Malediction

by Sally Spedding

  “At de l’Alma we stroll,” he said. “Touristes, remember? Rubbernecks, like everyone else.” He felt Cacheux’s desire burn into his back.

  Dead meat by All Souls, my friend. You make Hades come too soon.

  ***

  13.15 hours

  And hotter still by the Seine. Worse than August.

  Hell isn’t only Jews and perverts, it’s the lack of air and the choking shit that’ll make corpses of us all by the evening.

  Vidal glowered at the Breton who’d been heaving since they’d left the restaurant. “Give it a rest, OK?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  Dear sweet Thérèse, don’t fail me.

  Even with a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, Mathieu knew the damage to his lungs had already been done.

  “Try, for God’s sake!”

  Vidal then let Duvivier catch up. The man, who hadn’t spoken since they’d met outside the Ibis in the Rue Orsel, was suffocated, not by the temperature but by the events of the previous week. He gripped his file case like a drunk at the deck rail and studied the ground as he walked.

  “We have an invalid. Bad news, eh?” said Vidal.

  “What do you think?”

  Their boots in unison. Occupying forces en route to the Rue Salacroux, until Mathieu’s retching slowed them up.

  Stroll.

  “He’ll draw too much attention.”

  “Too bad. We need some final shots. In case anything’s changed.”

  “OK. So I isolate him.”

  “Whatever.”

  ”Now tell me. What’s up?”

  “I can’t.”

  Déchaux has a dagger in my back. And like God, worse than God, is playing cat and mouse. He means to be everywhere...

  “You never told me what Toussirot did with my letter.”

  “How the fuck do I know?”

  Past the Théatre des Champs-Elysées, up a side street off the Rue Masclé made sombre by opposing rows of houses built at the same time as those on the Île de St. Louis, whose balconies almost touched overhead. Vidal noted the neighbours. A paediatrician, a chiropractor, lawyers and an art gallery showing socks cast in bronze.

  Jalibert et Fils were on the third floor of Number 26.

  Without eye contact, Vidal told Cacheux to buy a paper and hang around, and Mathieu to back him up discreetly. From somewhere close by, a shofar sounded. Somewhere in the 8ième were serious Jews. “T’kiah.. t’ruah... kiah...” Smooth and pure before the disintegration.

  Exactly.

  Vidal followed the repetition with his lips, making sure the queer was in situ, then he allowed the other two to take the stairs in front.

  Duvivier suddenly stopped and turned to him, causing Plagnol to stumble.

  “Tell Number 4 to make contact if they see a black Toyota Celica. Female chauffeur. Bottle blonde. Get the plate.”

  “What the Hell do you mean?” An old fear returned. The one thing he couldn’t control.

  “Just tell him.”

  XXXIX

  Although the suave Yves Jalibert was obviously used to callers, with his greeting hand slipping in and out of the others with ease, Vidal detected tension in his eyes and wondered what was up. He looked round for any signs of a laundry. He’d been expecting damp sheets, steam and women in white, à la Zola. In fact the place was so low key, so anonymous, it could have been used for anything.

  Definitely un mercenaire.

  “Come this way, do.”

  Duvivier had evinced a slight smile of recognition, but that was all. Even Plagnol sensing the formality, sat in silence while Jalibert, immaculate in a dark suit and a discreet fleur de lys pin in his button hole, unrolled a length of paper onto a nearby table and secured it with outspread hands. His fingertips less than steady.

  “Who drew this for you?” asked Vidal, seeing a detailed cross section drawing of a Bateau-Mouche bearing the name Roquette IV. He could still taste prawns in his mouth and wanted somewhere to spit.

  “I did it myself, Monsieur. Before I took in washing, I was a fully trained architect. No real work though unless you were a Jew or a Freemason. And the rest as my friend here can tell us, is history. By the way,” he looked first at Plagnol, then Vidal, “I don’t know who you or the others are. Thibaut’s the only name I have. Better that way.”

  Indeed.

