Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 51 – GOING AFTER JEAN BLONDET

  "Good afternoon, Madame," Leandre Durand said to the vegetable vendor who had warned him and Nason about Jean Blondet's habit of ambushing people. He started selecting produce to buy.

  "You should not be here, sir. And alone!" she said under her breath.

  "Ah, well, I think I have a way of making your Jean the ambusher go away, if I can only find him. But he has moved without leaving a forwarding address."

  "It's your skin," the woman said. "But I don't like it."

  "I can show you," a young man said, moving toward them.

  "I do not wish to get you into trouble," Durand said, hiding his surprise at being overheard from such a distance.

  "I owe it to my friend, Hamid. He is the one who was killed."

  Durand took stock of his volunteer. The boy was frightened, but not backing down. That could mean any number of things. "I will take you at your word," Durand said. "Show me. Perhaps there will be something in it for you afterward."

  The boy spat. "I won't take anything. Not for getting rid of such a scumbag as Jean. He makes the neighborhood quiver. He has no right to do so."

  "You are right. He has no right to do so," Durand agreed. He paid for his produce, and walked off with the boy. "I have heard several stories. The one I am working on right now says that Jean did not kill either his brother or your friend, but is being hung out to dry for both crimes. What do you think?" Durand said.

  "He was in on both crimes, I think."

  "I think so too. But would it be all right with you if I use him to find out who did the actual killings, and who paid for the killings to be done?"

  "If you slit his throat afterward, I don't care what you do to him first."

  "I will have to disappoint you in that regard. I am Catholic. I won't slit anyone's throat, not in cold blood at least. It is absolutely forbidden, and I am a God fearing man. But I think I can make Jean talk, make him pay, and then persuade him to stay away from your neighborhood if he ever gets out of prison. I am hoping that I can arrange for him to be very, very old by the time he gets out of prison, if ever he does."

  "That's better than anything anyone else is offering. But I'd rather see him dead."

  "Of course you would. If it were my friend who had been killed and I was only seventeen or eighteen, and not a Christian, I should feel the same way, I am sure."

  The boy must have been fifteen or sixteen, Durand thought, from the way he fought down the pleasure of being mistaken for seventeen or eighteen. On the other hand, the boy didn't seem to be sure whether Durand had agreed with him, or had chastised him for being too young to understand. Durand, to be on the safe side, tried to look more agreeable.

  The boy signaled to several friends who were staring at the unheard of spectacle of him walking with an outsider. When they joined him, he spoke to them in Arabic. Two of them shot ahead down the sidewalk.

  "I've explained that you're the man working for Hamid's father, and that it's all right to talk to you," the boy said, importantly.

  Durand wondered what would have happened if he didn't have the stamp of approval from a local family, or what would happen if he tried to clarify that he wasn't working for Hamid's father, but for justice. But it didn't seem a good time to try to get such things clear. "Merci," he said, and let it go at that, at least outwardly. Inwardly, he offered up prayers of thanks and pleas for continued mercy.

  He almost laughed at himself, when he realized that he was, once again, for perhaps the millionth time in his life, saying to God, "I am in over my head down here, as I am sure you know." It was the story of his life, he thought. But, then, Father Jules said it was the story of everyone's life, even those who lived humdrum and apparently safe lives. It was good, Father Jules said, that Durand understood that he, like everyone born into this world, needed heaven's help. Durand felt calmer, and much more himself, as he usually did after imploring heaven's help. He apologized to God for worrying about what might happen, because, of course, dead or alive, well or maimed, as long as he was in God's hands, he was in good hands.

  He and his escort walked to a rundown street lined with decaying buildings. The boys who'd run ahead were stationed at street corners, watching. They signaled to more boys in shadows. Durand counted nineteen youth. He was afraid that it could become much more than nineteen in a hurry, and not all of them working together, with almost no provocation. It seemed that sort of neighborhood: factions against factions, never at peace with itself. On the other hand, a man could probably pretend to be anyone or anything he wanted here, and 'friends' were undoubtedly available for hire, which made it a likely landing spot for fugitives of one kind and another.

  A gaggle of native, Gaulic Frenchmen, scurvy and drunk, began to gather, noticed the magnitude of the opposition, and faded away again.

