Paris Noir [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘Ha, that’s a good one, well done! I knew you were a good grass and now I see you can be witty too. So tell me, am I going to have to do without your services, Momo?’

  ‘Well, sir, it won’t be like before, sir, yeah, I’m sorry but. . .’

  ‘But you’ve found someone who pays better than me, that’s all. I get it, I’m not stupid, I only hope you’re not barking up the wrong tree. They’re saying second-hand Kalashnikovs bring in more than dope these days, Momo?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Seems so, yeah. But then some people would say anything to get attention.’

  ‘Momo, you disappoint me, you know that?’

  ‘I’m not a grass any more, sir!’

  * * * *

  Alone and last to leave the boardroom, the woman with the scarf slowly closes the open file in front of her as if sealing a tomb. The speaker’s lyrical flights have scared her. His last words are still ringing in her ears, like a haunting refrain: Paris is calling for help . . .

  But who will hear?

  Translation © Lulu Norman and Ros Schwartz

  <>

  * * * *

  THE FLNEUR OF LES ARCADES DE L’OPÉRA

  Featuring Begg and Lapointe,

  Metatemporal Detectives

  MICHAEL MOORCOCK

  THE FIRST CHAPTER:

  IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS

  I

  n all the many cases investigated by Sir Seaton Begg of the Home Office Metatemporal Investigative Agency, one of the most curious concerned his co-operation with his opposite number, Commissaire Lapointe of the Sureté du Temps Perdu, involving not only the albino gentleman connected to a royal house whom we call ‘Monsieur Zenith’, but also members of an infamous terrorist gang, a long-dead enemy of Begg’s German cousins and the well-known adventuress, Mrs Una Persson. As Begg’s friend, the pathologist Dr ‘Taffy’ Sinclair, remarked, ‘For a while it seemed that Chaos, in all its unchained wildness, had been let loose through every region of our vast and complex multiverse, so that even now we cannot be certain whether it was contained or whether we are merely experiencing a moment of relative harmony in a howling cacophony . . .’

  ‘I cannot tell you, my old friend, how delighted I am that you should come over at such short notice.’

  Lapointe, his assistant Bardot, Taffy and Begg were wandering through the pale gold autumn light of the Luxembourg Gardens. The chestnut trees were shedding dark reds and yellows and the flower beds were full of beauty on the verge of succumbing to winter. Lapointe had thought it expedient for them to talk in the open air where there was less chance of being overheard.

  ‘The train? Was it comfortable?’

  In his light tweed sports jacket, white shirt and well-pressed flannels, Lapointe had a bulky, stiff-necked, slightly professorial air, with a great wave of grey hair untidily arranged over his pale forehead. His deep green eyes, angular features and heavy body gave him the air of a large amiable dinosaur. Begg knew his opposite number had one of the sharpest minds on the Continent. Single-handedly Lapointe had captured the ex-police inspector turned crook: George Marsden Plummer (alias ‘Maigret’ in France) who had once been Lapointe’s chief. Lapointe had also been the one to bring ‘Fantomas’ to book at last. Together he and Begg had tracked down ‘Jock Collyn’, otherwise known as The Master Mummer, and been instrumental in his lingering to this day on Devil’s Island. Inspector Bardot, on the other hand, had no spectacular record, but was much admired at the Quai des Orfèvres for his methodology and his coolness under pressure. Small, dark, he seemed permanently and privately amused. He wore a buttoned three-piece grey suit and what was evidently an English school tie.

  The two Home Office men had come from London via the recently opened Subchannel Excavation, whose roads and railway lines now connected the two nations, a material addition to the decades-old Entente Cordiale, an alliance which had been cemented by the signing of a European-wide Mutual Co-operation Pact, which, with the Universal Civil Rights Act, united all the Great Powers, including the Confederated Forty-Seven States of America, in one mighty alliance, sharing common laws and goals.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you,’ said Begg, speaking excellent French. Lapointe had put the STP’s private express at his disposal. The journey had taken less than an hour and a half from London to Paris. ‘I must say, Lapointe, that you French chaps have your priorities well in hand - rapid and comfortable transport and excellent food among them. We had a superb lunch en route.’

