commands in my ear, and strolled into the Parnasse. Up to the bar. Lean a casual elbow. Why is it that nerves make even the simplest action seem not only complicated but implausible?
After a moment, I caught Jimmy’s eye. I ordered champagne and asked if Horace had been in.
He shook his head, returned with a flute, and leaned over. “Photos lost,” I whispered as I set the coins on the bar. “Detective shot dead. Advise Horace.”
Jimmy’s face never lost its professional, noncommittal smile, though he did say, “Perhaps monsieur would like a cognac?”
I shook my head and emptied the flute. I could have done with another and a cognac on top, but, mindful of my uncle’s warnings, I turned away and almost bumped into a chap in a fine, pale linen suit and a handsome flat cap. Two beats and I realized it was Pyotr. Gone was the thuggish demi-apache look in favor of café society style. I should have had a lot of questions. Instead, I just said, “Bonsoir.”
“Francis!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “How good to see you.” He gestured to Jimmy. “Two champagnes.” A look at me. “Champagne, yes? See, I have not forgotten.”
I protested I had to leave; I had an appointment, an assignation; I was already late.
“But there is always time for champagne,” he said, and taking my arm, led me toward a table on the sidewalk, then returned to the bar for our drinks. If I’d really felt like myself, I’d have taken the opportunity to leave, courtesy be damned. But I was still shaky, and the thought of another restorative champagne was irresistible. I sat down and smiled at Pyotr when he returned, glasses in hand.
“To us,” he said and we raised our glasses.
“I like your suit. You must have found a rich patron. Do tell.”
Pyotr narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve found work. Of a sort.”
He did not seem inclined to elaborate, and I was in no shape for any subtle interrogation. Pyotr was in a different mood. He wanted to know if I was still with the theater company. I was surprised and a little uneasy that he knew about that.
“Tout Paris knows,” he said. “Friends of friends have seen the show with the beautiful Inessa. There are no women like Russian women.” He raised his glass to the ladies of the fatherland.
“Inessa is superb,” I agreed.
“And where is she now? Tout Paris wants to know.”
I shrugged. “Ran away with a lover, I believe.”
“You do not know?” He leaned across the table toward me, sounding incredulous.
“Why would I? She does not confide in me.”
He leaned back in his chair. Despite his fine clothes and air of prosperity, there was still something feral in his expression. “Yet you were looking for her brother. It was her brother, wasn’t it?”
Be careful, Francis, Nan said in my inner ear, but now I found it hard to come up with something ambiguous. Even an outright lie, such as I am normally good at, seemed well beyond my capacities. It was the shock, of course.
“It would be best if you told me, Francis. I have your interests at heart in this.” Pyotr leaned forward and touched my arm. “Tell me!”
His face seemed to have dissolved on one side, an interesting visual effect. I’d seen nothing like it on canvas. I blinked, and the bright lights of the café darkened and shadows rose out of the street like goblins. I felt quite sick. I like alcohol, but drugs do nothing good for me. This was not the aftereffects of finding poor Monsieur Chaput and his scattered documents but the impact of some chemical that was overwhelming my system.
“Je suis désolé,” Pyotr said and slammed the door.
With a terrific jolt, the car accelerated away, and my only consolation was that most of what I’d eaten over the last twenty-four hours landed in the lap of the heavy chap sitting beside me.
Chapter Thirteen
I must have passed out for a time, because I remembered nothing of the drive except that the man sitting in the backseat with me made a great fuss about his suit. Quite unfair. I hadn’t asked to be shanghaied in a favorite café and taken on a fast ride in a swaying car, especially not when my head was reeling and my stomach rising. What did they want with me? And where was I? Lights and tree branches swept overhead. Traffic signals. Reflections. No sign of buildings, all gone. Vanished. Tout Paris had disappeared except for lights and trees. And cars. I was in a car, and there were others because I heard horns.
A jolt for a stop, causing my head to thump on what? Edge of the seat? A large shoe? I appeared to be lying on the floor of a car, and, yes, a shoe, attached to a leg, attached to some large being seated above me. Another jolt. Our driver had a heavy foot, unlike my last ride with—then a gap opened, a scary gap ending in darkness that was not interrupted until the car stopped, and there was a creak. A gate opening. We pulled forward onto a paved forecourt.
Car doors opening. My backseat companion stepped out, complaining loudly. Not English. Not French. I’d settled on Russian by the time the door on my side opened. My legs were seized, and I was hauled out like a dead fish. I felt rather like one, too. Thump, down on the pavement before a man silhouetted against the lighted door of the building. He was broad rather than tall, and his features were lost in the shadows. My stomach gave another twitch just the same. Something about him struck a chord and it was not a good one.
At his order, the driver and my angry backseat companion seized me under the arms and dragged me toward the house, a tall building with slated gables. A clatter behind us as the gate was closed. High walls, trees. Then lights and more darkness, but before my mind quite slipped away on its chemical excursion, I saw the face of the man giving the orders. I’d last seen him in a taxi outside the theater: Inessa’s savior and Pavel’s betrayer, Alexi. I was in for it.
Floor. I was lying on the floor. Unmoving. I was not in the car. Not in my uncle’s flat. Not anywhere I recognized. The ceiling was a long way overhead, a chandelier dangling from the center. Off. The light was off, but it was not dark. Not completely. Grayish bars at the windows. Three windows with shutters. I sat up, my head spinning. My shirt was filthy, and my suit was probably ruined. I’d been at a café. Drinking champagne with—another blank—but it struck me that I’d had nowhere near enough money to drink to such excess. Something else must have happened, but I hadn’t a clue.