  "There! There! You aren't going to leave me to this rabble are you?" a man cried from a third story window. "I'll double your pay!" The scurvy men kept moving away. "I'll triple your pay!" A couple of the drunks hesitated, but their friends pulled them off. The man looked down at the Arab boys and Durand. "I'll blow you all to kingdom come," he yelled.

  "Oh, please. I have been bombed quite substantially lately. You surely do not need to provide me an encore performance," Durand said, pleasantly.

  "You're crazy," Blondet yelled, for indeed it was Jean Blondet, disheveled and malnourished and nervous, but Jean Blondet all the same.

  "Absolutely," Durand said. "People tell me I am crazy all the time. But usually I am crazy toward a purpose. I need to talk to you. I am coming up."

  "I'll kill you. I'll kill you," Blondet said, as vehemently as he could manage, considering how violently he was shaking.

  "Oh, dear, he is worse off than I thought. I hope he will have enough brains left to be of some use," Durand said to the boy beside him.

  "He's been buying drugs. I don't think he's been selling any," the boy said.

  "Just my luck," Durand said.

  -

  Richard Hugh bowed to duty and bought blue jeans that made a pretense of being old. He was surprised to find that they were comfortable. By luck or by fate or from the particulars of his body shape (or maybe it had been his mindset), he'd never been comfortable in jeans before this. He thought about searching out another pair, without the tacky bleaching effects, to wear in his own time at home, but there wasn't time. After waffling about it, he sent a message with pertinent details to Emma, in case she found herself out shopping. (He found it adorable, if a trifle unsettling, that she seemed to like to shop for him more than for herself.) He matched the jeans with an old shirt out of his own closet, loose and comfy, but in good repair. He completed the outfit with jogging shoes, new, top of the line. He hated the effect, but checked it against the recommended costume, and decided to give it a go.

  He flew to Paris, rented a sports car, and drove to the address Leandre Durand had provided, which, to his relief, was in a part of town that looked clean and respectable. (Durand had given him some rude surprises over the years.) To his surprise, he looked right at home. The male uniform around there, obviously, was old or faux-old jeans, loose shirt, and over-priced garish athletic shoes with elaborate tread patterns, the newer the shoes and their design the better.

  "Reminds me of Los Angeles," Richard said when Durand (contrarily not in jeans or new shoes) came out to steer him to a parking spot.

  "In more ways than one you will find it reminds you of LA. I made the mistake of saying I was a film scout, and I am being treated like a pagan god. I meant it as a joke, but no one believes it was a joke. Many have promoted me from film scout to producer; I guess it makes a better story. They will probably think you are a powerful man in cinema. If you do not know film lingo, do me a favor and act mysterious," Durand said.

  "Actually, I have financial stakes in two production companies. Real money. Real companies. Totally insane, I know, but even financial wizards fall for fairy tales now and then. As it happens, I am steeped in arc
ane motion picture background material." He put on a baseball cap. "There. Tell me I don't look like I work for… I don't know. Who's their favorite producer?"

  "You tell me. Most of them would most like to be in secret agent movies, I think."

  "Better yet. I can stay British through and through for that. We invented the genre, and still do it best."

  "Bah. Oh, dear. Here comes the first wave of movie star wannabes. Go. Park over there." Durand pointed.

  "Hey! I can show him where to park! No problem!" a cocky twenty-something man said, strutting forward to make himself useful to the visiting bigwig.

  "I always did admire how you could fade into the background," Richard said quietly and obnoxiously to Durand, in Greek, before turning to the young man and giving him the same world-weary look that ultra-successful movie moguls had affected in his own presence. The young man was impressed.

  "Oh, for pity's sake," Durand said, in English, before heading back into the respectable townhouse where he had Jean Blondet stashed while going through withdrawal.

  "What did he say?" the wannabe asked.

  Richard told him it was an American expression. The man wanted to hear it in English again. He repeated it several times to make sure he had it down. Having accomplished this, he escorted Richard to a parking place the neighborhood rulers had reserved for any movie big shots who might show up now that the street had been properly discovered.

  Richard savored the moment. The prospect of a French neighborhood awash in trendy young men saying "Oh, for pity's sake" just to prove themselves attuned to the latest elitist fashion felt like sweet revenge for some of the petty little undeserved insults that Frenchmen had tossed his way over the years.

  After they finally had a locked door between them and a growing crowd of wannabes – some of whom had come close to fistfights for the chance of carrying Richard's meager baggage into the townhouse – Richard said to Durand, "Tell me again why we're movie moguls."

