The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian)

by Robert Sheckley

  “What’s the matter with ze dog?” Etiènne asked.

  “It is, perhaps,” the driver said, “that one of you gentlemen has a gun, n’est-çe pas?”

  The dog meanwhile was working herself into an hysterical lather. Her fur stuck out like electrified fleece and yellow globules of what looked like corrosive sublimate ran down her fangs, while her eyes flashed green and red, the devil’s stoplight.

  Etiènne made a quick decision and said, “Yeah, I got a gun, so what?”

  “It is indifferent to me,” the driver said, shrugging, of course, “but the dog, she does not like it.”

  “Well, can’t you speak to her or something? A man has a right to have a gun; it has nothing to do with ze dog; do you understand?”

  “One is not dense, m’sieu,” the cab driver said. “It deranges me to have to admit that while your reasoning is sound, your grasp of the essentials is imperfect. A dog cannot be reasoned with, and so, in her implicit stubbornness, she must be considered part of the given, implacable environment rather than a malleable player. To simplify matters, it would please the dog if you put your gun very carefully on the front seat. I will return it to you at the conclusion of the journey and everyone will be satisfied.”

  Etiènne didn’t feel that he would be satisfied, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could say about it, especially to a Parisian taxi driver with a police poodle riding shotgun for him.

  Etiènne leaned past the dog’s bristling wedge-shaped head, the blazing eyes never leaving his hand, and put the gun gently on the front seat. He sat back, but the dog continued to glare at him.

  Etiènne endured it as long as he could, then said, “I did what you suggested; must she continue to stare that way?”

  “Pay it no attention, m’sieu,” the taxi driver said. “She means nothing by it; it is merely her way.”

  Etiènne stared straight ahead as we drove through the night-bright streets of the city of paradox, shaking his head slightly. I heard him mutter to himself, “Faked out by a dog. How about that?”

  And then we were at the address he had indicated. Etiènne paid off the driver, retrieved his automatic, and we stood together on the pavement as the taxi drove away.

  Etiènne watched it for quite a while even after it was out of sight. I waited for a while, then said, “So what happens now?”

  Etiènne gave a start like a man awakened out of a dream, or perhaps into one, and said, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean I can’t remember ze address. Let’s get a drink. I’ve got to pull myself together.”

  JEAN-CLAUDE

  19

  We found a bistro near Tolbiac. There I stood Etiènne to a cognac and I had an Orangina. Etiènne hadn’t really forgotten where he was going. It was just the sort of statement that a man of his excitable though deeply repressed nature was apt to make.

  I learned a little about him in the Gauloise-laden smoke of the bistro filled with laughter and accordians. He was a Corsican, but, unlike so many of his fellows, not tough. On the basis of his looks and the island’s reputation, he was always being given jobs like this. It wasn’t what he would have chosen, but then, which of us has much choice in these matters?

  We walked a couple blocks on Masséna, then turned left onto the Avenue de Choisy for a few blocks, then stepped into the Chinatown that has sprung up around here. Sprawled beneath a group of high-rise buildings named after composers and painters—Puccini, Picasso, Rembrandt, Cézanne—were innumerable small shops and restaurants, where you can get Vietnamese, Laotian and Cambodian cuisine, most of it tasting like Chinese food would taste if you added fish oil to it. The little open-air markets in this vicinity were filled with oddly shaped vegetables and improbably colored fruits. The tall, modern buildings were filled with Boat People, so I’ve heard, resettled by the French for those who could claim French nationality from the old Indochina days. It’s said that the police stay out of this district; the Indo-Chinese (or whatever overall generic term they’re called by) police themselves. Occasionally a body falls out of one of the upper levels, a defaulter on gambling debts usually. Skyscraper justice, they call it.

  We cut through back streets to the Avenue d’Ivry, past a mixture of oriental eating places and Algerian couscous joints. Etiènne took me into an alley that led into a cobblestoned courtyard. Apartments opened on three sides of the courtyard. We crossed to one and Etiènne tapped on the door.

