The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  I considered going after her, but then decided to see if she was following me. I did not turn left as usual at rue Androuet, but continued down to the Place Emile Goudeau and made my way through the pigeons and cigarette ends. I sat down on one of the green-painted benches under the trees, purposely choosing one that faced back towards the rue Berthe. There was still some warmth in the sun and I made myself comfortable and waited. Sure enough, some moments later, she appeared.

  The woman glanced around and didn’t notice where I was sitting until it was too late to hide. We made eye contact for less than a second before she broke it, looking exaggeratedly away. Her hands had leapt into the air, though, signalling her exasperation.

  ‘Good evening,’ I called, hoping my grin would provoke her.

  Reluctantly she came over.

  ‘You’re not very good at following people,’ I said.

  ‘It’s what I do. You’ve not noticed me before.’ Her hands were now determinedly clasped together. ‘You take the same route home from the shop to your apartment every night.’

  ‘Is that not allowed?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘So, you’ve been stalking me?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not really interested in you.’

  ‘Who are you interested in then?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk out here.’

  She nodded in the direction of the café behind me.

  ‘But why not here?’ I asked. ‘It’s pretty, under the trees. Did you know this area was once called Le Bateau-Lavoir?’

  ‘I’m not interested in history.’

  ‘Famous artists lived here.’

  ‘Although following people is what I do,’ she said, ignoring my remarks, ‘sometimes people follow me. I don’t want us to be overheard.’

  ‘You sound paranoid.’

  ‘I’ve reason to be.’

  ‘Okay then,’ I agreed, amused.

  There were customers at the tables outside the café, but inside it was empty. Anodyne pop music was playing quietly from somewhere behind the bar and the place smelt of cleaning fluid and coffee. The woman selected a small, two-person table towards the rear, and when we were sitting opposite each other she started to explain:

  ‘I follow Hopper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s not what he claims to be.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He says he’s a businessman and a philanthropist. He invests in small businesses, allowing them to expand, taking a share in the profits, sometimes selling them on.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with any of that?’

  ‘I’m aware of his history.’

  A large man with a startling beard, presumably the Patron, passed our table and wished us a good evening. We asked for two glasses of merlot, and the woman refused to explain anything until we had been served. She still reminded me of Corrina, and I wondered what I’d have been doing at that very moment if she had still been alive. I wondered whether we would still be living in London, and whether we would have finally moved in together.

  Thoughts of what I had lost made me all the more aggravated by the woman sitting opposite me, and I derived some enjoyment from her nervousness and awkwardness. While we waited, she didn’t know what to do with her hands; she either tapped them on the table or played with her thick black hair. She seemed relieved when she finally had a glass to hold with both of them.

  ‘Hopper’s a nasty piece of work,’ she continued. ‘His life is a front, a charade so that he can launder a large amount of gold bullion he got his hands on several years ago. He obtained it through violence; people died.’

  She was wearing red lipstick that was too bright for her pale complexion. When she took a gulp of wine it smeared the edge of the glass.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the police?’ I asked.

  ‘Because he went to court for it, back in England. It was a few years ago. He was tried and found not guilty.’

  ‘But you’re sure he is guilty?’

  ‘He claimed amnesia because of something that happened and he didn’t plead either guilty or not guilty.’ She sipped her wine once more and then frowned, staring down at the glass rather than at me. ‘The court couldn’t decide whether he’d stolen the gold and killed his accomplices, so he left court a free man. He started a new life over here in Paris, without knowing a word of French, and discovered that he could make money out of thin air; out of stupid little businesses. He’s slowly turning the gold into clean cash.’

  She drank more of her wine and I realised I had not started mine.

  ‘So, he may be a crook,’ I shrugged. ‘Thanks for the advice; I’ll keep my distance.’

  ‘But he’s very dangerous. What do you think he was doing in the Passage des Abbesses that evening?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He was making sure his people carried out his orders.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was his first serious mistake.’

  ‘Where’s your information from?’

  ‘I was a witness to what went on back in England. I’ve seen exactly what he’s capable of.’

  ‘And you’re here, in Paris, because of him?’

  ‘I followed him for my own reasons, but there are others who’re interested in Hopper and what he does. I’m employed by them to follow him when he’s in Paris. I note down where he goes and who he talks to.’

  ‘Who are the people you work for?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why should I listen to what you say, and take you seriously, when you won’t tell me...’

  ‘It’s probably the French police, or some secret service. I don’t actually know who they are. The person I speak to sounds English.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I report to them and they pay me, in cash. Because you’ve been in contact with Hopper they’re now interested in you.’

  ‘I really have nothing to do with Hopper.’

  ‘I told them that was probably the case.’

  ‘So why’re you still bothering to follow me?’

