Castang’s City

by Nicolas Freeling

  Conclusion, as far as there’s any – Thierry’s one of these people who seem to have no centre, who don’t cohere. Brains enough, talents enough. What do they want? and where are they going? They have little notion themselves. They dabble at arts; write a bit, draw a bit, criticise a lot. Make themselves phoney reputations as experts in something esoteric. A bit of journalism, a bit of agencing, a bit of ‘designing’. When plausible and bright – as he is – they can make a living out of it. If they have to. A generation or so ago they were mostly angling to marry wealthy American widows. Pretty stony ground that, nowadays. What were Thierry’s real ambitions? Did anyone have any real idea?

  TWENTY SIX

  MAGALI

  Driving home he stopped at the butcher, leaving the car in double file. He came out to a traffic warden gloating over his crimes, and told her blandly that he was on duty, his packet of steak bulging in his pocket and looking like a gun, perhaps. The lady and himself had words: she said she didn’t believe his excuse, would have it verified, and if he was lying the retribution would be dire. He told her pleasantly to take her complaint and…send it to the Nigerian Embassy. He was rather rude, but people who are forever in the right are annoying.

  Feeling saintly, he did boring chores at the supermarket. Babies being nearly as profitable a market as dogs (fewer, but more expensive) there was too much choice on the shelf. There was super-absorbent, and there was hyper-absorbent: he looked in vain for something that was absorbent. Technology has overtaken the disposable diaper, now double the price of the throwaway nappy, which is just cellulose, and low.

  Vera was fully dressed, whizzing about actively, and there was a superb smell of slightly-burned cake.

  "I have a very Antique marriage," she said primly.

  "I disagree."

  "Not very Victorian?"

  ‘Go back and read the Married Women’s Property Act."

  "I have no interest whatsoever in anybody’s property."

  "Yes, it says about her bank account, but there’s no mention of her fan. A woman was what your Mr Wemmick called portable property."

  "Nowadays disposable, like these things. Yay," opening the packet "smelling of lavender yet."

  "You know what the Bishop said about his London Club? That it was where the Women ceased from troubling."

  "Ah. I can well believe it. You know what the same bishop said to the actress?"

  ‘Yes indeed."

  "That’s a good hard fuck," wrathfully, "does his pulpit voice so much good. Let’s have twelve dozen oysters and try the same again. What’s this? Oh steak, goody, I’m starving. I’d like to meet that bishop," thoughtful.

  "You see?" busy with the coffee-grinder, "you aren’t fifty years behind. Think it quite likely though you’re ten years in front."

  "I’ve never been anything else," said Vera. "Come here, lovey, and smell of lavender." He got back to the office much refreshed.

  Lucciani, with his little tins of cement and stuff, was busy threading up movie. Richard, hands in pockets, had a sniff upon his face. The young lady from the Banque de France was shown in, and viewed the cine-film with interest.

  "Like," she said. "Certainly it’s like."

  "Very like?"

  "I can’t say, you know, honestly. I mean, this is night, and the clothes are different, and with this lighting the features are sort of flat, I mean, it’s a terrible responsibility. You can’t expect me to say yes when I’m not sure."

  "Certainly not."

  "Like a football match," said the taxi-driver cheerfully. "Pissy reception on this set. Off side there, you."

  "This bit, here – like?"

  "Run it again… First time I thought yes, second time I thought no. How’s it you get this – with infra-red? I only caught a glimpse, you know. Might do better by daylight."

  "We’ll try. Lucciani!"

  "I’ve got some – but in parachute overalls with packs on – bright orange!"

  "Yes, must have ordinary street clothes."

  "He goes about all day in a track suit…"

  "You’ll have to tighten this up a lot further," said Richard, "to have anything for a judge."

  "I believe you," said Castang.

  He went to see the technicians, who were fitting a radiotelephone into Vera’s car and putting on a bit of disguise, like fog-lamps that didn’t light. Getting enough cars out of Lasserre was like drawing teeth. They were even using Liliane’s little Fiat, which was now a new colour.