  "I have a big mouth."

  "I know that. Does that answer my question?"

  "I meant it as a joke. You know how it is. They want to know about the strangers who have moved in next door, and usually if you throw out an outrageous claim they get the picture that you are a man who likes his secrets, and probably they should be content with that. Only, as it happens, I am the only person in the vicinity, it seems, who considers it highly unlikely that a movie executive would chose this neighborhood for a second home."

  "Third or fourth or fifth home, more likely, at least in their view, I should think. And really, as covers go, it's not necessarily all bad. People will do the most amazing things for an unexpected shot at being in the movies."

  "I don't want them to do amazing things. I want them to leave me alone."

  "Ah, but saying you need to be left in total isolation whilst you put the finishing touches on an embryonic project sometimes works."

  "Probably with the British. We French are more assertive."

  "Hardly. In my experience it's more a matter of style than substance. In any case, I suggest you make them feel you shall be eternally grateful for their cooperation in giving you your creative space when you need it. Where's the bad boy, by the way?"

  Durand led the way to a back bedroom. Jean Blondet was tied to the bed, too demoralized to care that he was tethered. He looked at Richard with bleary eyes. "Shoot me and put me out of my misery," he pleaded.

  "Can't do that. One of the big ten, murder is," Richard said, switching to French for the duration.

  "But I'm a dead man anyway," Blondet whined. "I just want to get it over with."

  "Here now. Here now. We're all future dead men, from the moment we're conceived. Let's not get hasty. It might have eternal consequences," Richard cooed.

  "Very funny," Blondet said. "You don't have madmen in the government gunning for you!"

  "Who says?" Richard said. He motioned Durand out of the room. "Now, Durand, tell me what it is you expect of me in this gambit?"

  Durand tapped his toe. He replied in a measured voice. "You might have asked me that before you started trying to establish rapport by implying that there are government madmen gunning for practically everybody on the planet."

  "All right. You're right. I overshot my headlamps. Very remiss of me. I'm sorry. Tell me what the plan is and let's see how I might undo whatever damage I've done."

  "That is better. I need someone to cheer him up, gain his trust, and find out what he knows about Castelneau and his own brother's death. Well, matters pertaining to Castelneau not related to Justin's death would also be useful. Also, we should be gratified to learn what sorts of things the men in Blondet's circle have been up to by themselves."

  "Oh, if that's all," Richard said. He began to hum the tune to The Impossible Dream. Durand hated the song, he knew. Simply loathed it. (As well he might.)

  Durand ignored the humming. "You are up to it. I have faith in you," he said.

  "Besides which, if I do something it's only a matter of British meddling, which will almost certainly be dismissed with scorn and fury but no serious consequences. If you do the same thing, there's a chance it could be portrayed as treason."

  "It is not treason to flush murderers out of high office. If indeed Castelneau is a murderer, of course. We don't know that for certain yet."

  "I didn't say it was treason. I just said, or tried to hint, that murderers in high office can fry underlings who get caught trying to undermine what they undoubtedly see as noble actions in support of a higher good. Who's 'we,' by the way? In the 'we should be gratified to learn' business?"

  "For now, you will only report to me I think."

  "And carefully and discreetly at that, I presume."

  "Bravo. It is so nice when an Englishman shows he has some sense."

  "Ah, yes, and the French are always so diplomatic," Richard said. "I am in awe of your ability to smooth things over. Why, just last week, your President mollified so many important people in Washington at one time that I was left absolutely breathless by the magnitude of his achievement. And the day after that, he dramatically altered relations with Turkey. Why anyone would want to write off Turkey is beyond-"

  "Enough. I did not realize I was going to insult your heritage until I heard the words coming out of my mouth. I apologize. Englishmen often show excellent sense, of course. I am at the end of my rope. I got my young-but-promising unofficial partner Nason reassigned just before it turns out I could really have used his help. My daughter thinks the world has come to an end because there is a tiny obstacle erected along the path she thinks leads to perpetual worldly happiness, and my sons are attacking her without mercy, which has my wife frazzled. And on top of this, I am trying to investigate my own supervisor behind his own back. This is not to mention that I don't know whether his secretary wishes to ruin me, or ruin him, only that she has acquired the aura of a woman out for blood. On top of this, my best source so far is in the next room, drug-damaged and morose, not that it matters because I have several other cases that need my attention, and need it now, and I cannot be two places at once."