  “Now, some bad news from yesterday. They’ve rescheduled the lunch for tomorrow...”

  So, I was right.

  “Tomorrow?” Vidal challenged. “No Jew has fun on the first day of Rosh Hashanah.”

  “These will, believe me. And the power boat race still happens on the 4th. Thibaut, I couldn’t reach you at all. Nor could Marcel.”

  A silence lasting too long.

  “I was busy,” Duvivier lied to break it. “My apologies.”

  “Who’s Marcel?” asked Vidal. His mind on fire.

  “My son.” Jalibert seemed a touch offended.

  “Where is he, then?”

  The entrepreneur glanced at his Gucci watch. Two eyebrows greyer than his head, drew together. “Should be here by now.”

  Merde. I don’t like this one bit.

  “We press on.”

  “No we don’t,” snapped Vidal. “We wait.”

  Another silence, thicker than the fug outside as Jalibert perched on a stool, continually changed legs. A wasp who’d crawled through an air vent, died noisily on the sill as Plagnol farted. Just then, two bleeps from Duvivier’s phone. For a moment he forgot its whereabouts, his hands like blind moles under his duffel coat.

  “I’ll take it.” Vidal kept his promise. “Yes?”

  Cacheux spoke fast. Vidal mentally registered the number prefixed 51. Reims. A black Celica, mud up the sills, had come down the street twice. The Breton had recognised the chauffeur, mainly by her blonde hair. Cacheux was impressive in his detail, and Duvivier paled when he saw what Vidal had jotted down. He straightened up as though on guard. The cunt had said he’d be in Bosnia...

  “Stay put and don’t let the Breton roam too far. Give us five more minutes.”

  He’d not used their code names. The less the laundry man knew, the better.

  “So what time does my performance start, Monsieur?” he asked him.

  “Six-thirty.”

  Plagnol whistled.

  “It’ll be daylight.” Vidal again communed with his watch.

  “Thing is, security’s been tightened up. There are now two more guards. Old Hermans had an incident last Friday, that’s why.”

  “Please explain.”

  ”Bloody students. Tried to fix some flag or other on the prow. They managed to rough him up quite a bit, threatened to push him overboard or else a quick cremation. That seems to be the trademark.”

  “How kind.” Vidal wondered briefly about Les Flammes and hoped his father was still keeping his nose clean.

  “Indeed, just the ticket.” Duvivier sighed as though the world’s weight lay behind his eyes.

  Vidal stood up. “Can’t do it. Simple as that.”

  “You’ll have to.” The Provençal felt Déchaux’s greedy breath on his neck. “Just pray for a splendid misty morning, that’s all.”

  Jalibert coughed, sotto voce.

  “There are no more, how shall I put it, Jewish jollifications on the water until...” He scoured his desk diary... “Hanukkah. December 27th. Le Canard’s putting on a special gourmet boat for publishers et al. We’re doing the linen again. They seem to like us.” He joined Vidal at the window and stood sideways looking out.

  “Let’s go for it, then.” Plagnol fished a sweet out of his pocket. The second payment not safe in the bank until 1700 hours. “What’s an hour, anyhow?”

  “Life or death, Pigface. Just a small matter.”

  The priest from Drancy seemed embarrassed that Jalibert now knew his nickname, and Vidal regretted having revealed it.

  Then, urgent footsteps and Jalibert senior slid like a lizard behind the door, his Smith & Wess
on ready – black with a wood grip and red dot sight.

  Classy, like the rest of him. At least he tries.

  Four knocks.

  Three other guns ready as the door edged open. He sighed relief.

  “Ah, Marcel. Bienvenue.”

  An energy surge accompanied the young redhead into the room. Short, compact, as casual as his father was formal, but the kisses were businesslike.

  Cacheux might like this one. Obviously the delivery boy. At least it would keep him off my back.

  Marcel shook Vidal’s hand first, smiled at Duvivier and Plagnol, then went straight over to the plan. He peeled off his trainers and used them to keep the map ends down. “Roquette IV. Nice little boat. Been in service six years, no previous problems.” He looked up. “Your recce day, hein?”