  "You’re sticking to Bertrand?" he asked her.

  "Yes. I better buck up too; he’ll be home from the office by now."

  "Maryvonne will take the Simca: I’ll stay with this thing. Make sure we’re tuned to the same wavelength."

  "If we find we’re wasting our time…" said Liliane gloomily.

  The fact was that he’d been struck by Liliane’s last report, which Fausta had passed him with a note from Richard saying ‘Castang’ in red ballpoint.

  ‘I’ve only been on this 2-3 days, and that’s about enough or they’ll start saying who’s-this-female? I can change my face and my clothes, but not the way I put my feet down when I walk.

  ‘Quite definitely, both are acting preternaturally alert. And I don’t put this down to Davignon or anyone else of ours. They are staring about, both independently, as though expecting to see somebody. B’s style of driving the car, habitually relaxed, has changed: more jerky and hurried. M. likewise: e.g. on a perfectly easy piece of road (traffic light) suddenly swerved over to midway line & nearly touched oncoming car which cursed her.

  ‘Nor can I agree with Castang’s definition of a harmonious family. I find her shrill and abrupt with her children, silent and sullen with her husband. B. appears gloomy and preoccupied. I don’t want to make much of this: too easy to exaggerate. Meaning I don’t want to start reading things into everything.

  ‘Suggest put Davignon back on this, + Castang self if possible: this seems to me a break in pattern important enough to merit verifying where possible. Example: they are logged as going out together habitually: as far as my observation goes they seem to seek pretexts for shunning one another. B. has not been at home in evenings above one day this week, when M. spent evening with neighbourhood wife (see log) not known to us as anything but casual (supermarket-gossip) acquaintance.

  ‘Feel this should be brought to your notice.’

  As it had.

  Indeed before they had reached that desirable residential district Liliane’s voice came harsh on the intercom.

  "There he goes again. I’m picking him up then – the Fiat’s new to him – and phone when he’s fixed. She’s still at home, putting the children to bed."

  Castang reached the end of the street, parked on the pavement as though he belonged there.

  "I’m up the other end," said Maryvonne’s voice. "If she’s going out this is generally the time the babysitter turns up. Fair hair and a woolly cap, mostly, on a Peugeot moped. Will you look, or shall I?"

  "I’ll walk the dog," said Castang, getting out with a leash looped over his wrist. Magali’s Mini had not been put away, but was standing backed up to the garage door. The overhead light was out in the children’s room. Light was on in Magali’s bathroom. He strolled up as far as the Simca and got amorously in beside Maryvonne.

  "Looks like a dud," said Liliane’s voice in the handset. "Bridge again."

  "If I recall the log it’s not his day for bridge."

  "Exactly."

  "Was there last night," muttered Maryvonne.

  "Yes, that’s odd. Tell you what, Liliane, log the parked cars. Most of them will be the habitual bridge maniacs, right?"

  "Familiar stuff: Davignon has them all logged."

  "So a new one might be of interest."

  "Okay. I can see that old Citroën of the Proc’s from here."

  "If the Proc gets kidnapped by terrorists," muttered Maryvonne frivolously, "she’ll come in handy there."

  "I never even knew the old fucker played b
ridge. All right, radio silence please." Even if the boy back in the office had sense enough not to log the obiter dicta.

  Castang stayed ten minutes, got out to walk his dog back again, swinging his leash and stopping to admire forsythia bushes. The bathroom light was out. No gleam showed through the living-room curtains, but they were velvet. Still… No sign of a babysitter. If she were going to settle down, you’d expect her to do so now. He reached his car, which smelt faintly, attractively, of Vera, despite technicians.

  "Negative. But she hasn’t put the car away. We’ll hold it awhile." Two or three people, who had also left their cars out, were slamming doors and starting motors noisily. Too late for theatre or cinema, but not too late for socialising.

  "Alert," said Maryvonne suddenly.

  "I’ll take her then. Relay me when I give you word. Okay." The little Mini stopped on the street, and Magali, in slacks and a jacket – it was still cool at night – got out to shut the gate. "Informally dressed. Left the children alone. May be just popping over to a friend." But at the crossing of the main road the Mini did not turn towards the town.