I lay down again and perhaps I went to sleep because when the door opened, and Alexi, yes, it was definitely Alexi, came in and threw open one shutter, clear bright light poured in, bringing a glimpse of blue sky and the green tops of the trees. I was in an upper room.
Alexi said something to me in French, but mon français had taken its leave.
I started to shake my head and wound up back flat on the floor.
Alexi grabbed the front of my shirt and repeated his question, once, twice. Lots of sounds, lots of words, out of which all I understood was Inessa.
“Inessa,” I said.
“Où est Inessa?” Alexi shouted.
His face was very close to mine, and I saw that his teeth were bad, his lips curiously red. When I couldn’t answer, he slapped my face, dropping me back onto the floor. This was repeated several times, I think, for my sense of time had seemingly followed my knowledge of French and any memory of the previous hours.
“Où est Inessa?”
The penny dropped. He wanted to know where Inessa was. Now we were making progress. I shook my head. “Don’t know.”
He hit me in the ribs this time and I was aware of pain, but at a curious distance. He also said a great deal in Russian. I distinguished Pyotr several times. Pyotr was on his mind and not in a good way.
Pyotr was my pal who’d bought me a drink. My former pal who’d bought me a drink. Who’d apparently drugged me. Who’d apparently overdone it.
“Où est Inessa?” And this time he added, “Avec Dumoulin? Eh? Jules Dumoulin?”
I nodded and wished I hadn’t.
“Bien.” He seized the front of my shirt again and shook his fist in my face. “Et où sont Inessa et Jules?”
“I don’t know,” I said in English and then, after a huge effort, “Je ne sais pas.”
He hit me a few more times, but the blows that knocked me back and forth produced nothing but faint nausea. “Claude,” he said after a minute. Even with the drug, my heart jumped. Again, “Claude?” But his harsh voice was tentative, and I guessed that he did not know of the connection.
I shook my head and tried not to look relieved.
He cursed Pyotr and hit me, but I closed my eyes and dropped away into the darkness.
The next time I came to, I was very stiff, very sore, very thirsty. My head was pounding, my mouth was dry, and I had a great many bruises, but I could sit up. A moment later, I was on my feet in a dark, bare room. Well, not entirely bare. The one open shutter brought in a dim light, which might have been just before dark or just before dawn, to illuminate a large and ornate armoire, a straight chair, and a bed with no mattress, just springs. A spare bedroom.
I staggered to the window. I was high up, and there were no gutters or drainpipes or convenient branches. Even if there had been, I was not sure I would have attempted an exit. I hurt everywhere, and I was still dizzy.
The door, then. I shuffled across and tried the handle. Locked, naturellement, as Armand would say. But French had returned along with the memory of Armand. And now I remembered that I had been sent to the Parnasse Bar to pass on a message via Jimmy. Sent by my uncle Lastings, alias Claude, and I knew that Alexi must not, on any account, learn that message or that Claude and I were related.
What time was it? I sat down by the window and listened. I may have dozed, because I did not hear the church bells start but gradually became aware of them. I counted to eight. At least eight, which meant it was night and late because dawn comes early this far north, and full dark comes late. Had I possibly been out for a day? If so, my uncle must know I’d come to grief. Would he and his embassy contact, Horace, do something useful about that? I couldn’t begin to guess.
Where was Alexi? That thought brought a jolt of fear, fear of him and fear of what I might have said. He knew about Jules, probably had known about him for a while. He knew Jules’s last name was Dumoulin, and a man of his talents would soon discover Jules’s permanent residence. That meant danger for Madame Dumoulin. Who had to be warned. With this thought, I dragged myself to the window and looked down at a terrace with leg-breaking stone flags. No joy there.
The adjoining window presented the same problem, and the one on the side wall had been unhelpfully nailed shut. I pulled and rattled at it, until disheartened, as well as dizzy, I sat back down on the floor. I may have slept again, because the first thing I registered was a faint tapping. When I opened my eyes, the room was full dark. Another tap.
I got up and went to the door. “Qui est là?”
A silence, then a quiet scrambling and rattling in the lock before the door opened
and a light blinded me so that I automatically stumbled back and raised my hands.
The light dropped and the door closed. I blinked. A blond boy stood before me with a flashlight in one hand and a large kitchen knife in the other. The knife occupied my mind right away but not to the exclusion of his face, which was wide and symmetrical with perfectly sculpted features. His eyes were dark like Inessa’s and, yes, he could model for some Renaissance angel, but I leaned toward a St. Michael rather than an innocent cupid. He was almost as tall as I was and, though slim, he promised soon to be broad shouldered and powerful.
“Pavel? C’est Pavel, n’est pas?”
“You have been hurt,” he said in slow but accurate English.
When I said “Alexi beat me up” in English, he gave a feral smile and stepped closer, the knuckles white on the knife hand.
“He wanted to know where your sister is.” My voice was an appalling croak.
“My sister is dead.”
“Your sister is very much alive, and she’s in hiding with a friend of mine.”
He shook his head. “She is dead,” he said, so definitely that I wondered if Alexi could possibly have found her in the hours I’d been unconscious. Had I told him something crucial? I hoped not.
“If Alexi worked on you, you told him. Alexi can get anyone to tell anything.” He spoke of Alexi’s brutality with a mix of fatalism and pride.