  The French detective acknowledged this compliment with a small self-deprecating shrug.

  Taffy, taller than the others, murmured his own discreet appreciation.

  ‘I gather, Dr Sinclair, that you are recently back from the Republic of Texas?’ Lapointe courteously acknowledged the pathologist, whose expertise was internationally famous.

  ‘Indeed.’ Sinclair removed his wide panama and wiped his glistening head with a large Voysey-patterned Liberty’s handkerchief, which seemed an uncharacteristic part of his otherwise muted wardrobe. Save for his taste in haberdashery, nobody would have guessed that during his time at Oxford he had been a leading light in the post-Pre-Raphaelite revival and that women had swooned over his massive head of hair and melancholy features almost as much as over his poetry. Like his friend and colleague, he wore a cream-coloured linen suit, but whereas Begg’s tie was a rather flamboyant bow, Sinclair’s neck was adorned by his old school colours. Indeed, his tie was identical to Bardot’s. The two had been contemporaries at Blackfriars School and later had attended the Sorbonne before Bardot, eldest son of a somewhat infamous Aquilonian house, entered the service of the Quai d’Orsay and Sinclair, after a spell in the army, decided to follow his father into medicine and the civil service.

  ‘You are familiar with the shopping arcades which radiate off the Place de L’Opéra?’ murmured Lapointe once they were strolling down a broad avenue of chestnut trees towards the Gardens’ rue Guynemer entrance. ‘And you are aware, I am sure, of the reputation the area has at night, where assignations of the heart are pursued and men and women of a certain inclination are said to come together.’

  ‘I have read something of the place,’ said Begg, while Taffy nodded gravely.

  ‘These arcades are the most complex in Paris, of course, and extend into and beneath the surrounding buildings, in turn becoming a warren of corridors and suites of chambers connected to the catacombs. They have never been fully mapped. It is said that some poor devils have been lost there for eternity, cursed to wander forever beneath the city.’

  Begg smiled. ‘I am familiar with Smith’s Kitchen in London, which is similarly configured. I know the stories of the Arcades, yes. How fanciful they are, I have yet to judge. I know, too, that they were spared destruction by Haussmann, when he was building the boulevards of Paris for Louis Napoleon, because the Emperor himself wished to preserve his own somewhat lavish pied-à-terre where he maintained the notorious Comtesse de Gavray.’

  ‘Exactly, my friend. Whose favours he was said to share with Balzac the Younger. I gather there was some scandal. Didn’t Balzac denounce her as a German spy?’

  ‘In 1876. Yes. It was the end of her career. She fled to Berlin and ended her days in penury. Strangely, this present case has echoes of that one.’

  As he reached the little glass and wrought-iron café across from the Théâtre des Marionettes, Lapointe paused. ‘The coffee here isn’t too bad and I see there is a table just over there where we are unlikely to be disturbed.’

  With the acquiescence of the others, Lapointe let them seat themselves at the dark-green metal table and signalled for a serviteur, who came immediately, recognising a regular customer. A brief exchange followed. Typically, the Englishmen ordered café crème and the Frenchmen took theirs espresso. They sat in silence for a little while, admiring the merry-go-round, with its vividly painted horses rising and falling in comforting regularity, circling to the tune of a complex steam-driven fairground calliope, as excited little boys and
girls waved to waiting parents. The puppet theatre was yet to open and many of the children, Begg knew, would disappear into its darkness soon enough to witness the traditional bloody escapades of Guignol which had entertained French children for the past century or more.

  It delighted Begg to see that the same diversions which he had enjoyed as a boy were equally pleasing to this, the first generation of the new century. He was always grateful that his father’s diplomatic work had allowed him to make a home in the French capital. For him London and Paris made a natural marriage, if not exactly of opposites, then of complementary personalities. Both had powerful public images and a thousand secrets, not all of them by any means sinister.