  The door swung open. A figure stood there, backlighted in the doorway. Even in silhouette, and after ten years, I could recognize Jean-Claude.

  “Have any trouble?” Jean-Claude asked Etiènne.

  “Yeah, some,” Etiènne said. “But it wasn’t his fault.”

  “Come on in, ’Ob,” Jean-Claude said. “We have some talking to do. I’m glad you didn’t try to get away.”

  “You could have saved yourself the theatricals,” I told him. “I was trying to find you, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m sure you were, ’Ob,” Jean-Claude said. “Come in and sit down.”

  We were in a sculptor’s atelier. There were armatures of various kinds, buckets of clay, pieces of marble of various sizes. In neat racks on the wall were the tools a sculptor uses—mauls, chisels, those sorts of things. Jean-Claude gestured me to a seat. He sat down himself.

  “Well, ’Ob,” he said, a twisted smile on his narrow face, “it’s been a long time.”

  Jean-Claude’s suit was a blue and white pinstripe with sharp Italian lines rather than your natural-shoulder American look. His small, carefully trimmed black moustache might have tipped you off, too. It was quite unlike the big hairy macho soupstrainers that many Americans favor in emulation of their favorite pro football linebackers. Jean-Claude was unmacho in appearance, and yet you didn’t feel he was a negligible man.

  We talked for a while of old times and new. Jean-Claude had just flown in from Cairo, where a deal involving small amounts of resinous substance had fallen through. Things weren’t going too well for him. His life had fallen apart in Biarritz last month, when he had broken up with Suzie. He had walked out on her in a fit of pique, before he had taken the precaution of finding someone else to live with.

  I noticed the small black ribbon in his boutonniere and enquired about it. It was for his Uncle Gasparé, who had been fished out of the Seine last week at the foot of the Pont Alexandre. Gasparé had been wearing a long, black overcoat with a mink collar. His hands had been tied in front of him and there had been a bullet hole in the back of his skull. Gangster slayings in Paris tend to have a certain panache.

  Your French criminal is the most style-conscious in the world. Parisian underworld chic is modelled on the novels of Whit Burnett and James M. Cain. A lot of the clothing is copied direct from what Edward G. Robinson wore in his 1930s movies. Every self-respecting hood in Montmartre or Belleville dresses up; when you get to be a capo mafioso, or whatever its Corsican equivalent is, style becomes really important. Rumor was that Uncle Gasparé had been overstepping himself.

  Jean-Claude was about five feet nine, weighing around a hundred and twenty pounds, had frizzy black hair and a hairline moustache. He was your typical French-Spanish-Italian sort of man, obviously nervous and high-strung, doubtless intelligent in an esoteric sort of way and filled with many little foibles incomprehensible to the straight-thinking citizens of North America excluding Mexico.

  “ ’Ob,” Jean-Claude said at last, “what in the hell are you doing back in Europe?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be back? I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “You sold us out in Turkey, ’Ob. I’ve been waiting a long time to repay you for that.”

  “Like hell I did,” I told him. “I saw Jarosik at the airport that day and I turned around and walked out. There was no way I could warn you or Nigel.”

  “The way I’ve heard it, you set us up. You sold us out to Jarosik and the Turks.”

  “That simply isn’t tru
e. When I got back to Paris, I did everything I could. I hired lawyers, arranged bribes—”

  “Big deal,” Jean-Claude said, twisting his lips into a characteristic sneer. “How much did the Turks pay you?”

  “If I had done all that,” I said, “why would I be here now? I didn’t resist coming to see you. You can ask Etiènne.”

  Etiènne nodded in agreement. “We took a taxi here and there was zis dog—”

  Jean-Claude silenced him with a gesture. “How the hell should I know why you’re here now? Maybe you’ve gone even crazier than usual.”

  “I’m telling you, I did not turn you and Nigel in. I’m sitting here in front of you telling you that. If you don’t believe me, there’s not much I can do about it. Over to you, Jean-Claude.”