  "Heading out downstream – no, turning for the ring road." There was nothing much along here – industrial quarter. "Left turn again. Move up on me, Maryvonne; she’s picking up speed. All right, got you. Dropping off – now." If, as Liliane thought, Magali had really an alert eye for a little lamb tagging in her wake, they would not risk the same car for more than a few minutes.

  "She can’t be going back into town; makes no sense. Unless she’s checking whether she’s really got a follower."

  "Backing up behind you."

  "Hold off – red light… Half right. Go easy… Looks like she’s heading up the hill."

  "Yes. I see it now. Just dodging city traffic." They hadn’t doubled but made a wideish loop. It wasn’t easy either to adapt to the ragged, irregular style of Magali’s driving.

  "She does that sort of tango step again, don’t hang back, Maryvonne; looks too queer. Keep your rhythm and pass her fast, and put on a hat or something."

  "I’ve dark glasses."

  "Then take them off, idiot."

  "All right now. On the main road she’s holding more of a rhythm."

  "Make an ostentatious left turn at a well lit crossroad. I’m about two back, and one’s turning off right. See him? Okay, now." The Mini’s distinctive rear end went trundling on. Castang had taken his hat off. On dark sections the dazzle of the lamps behind is enough to mask a driver, but at brightly lit intersections a silhouette is cut sharp.

  They were well out of the town and beginning to pick up the hill villages of the wine land. The steady flow of traffic into town thinned; that going out stayed steady: it was a nice night to go out for a drink some place. Nothing very interesting to watch on the box. Following someone the night of a football final is harder work.

  Magali did not go on teasing them for long. Twenty kilometres out, in a little market town popular with commuters – gone from three thousand inhabitants to nearer six in the last five years – she slowed, stopped, and parked outside the Hotel du Cerf. Castang, who had overshot firmly, went on and got caught in narrow one-way streets coming back, but Maryvonne was over the other side of the square: the Mini stood empty.

  "Odds she’s in the pub. You might just visit the Ladies there, Maryvonne."

  "I could do with one anyhow." He parked to be facing back the way they had come, and waited.

  "Yes, she’s in the big room. Got into a corner by herself. Not eating or anything. Looks like waiting for someone."

  "Then I’ll join you, if she’s anchored for a bit." He was not anxious to go into the bar, however dimly lit. Magali might think meeting him in the Hotel du Cerf was rather a coincidence. An amorous couple in a Simca did no harm to anyone, and is incurious by definition.

  "You know anybody on the log, lives not too far from here?"

  "I know somebody on the file who lives quite close, and has a boyfriend up the road runs a little timber business, and that’s Salome."

  "Ah yes. Didier’s ex-wife. That might explain something."

  "She and Magali were quite close once, but not for some time now, so is it a little unexpected?"

  "Who to – us or them?"

  Yes, we haven’t been taken into their confidence."

  "What does she look like?"

  "Kind of Venetian red. Pretty colouring, and moreover it’s real."

  Castang smiled. The strawberry blonde alongside him would know.

  A car came, and tucked in just ahead of them. Maryvonne suddenly became acutely amorous, tucking her head into his neck. Castang swivelled an eye. A blonde, all right, but a silver-wig.

  "She dyed it or what?"

  "No, that’s not her." Excited.

  "What you excited about?"

  "Someone who’d recognise me. The electrum blonde, ravishing if slightly faded, is Chantal. Didier’s secretary."

  "Ho."

  "As you say, ho." This was indeed annoying, that both of them risked recognition, while Liliane, who was suitably anonymous, was stuck back there with the bridge players. Castang decided that having made a rendezvous this discreet the ladies were not likely to be staring round the room, and risked a visit to the lavatory. The dark and the fair head were together in earnest conversation. Whatever they had to say was certainly interesting. He scuttled back and found Maryvonne in a head-scarf consulting a road-map.

  "Yes," she said. "She just passed you." He’d been full of the other two. Well…

  "They can play bridge, and I’ll be dummy."