  ‘Because I think you might be able to give me information about him.’

  ‘For you to pass on to your employers? Not if you can’t tell me who they are.’

  ‘It’s personally very important to me as well.’

  ‘But you haven’t even told me your name.’

  She put out her hand: ‘It’s Candy Smith.’

  I decided not to take her hand, not yet: ‘Why should I believe your story? It’s all quite unlikely. I mean you don’t even know who’s paying you!’

  ‘I’m telling you all this because I think you’ve got a sense of right and wrong. You’ve talked to the police twice already.’

  As she spoke I was watching her impressive eyelashes moving, and realised that they were false. The Patron moved in our direction with a smile. He had noticed that Candy had emptied her glass.

  ‘Un nouveau verre pour Madamoiselle?’

  ‘Non,’ she said, standing up, not looking at the man. To me she said, ‘Trust me, I’m right. See what you can find out and then tell me.’

  The Patron and I both watched Candy leave.

  ‘Femme?’ said the man, wrongly concluding that there had been an argument. He raised his eyebrows, hoping for information.

  I shrugged and sipped at my wine, leaving him to walk back to the bar, stroking his beard. When I left a few minutes later I could hear him saying to another customer ‘Touristes!’

  Hopper returned to the shop a week later. I happened to glance up and see him through the window and I was able to slip into the office before he came in. My father had to serve him.

  ‘You’ve found The Bird Paintings of Henry Guthrie for me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s under the counter,’ my father said proudly.

  ‘So the younger gentleman was happy for you to handle it?’ he asked with sarcasm.

  ‘My son? Yes, well, it’s actually a first edition in its own right.’

  ‘Th
at’s all right then,’ he mocked.

  ‘I do share some of Flavian’s misgivings about the Folio Society, but this is a very interesting volume.’

  ‘Your son didn’t convince me to give them up.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with the Folio Society. It’s only when you compare some of their titles with the alternatives.’

  I didn’t catch the reply. I could tell that my father had left the desk and he returned a few moments later.

  ‘Tell me what you think of these....’ he said. ‘We normally only sell English language editions, but I recently bought a first edition of this book in French. I already had the first American translation here, the first English translation, and this newer small press edition. Now... here’s a Folio Society edition I keep hidden from my son.’

  My father was showing Hopper copies of Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes. He had always had a soft spot for the book:

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Folio Society translation, although I prefer this later British edition. But tell me, which would you prefer, if given the choice and money was no consideration.’

  I could imagine Hopper picking up the different editions and putting them down again. While he did so my father asked if he had the Folio Society edition already.

  ‘Yes, I probably have.’

  ‘I promise you that the lithographs spoil the story.’

  There was more silence, and finally the man said:

  ‘I’d be tempted by all of them, if I’m to be honest. I suppose the best translation would be the ideal one.’

  ‘That’s the right answer!’ said my father.

  ‘I like this American edition as it looks almost new. Condition is very important to me. How much is this first edition?’

  ‘Seven thousand euros.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take the American edition, and this British one, if you recommend it. As long as we are not talking thousands of euros?’

  ‘The two together would be three hundred.’

  ‘And so I owe you five hundred... I’ll write you a cheque, if I may.’

  A few second later I could hear the man casually asking:

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a book called The Dark Return of Time?’

  ‘It sounds familiar. I’ll ask my son if he knows.’

  I was resigned to what would happen next. A moment later my father’s head was around the side of the office door. ‘Have you heard of a book called The Dark Return of Time? I was thinking that Javier Marias was the author.’

  ‘No.’

  I knew that I couldn’t hide any longer.

  ‘Good morning,’ I greeted Hopper, and the man nodded and smiled in return. He was dressed very formally, as usual, with a sky-blue waistcoat under his well-cut jacket. He was immaculately groomed, but once again I was fascinated by his eyes, which did not seem at all healthy.

  ‘My father’s thinking of The Dark Backward of Time,’ I said.

  ‘No, that’s not it. I don’t actually know who the author is.’

  ‘We can look it up for you. We can search the online databases and if nothing comes up we can always advertise.’

  Hopper was unsure: ‘I think that, at the moment, I’d like a little discretion.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe I can trust you both?’

  ‘Of course,’ said my father, slightly offended.

  ‘Well, it has no real value to anybody except me. If it’s on the shelves of a bookshop nobody could charge more than ten pounds for it. But it does seem to be unaccountably scarce. Between you and me I’d be happy to pay a hundred, perhaps more.’

  ‘What category is it?’

  ‘Biography, I think. It’s very hard to tell.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ my father said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a benign smile, and then he was looking directly at me and my heart started to pound. ‘While I’m here, I’d like to talk to you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, faltering.