  He stared at me for a long time. At last he said, “Damn it, ’Ob, you’re putting me into a terrible situation. Everybody knows you set us up. I’m supposed to take my revenge. You’re trying to play on my sympathy, and it isn’t going to work.”

  “That’s what you think?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I think.”

  “Well, that’s just great,” I said. “So kill me, if that’s what you’re going to do, but please stop boring me to death.”

  He smiled faintly. “Same old ’Ob.”

  I also smiled faintly. I was the same old Hob. Crazier’n a bedbug. But rather more self-aware.

  “What’s this about you looking for Alex?” he asked.

  “I need to find him for a client. I was trying to find you and Nigel. I want you to work for me on this case.”

  “Is that true, ’Ob? You really want us to work for you?”

  “You know my way,” I told him. “All my old friends are part of my organization. When you help me on a case, you get a cut of the action. Unless you kill me, of course. That changes everything.”

  “Is there really any money in this?” Jean-Claude asked.

  I settled down for a nice little chat. Once they start talking money, you’re safe from immediate peril.

  CLOVIS

  20

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Draconian,” Gerard Clovis said. He was wearing gray twill riding jodhpurs, Frye boots and a yoke-back western shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. This was his John Huston outfit, I later learned. He also had many other outfits, including a Federico Fellini outfit with floppy black hat.

  It was just a quarter past seven. We were outside a large warehouse in the Kremlin-Bicêtre region of the thirteenth arrondissement, not far from where I’d been last night with Etiènne. There were two equipment trucks parked nearby, one crane-mounted camera, and a couple of handheld jobs. More lighting and equipment were inside the warehouse. There were quite a few people standing around, some technicians, some actors.

  “Don’t I get a copy of the script?” I asked.

  “There is no script,” Clovis said. He tapped his head. “It’s all in here. The general plan. The broad conception.”

  “That’s great for you,” I told him. “But what are the actors supposed to do? Read your mind?”

  “You will be told all you need to know,” Clovis said. “I want you to have only a general idea. After that, just give me your interpretation, your reactions. I want you—all of you—to ad lib the scene, to be spontaneous. Don’t worry about the dialogue; we’re going to dub it in later, Italian-style.”

  He told me I was to enter the warehouse and go to the second floor. I did so. The warehouse was a huge place, a man-made cavern above the ground. It was partially filled with sacks of vegetables, and stacked up along one wall were wooden skids with crates in orderly piles on them. The place smelled faintly of diesel oil and potatoes. There was office space on the second level. I went up there and shook hands with the camera crew. Then I was taken to a costuming booth in the back. Here I was introduced to Yvette, who looked me up and down and conferred with the wardrobe lady. After a brief discussion, they found an outfit for me: a white linen suit and panama hat, Tony Lama lizard-tip cowboy boots, brown checkered westernwear shirt with brown bandanna.

  “Yvette,” I said, “I understand that you know my friend Alex Sinclair?”

  “Oui, m’sieu,” she said, with that charming intonation that goes with a neat figure, black stockings and peasant skirts. She was a darling little thing, black haired and black eyed, with a natural friendliness that promised more than it was likely to deliver. But of course, you can never tell.

  “When did you see Alex last?” I asked.

  She looked thoughtful, another expression that she did well. “M’sieu ’Ob,” she said in her delightful accent, “Alex asked me not to talk about his affairs. I must preserve his confidence, you understand.”

  “I do understand,” I said, “and I approve. Alex told me the same thing himself. It’s always been his way. Of course, he naturally breaks his rule for me. Especially as I am the bearer of good tidings.”

  “Ah, you talk too complicated for me,” Yvette said, with a little laugh that was deliciousness itself. A fantasy formed up in my mind of living in an atelier with this delightful grisette on wine, love and remittance money.

  “What I mean,” I said, “is that I have money for Alex. Quite a lot of money. I’d like to give it to him.”

  Her expression brightened. “I can contact you, m’sieu, as soon as Alex calls me.”

  It was time to go Hollywood. I squinted at her and roughened my tone. “You don’t understand, baby. Alex needs this money and I need some answers fast. Might be something in it for you, too, sweetheart.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed. I could see I was getting somewhere. And then a call came from outside, “M’sieu Draconian, we need you immediately!”