  Commissioner Lapointe leaned forward so that his voice could only be heard by the other three men at the table. ‘You have no doubt already reached the conclusion, my friends, that this business concerns the ongoing problems we have in Germany. While the insurgency is generally under control, Hitler’s terrorists continue to trouble the German government and our friends in the Reichstag have asked us for help. In the main we have done our best to remain uninvolved with internal German politics. After defeating Hitler and driving him out of Poland, we were quickly able to support a new democratic government and withdraw our troops to this side of the Rhine. However—’ Lapointe shrugged, slowly stirring his coffee.

  ‘Röhm and his Freikorps?’ murmured Begg.

  ‘Precisely. They are relatively few, of course. But Röhm’s insurgents continue to do considerable damage. They have attacked Wehrmacht barracks, civilian institutions and even targets outside the country. They have set off bombs in public places and continue to violate synagogues and Jewish cemeteries. While Hitler remains at large, insurgent morale remains high and their plans ambitious. Disaffected petite bourgeoisie for the most part, who had hoped to succeed in war where they had failed in peace. Well, gentlemen, we have reason to believe they are planning an ambitious attack outside Germany’s borders. This attack, we think, is aimed at creating a large number of civilian casualties, probably Jewish. And we are fairly certain that it will occur in France, probably in Paris.’

  ‘And how can we be of assistance?’ asked Begg, clearly puzzled by their being asked to engage in what, on the surface, appeared to be primarily an internal matter for the French government.

  ‘In two words, my old friend—’ Lapointe glanced around before dropping his voice even lower. ‘Monsieur Zenith . . .’

  Now the British investigator understood. He sat back in his chair, his face suddenly grave. From his pocket he took his ancient briar and a tobacco pouch. He began to fill the pipe with dark shag. Taffy Sinclair, too, was frowning. A profound silence surrounded the four men. At last Inspector Bardot spoke. ‘He is known to be in Paris. Indeed, he has been here for some time. A familiar figure in the Opéra arcades. He has exposed himself quite openly, yet, whenever our people attempted to apprehend him, pouf! He is gone like smoke.’

  ‘Eventually, it became clear to us that we would be better engaged in keeping watch on him,’ continued Lapointe. ‘For some months he has continued the same habits. Every morning between eleven and one he appears in the passage D’lappe, always wearing perfect morning dress. He takes his coffee at L’Albertine. He reads his newspaper: Le Figaro, usually, but sometimes the New York Herald Tribune. He strolls. He makes a small purchase or two. He enters a bookshop and inspects a few volumes. He has even been known to visit Larnier’s Waxworks. Occasionally, he buys a book - usually a classic of some kind. Then, at lunchtime, he will either stroll towards the Quartier Latin, taking the Pont St-Michel, where he will eat lunch at Lipp’s or he will enter one of the more shadowy branches of the arcades and - vanish! Sometimes he will be seen again in the afternoon, making his way to the Louvre, where he will inspect a different exhibit, though he seems to favour Da Vinci’s Portrait of a Young Jew in Female Dress. Then he will return to the arcades and, yes, he will disappear again.’

  ‘He speaks to no one?’

  ‘Oh, he will pass the time of day with any number of persons. He is politeness itself, especially where a lady is concerned. He has conversed with more than one of our own people, usually realising immediately who they are. He is the very model of a gentlemanly flâneur, whiling away his hours in what some would call a desultory way. He buys his cigarettes at Sullivan’s, his newspaper from the same kiosk at the south-eastern corner of the arcades. He carries a cane in ebony and silver. His gloves are always that perfect shade of lavender, matching his cravat, his coat cut just so, his hat at just such an angle, his buttonhole always the same, a crimson rosebud emphasising those blood-red eyes of his. Women, of course, are fascinated by him. Yet, with a recent exception, he keeps no regular engagements with anyone, though he will enjoy a little flirtation over an aperitif, perhaps. He tips well and is much liked by the staff wherever he takes refreshment. Sometimes, a Lagonda limousine calls for him at the northwest entrance and he enters it. We have been able to trace the car to the general area of Clichy but all we know is that it is driven by a Japanese chauffeur and is garaged in rue Clément, in the name of a Monsieur Amano. There its batteries are recharged. Everything is in order. The Lagonda has not left Paris since we have been observing it.’