  "Who of the three to follow?"

  "Find somewhere else to park, for a start, and then we follow our brains… Salome lives near here, you tell me, so will probably go home. As for Magali, she went out on short notice, since there was no babysitter. Any conclusions?"

  "That it wasn’t arranged beforehand? – she got a phone call, perhaps. Or she doesn’t want her husband to know?"

  "And she meets these others in a café. A business-like sort of meeting. She’ll be going straight home, by all the signs. Tag her, but from far back; I’d rather you lost her than risk being seen. Whatever’s cooking up here I don’t want her suspicious. The silver-wig lady you leave to me. Busy little thing she seems to be."

  These precautions turned out to be unnecessary. The ladies stayed a half hour, and nobody came to join them. They left together, without afterthoughts or backward glances. The two cars went back to the town. Not exactly in convoy, but only because the Mini was for a second obstinate about starting. Magali, as expected, drove straight home. Silverwig led him to a studio flat, rather expensive he thought, for a secretarial type. She might have noticed she was being followed, over the final stages, but a woman in a car alone, at night, is not unduly surprised at prowling tomcats. She jumped out quickly and was up the steps in a flash. He picked up his handset.

  "Is this where she lives?"

  "Yes, that’s right. You want me to join you?"

  "I don’t think so; we’ll call it a day. You agree, Liliane?"

  "I do indeed. You two have at least had a ride in the country. While I’ve been sitting playing bridge. Is there anything more boring than bridge?"

  "It keeps your mind off things," said Castang.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  LAW OF SIMULTANEITY

  "I’m in the dark," said Castang. "There’s a link between this woman of Didier’s and Magali, and I’ve no idea what it may mean."

  Richard said nothing.

  "The ex-wife too. She and Magali by all accounts were friendly but not especially close. She knew the secretary of course. We may suppose they didn’t have much to say to one another. The marriage broke up, we are told, because he would frig about with other women including the office help. What is one to make of these confidences in pubs?"

  Richard was gazing dreamily at the ceiling.

  "What does the good Doctor Jung say about a law of simultaneity?"

  "I’ve no idea." A lot of help
that was! "Who d’you think I am then – Doctor Kildare?"

  Richard didn’t have his mind on things this morning, he thought. Been out late last night. They’d had a bit of a drama. A fellow had shot up his wife (estranged) and snatched his child (small), and had then gone raging off after the wife’s lover, with a twenty-two rifle. There’d been a chase. The fellow had gone mataglap, barricaded himself in the neighbours’ flat with the neighbours at gunpoint, and dared the cops to Come and Get him. Richard had dealt with the matter: it was all in the paper this morning. But it had taken half the night. He looked as usual but was going off into trances.

  Liliane came in, in something of a bustle; heavy Polish feet.

  "I wanted to catch you. Castang, look. I had the duty guard, who had nothing else to do, check all those car registrations. That bridge circle after all is a pretty exclusive affair. High bourgeoisie. The house belongs to them and they pay a high subscription, and not just anybody gets in. Well, who do we turn up? – none other than this chap you were asking about," looking at a piece of paper. "Monsieur Jacques Maresq." He seemed to be sharing Richard’s apathy. Not that he’d been late last night. The baby had howled a good deal though. He didn’t feel bright.

  "I suppose bridge is a commonplace sort of pastime. In those circles. What d’you want to make of it?"

  "Oh, wake up, do. Bertrand Jouve – it wasn’t his night for playing bridge."

  "Maybe there was a special match or something. I can’t see that it establishes any connection."

  "Look, you find a link, last night, unexpected. Here, dating from the same moment, here is another. Equally unexpected."

  "Law of simultaneity," said Richard. Castang looked from the one to the other, mouth open.

  What got him off the hook was Fausta – not for the first time – making an opportune entrance.

  "Telex," she said sunnily. "For the attention of Mr Castang, here present, partly at least."

  "What telex?"

  "Everybody was going on at me like anything yesterday about the Military District." Castang snatched at the flimsy.