  Hopper was still smiling, but his eyes flicked unmistakeably to the office door. ‘In private, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t have any secrets from my father,’ I said.

  ‘Very well. It’s with regard to Candy Smith.’

  ‘Oh....’

  ‘You had a long talk with her a few days ago.’

  ‘Yes, er...’

  ‘You really mustn’t believe the half of what poor Candy says. You see, she’s a little confused, poor thing. A little, shall we say, “damaged”?’

  ‘She did say some strange things.’

  I immediately regretted my words.

  ‘Of course, I’m not aware of exactly how much she told you, but she has caused me some trouble in the past. Actually, a great deal of trouble. So I keep her busy; I pay her to keep an eye on my movements, and those of people around me.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because she’ll have made some wild and unfortunate accusations that’ll have worried you. But I don’t want her to realise that we’ve spoken about her. That wouldn’t be fair. I mean, none of this is fair really. Perhaps she ought to be in a hospital, but I make sure she has enough money to get by, and something to occupy her time. I can trust you not to say anything to her?’

  ‘She said that she wanted me to spy on you as well.’

  He continued to smile the same fixed smile: ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be playing these games, but Candy needs to be busy, occupied, and believing she’s doing some good.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I want to get involved in your games.’

  ‘I understand. It’s your decision. But please don’t mention this discussion to her; I don’t think it would help her state of mind.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ my father said.

  ‘Good.’

  Although the smile had disappeared, Hopper looked more at ease. He tapped his nose to suggest that it would all be kept a secret between us. He left the shop with his parcel of books and an air of satisfaction that irritated me.

  ‘That’s a rum old set-up,’ my father commented. ‘But so long as he keeps asking for books, and writing cheques, I’ll go along with it.’

  ‘None of it is right,’ I insisted. ‘Candy said she didn’t know who was paying her to spy on Hopper. Would he really arrange all this just to keep her busy and out of his hair?’

  ‘I suppose if he’s rich enough... Maybe it makes him feel important?’

  ‘It’s not very fair on her, though. If she needs to be in hospital then perhaps that’d be the best place for her.’

  At that moment the door opened and Candy entered the shop.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, guiltily.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she asked.

  My father immediately said, ‘I’ll go into the office.’ He shut the door after him.

  ‘Why was Hopper here?’ she demanded.

  ‘He came to buy some books.’

  ‘Which books?’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It might be.’

  ‘I ought to respect client confidentiality.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor, or a priest!’

  ‘Okay. Will it help if I say he left with a couple of different editions of Le Grand Meaulnes, and an illustrated book about birds.’

  She looked around nervously, playing with the ends of her hair.

  ‘And there was nothing else?’

  ‘Like what? He didn’t tell us where the gold bullion was hidden.’

  She took a step back: ‘I thought I could trust you. Now you’re just laughing at me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I’ll come back another time.’

  I was pleased to see her leave. As she was closing the door after her, though, she turned, remembering to thank me. I thought f
or a moment she was going to ask further questions, or give more of an explanation. I didn’t encourage her, and finally, awkwardly, she left.

  In the office my father looked up from his computer.

  ‘I really don’t know what to make of all this,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t tell her that it’s Hopper who’s paying her to spy on him?’

  ‘No. It’s none of my business, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I’m not happy with both of them hanging around. Whatever’s going on between them I’m convinced that it’s linked to that abduction. Candy’s sure he’s got something to do with it.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘No, but it’s too much of a coincidence. On the day that I witness a violent crime I also come across two people who act very strangely and make accusations against each other. I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘Do nothing, for the moment. I mean, what could you tell the police?’ He coughed. ‘Now, I think we might be able to steer your Mr Hopper away from the Folio Society.’

  ‘He’s not my Mr Hopper.’

  ‘We should move him towards collecting some more interesting books. We do have a living to make here....’

  ‘I know, I know. But I’m not sure that we ought to be dealing with him at all.’

  ‘Nonsense. His money’s as good as the next customer’s.’

  ‘But if Candy’s right about where he got it from.’

  ‘Are we going to turn down business because of a madwoman’s story?’

  ‘No....’

  ‘While you were talking to her, I was searching for a copy of The Dark Return of Time on the ’net. It’s odd, but there isn’t a copy for sale anywhere, and it doesn’t turn up on the British Library catalogue, the Library of Congress website or the Biblioteque Nationale.’

  V

  Hopper’s large, ostentatious house on the south side of rue St Vincent was built hard up against the road, next to a small and incongruous vineyard. The ground floor windows were shuttered and the front door looked medieval, apparently constructed out of heavy oak planks with primitive wrought metalwork. The intercom was state-of-the-art, though, and when my father pressed the button the response was almost instantaneous. He gave his name and business, and the door opened a moment later.