  "Enough already. I know you hate to ask for help, but as it happens, I'm asking to be let into this. We know Castelneau vetted reports for Pamela Williams, who shot my chief and likely has been causing various cancers within my own agency. Since we haven't been able to land Williams yet, I'm perfectly happy to inch my way closer to someone she has loved to consult."

  "I am happy to be of service. The fridge is stocked with the horrible food you seem to favor. Really I must run," Durand said, edging toward the door.

  "Go. Go. I love interrogating drug-infested, depressed, unreliable French thugs who have got in over their heads and likely haven't a clue which of their eyewitness testimony is useful and which is merely food for their ego. Really. I am looking forward to this thankless job enormously," Richard said, waving his hand languidly in a motion of bored dismissal.

  Durand and Richard locked eyes for a moment. Satisfied that he s
aw neither resentment nor reckless certainty in his friend's eyes, Durand left without another word. He hated to leave matters that demanded such skill and finesse to anyone else, even Richard Hugh, but one must bow to reality now and then, like it or not.

  Richard got Jean more or less upright, by having him sit at the table, shackled to the table leg and his chair.

  "Now, isn't this better?" Richard said. "Doesn't it feel good to get out of bed?"

  "Speak for yourself," Jean said. But he did look better.

  "Of course, you'll feel better yet after a shower," Richard said.

  "Don't even think about helping me with a shower."

  "I don't think I'd dare, frankly."

  Jean looked better yet.

  "But until you prove cooperative, I'm not letting you in there alone until I empty the medicine chest and toe-nail clipper drawers," Richard said.

  "You're an imbecile," Jean said.

  "Probably. I mean, here I am, far, far away from my woman, having tea with a drug addict who may or may not be of any use in taking down people who are after the underpinnings of government."

  "Government stinks anyway," Jean said.

  "A lot of it does stink. Politicians never do seem to know when to stop," Richard agreed.

  "Or judges," Jean added.

  The front door burst open.

  Pamela Williams roared in, firing.

  Richard returned fire.

  Jean dove for the ground, upsetting the table and the chair.

  Williams went down, utterly slack.

  Jean peeked out from the tangle of furniture, to get a read on where his attacker was. He stared at the pathetic figure on the floor, and at Richard desperately rendering first aid.

  "This might make things more difficult," Jean said. "I've been blackmailing her, for one thing."

  "And for another?"

  "I've also been blackmailing her husband."

  "Sounds like a sweet deal, if you don't have any decency," Richard said. He wondered about her husband, since in the UK, where she lived and worked, Ms. Williams didn't seem to have one.

  "Toss me your phone and I'll call for help, if you'd like," Jean said.

  Richard tossed his phone to his prisoner, and redoubled his efforts to staunch the flow of Pamela Williams's blood.

  Jean placed a call. "Hallo? This is Jean Blondet. You know, the brother of Justin Blondet, the man you murdered? No, don't hang up on me, this concerns your wife, who is right here in front of me, lying on the ground very much shot and I think very much dead… What?… Oh, wait, there is trouble on the line. I am having trouble with the connection."

  He rang off, looking baffled and perhaps a bit put out. "I tell Florentin Castelneau his precious Pamela is dead, and all he wants to know is whether she has any microfiche with her? What in hell is microfiche?"

  Richard fought off an urge to stare with his jaw hanging slack. "Just tell him that no, she doesn't have any," he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was about.

  "You're the boss," Jean said. He called back. Castelneau didn't answer.

  "Hey, what's all the noise and bother around here? You should get permits for filming movies, you know. You've scared the neighbors with your sound effects," a policeman said from the doorway A gaggle of eager men, women, and children crowding behind him belied this claim. Not a single person looked the least bit frightened.

  "Shut the door," Richard said.

  The policeman bristled.

  "We're not acting and I think she's dead," Richard said quietly.

  The policeman shut the door. Behind him, irritated voices said variations on "Just because he's a policeman doesn't mean he should be first in line for a movie part."

  Richard surrendered his gun without being asked.

  At least he hadn't aimed his gun at this policeman's face first, Richard thought. Doing that back at Deerfield Cottage had definitely been getting off on the wrong foot, if you wanted to look at it that way.

  Of course, there he had not been the killer.

  He stared at the blood on his hands.