  “I must think about zis,” Yvette said, wide-eyed, full lips parted slightly to reveal tiny white teeth destined to nibble on my tenderer parts in the near future, or so I hoped.

  “’Ob! Where in hell are you!” This time it was Clovis himself calling, and he sounded annoyed.

  I marched out to begin my acting career.

  DANGER ON THE SET

  21

  A distant, faint pounding of drums provided a staccato background as I stepped out into the corridor. Someone handed me a prop gun; this seemed to be some sort of policier I was acting in, though it was hard to be sure with a director like Clovis. After all, the gun could be a symbol, though I wasn’t sure of what.

  There was dry-ice smoke coming out from under the floorboards. Sequenced lighting along the corridor sent out pulses of orange and blue, not my favorite colors. Actually it was pretty neat, all things considered.

  Behind me I could hear Clovis shouting, “Keep on walking; don’t stop!” So I kept on. There were open doorways on either side of me, and one guy with a beret and a handheld camera was coming along behind me, panning each of the doorways. I panned them myself, with my eyes, of course, since nobody had given me a camera. Within each doorway was a scene or what they call a tableau. I saw people in frozen attitude staring at each other across suits of armor; Asiatics frozen in the attitude of gambling, mouths caught wide in the excitement; scenes of sexual explicitness veiled behind cheesecloth. And I thought of Jim Morrison singing, “Before I fall into the big sleep, I want you here … the scream of the butterfly. …”

  And then I saw a face at the far end of the corridor, a woman’s face, her hands beckoning to me. “Dialogue,” Clovis hissed, and so I improvised:

  “Hi, baby, you acting in this little number too? You wait right there for me, sweet thing; I’m a-coming down this here corridor as fast as I can, lickety-split.”

  Well, I mean it was just words to invent; they were going to dub the dialogue later, but I got caught up in it anyhow, so I didn’t notice when the floor of the corridor came to an end. I couldn’t have noticed it anyhow, since there was this smoke all over the floor up to my ankles.

  You figure when professionals are shooting a movie, they have their act together, so I just stepped out and suddenly I wasn’t standing on
anything. I was falling.

  DR. DADA

  22

  Paris is filled with places for every mood. I walked to the Avenue de Suffren, past the École Militaire, and then across the Champ de Mars toward the Eiffel Tower. I found a park bench and sat down.

  The clarity and order of a French park promote logical thinking. Well-ordered greenery, dust motes in the afternoon sunshine, and little girls in white and gray school uniforms. You come to believe that God speaks French and is inclined toward irony.

  Through my haze of abstraction, I slowly became aware of the old gentleman sitting on the bench beside me. It was a surprise, but not really a shock, for me to discover that he wore a black felt hat of antique shape over his powdered peruke. He had on a double-breasted fawn greatcoat with two rows of shiny buttons, silver or pewter. Another peek confirmed that he had green satin breeches that came to the knee, and below those were dove-gray silk stockings terminating in funny black shoes with square white metal buckles.

  “Yes, take a good look, Hob,” the old gentleman said. “And then dismiss me with one of your clever rationalizations.”

  A shudder passed through me. I knew that this was a time of testing, and it had come upon me before I was really prepared. I let my breath out slowly and turned to address him.

  “Always pleased to meet an anomaly,” I said. “I’ve been feeling a bit insubstantial myself of late. Do you have a name?”

  “I have many names,” he said in a teasing voice. “But I’ll give you a clue or two. I’m known sometimes as Dr. Dada, and I’m a close friend of Siegfried Surreal. You’ve remarked yourself on the power that the Second Surrealist Manifesto still exercises over the minds of men. You suspect that the true nature of existence is difficult for an Anglo-Saxon to examine with the blunt instrument that is his mind. Common sense condemns you to a prosaic world, but you know it’s the great enemy, and you came to France to find weapons to use in your grand struggle against reality. Confess it, Hob; you came here to talk with me.”