  ‘And as far as you know neither has Monsieur Zenith?’

  ’Exactly.’

  ‘Where does he go at night?’ Dr Sinclair wanted d to know.

  ’That’s the thing, old man,’ said Bardot in English, ‘we simply can’t find out!’

  ’It is as if he becomes invisible from the evening hours until mid-morning,’ added Lapointe. ‘Then, suddenly, he appears in the Opéra Arcades, perfectly dressed and poised, as ever. Even if we had a cause to arrest him, which we have not, he would still evade us. Indeed, if he had not been seen in the company of a suspected Nazi agent, we would not devote so much interest to him. He is a decorated war hero, after all, leading a Polish electric cavalry brigade during the recent conflict. But sadly his actions suggest that he is helping organise whatever Nazi plot is about to be unleashed on honest civilians. His name has come up more than once, in various coded messages we have intercepted. Sometimes he is merely Monsieur Z, sometimes ‘Zenith’ and sometimes ‘Zodiac’. All versions of his own given name, of course. There is no doubt at all that he is Count Rudolf Zoltan von Beck, descendant of the infamous ‘Crimson Eyes’ who terrorised the people of Mirenburg and London in the course of the last century. He renounced his title as hereditary ruler of Wäldenstein. But as for the suggestion that Hitler intended to restore him as puppet monarch there, had his plans for the conquest of Europe been successful, that is surely nonsense!’

  ‘Especially since he voluntarily gave up his title,’ mused Sir Seaton. From his mouth now issued alarming quantities of dark smoke as he fired up his old pipe. ‘I am still curious as to why he moved his base from London to Paris. He was even rumoured to have been seen recently in Berlin. It is as if he were fascinated by our friend Herr Hitler. This is not the first time he and that gentleman have been linked, in various incarnations across the multiverse.’

  ‘Perhaps he agrees with Hitler’s ideas?’ ventured Lapointe. But Begg shook his head.

  ‘They are scarcely ‘ideas’. They are the opinions of a beerhall braggart of the kind commonly found throughout the world. They emerge to fill a vacuum. They might appeal to an uneducated and unemployed labourer, a dispossessed shopkeeper or some disenchanted professional soldier like Röhm - even some brainless and inbred titled fool. But Zenith is none of those things. Indeed, he is both well educated and of superior intelligence. His only weakness is his thirst for danger, for the thrill which fills the veins with pounding blood and which takes one’s mind off the dullness of the day-to-day.’ It was as if Begg knew exactly what moved his old adversary. The expression on Dr Sinclair’s face suggested that he thought the metatemporal investigator’s remark might well have been a self-description. ‘And he would only ally himself with such a creature if it somehow suited his o
wn schemes. Years ago, after he was rescued from secret police head-quarters in Belgrade, where he had been imprisoned and tortured for his resistance to the dictator, he gave me his solemn promise that he was renouncing his old ways and from then on would only steal from the thieves, as it were, and contribute most of his gains to excellent causes, some of which would founder completely if he didn’t help. And the Polish military will tell you how he equipped that electric tank division from his own funds!’

  ‘So you think he is planning a job in Paris?’ asked the commissioner. He allowed a small smile to flicker across his face. ‘After all, we are not short of the undeserving rich . . .’

  ‘Perhaps. Or he could be diverting himself here while all the time what he is doing at night is the important thing. Eh?’ From under his lowering, sardonic brow. Sir Seaton returned Lapointe’s smile. ‘Might he be making himself so public that all our attention is drawn to his flaneurism and we ignore his true activities?’

  ‘What do you suggest? We need to know details of Hitler’s plans soon, Sir Seaton. We must anticipate and counter whatever terror the Nazi insurgents intend to unleash.’