  Vidal nodded, still unsure of him.

  “Well, it’s busy out there and getting worse. On board, just get to your tables and sit down. No pissing about, you might get noticed.”

  Not the delivery boy after all.

  “Look at the views by all means, but don’t order anything out of the ordinary, and don’t talk too loud. Even the breeze has ears, though there won’t be much of that today, mind. Just meld.”

  Meld. Fat chance with the Breton croaking like a donkey and The Pigface into serial combustion.

  “Get the feel of it all, but everything you need to know is right here.”

  Five heads studied the boat’s elevations. Above and below. Air and water. Two sections of intricate seductive detail with the guards’ likely movements in red. “Got this as well.” The son extracted a folded sheet of A4. A tidal chart expertly copied by hand in the style of a medical illustration. He laid it over his father’s dissection of the boat.

  “Did you do this?” Vidal asked.

  Leonardo, eat your heart out.

  “Took me a while, but at least it’s accurate. Handy size, too.”

  “Very impressive.” Plagnol’s index finger settled on the Pont de l’Alma.

  “And here’s the key.” Marcel passed Vidal a ring box in the shape of a heart. “Two turns left. One to the right.” When I leave after my first visit, I’ll cancel the alarm.”

  “How come you know the code?”

  “I stuck my finger up Herman’s ass. He liked that.”

  Just the job, then, for Christophe de la Bonté.

  “We’ve been extremely thorough, I can assure you.” Jalibert senior smiled. “After all, this isn’t our first – comment s’appelle? – adventure. Nor our last.”

  His coolness chilled the room. Vidal sensed water again. He’d already been tested in different swells and cross currents, with propellers and other foreign bodies. Had his oxygen cut off deeper than under the Pont de l’Alma with no trace of the bends. He was more than ready.

  “Eight kilometres per hour is the norm,” added the tooled-up Jalibert. “Not exactly a speedboat, but it gives the punters plenty of time. And you, of course. Can be slippery underneath, specially the ropes. They seem to pick up all the shit that’s going. Might need gloves.”

  “Got them.”

  “We also have a photographer.” Duvivier finally spoke.

  “Just the sights, remember. You’re tourists.”

  “For God’s sake.” Plagnol interrupted. “What if I happen to see a nice ass or better still, a breast? The Lord knows, I cannot resist such treasures.”

  Young Jalibert looked at Vidal and mouthed, “ground him.”

  ***

  “OK you’ve got our number,” said the redhead. “Any change let us know. Remember the emergency engine door shuts ‘clunk.’ No need to lock. Get the Hell out. Then you’ll see our vans. Three of them. If there’s only two, then hide. Don’t attempt to make the Pont des Invalides. One last thing.” He extracted a wallet from his jeans and handed Vidal the tickets for Roquette IV.

  Forged but good. Van Megeren has an heir, I see.

  “Bon voyage and happy hunting.”

  “Do we meet again?” Vidal asked, holding them up to the light.

  “I hope not. And those are strictly kosher by the way. Listen.” He pulled down the sash window as the door to the balcony was sealed. The unbroken wail from the Synagogue on the Boulevard Mardilly snaked into the room. A primordial, hypnotic sound, untramelled by flies or the burr of traffic.

  “They’re at it again. Must be swamp fever in the Marais.” Jalibert senior laughed. “Makes one feel quite at home, doesn’t it?” And for the first time, Duvivier allowed himself a smile.

  “And God rises from his throne of judgement and sits down on a throne of mercy.”

  “While the ever so humble servants beg for life,” Vidal added, slipping the key and tickets into his coat. “Now that’s what I call irresistible.”

  XL

  How many days and nights had passed since she’d first been caught? Too many. And where was Colette? Where? Was she alive or dead? And what about her son?

  The midday Angelus pealed out from the Refuge bell tower, causing the coven of crows who’d settled on its warm brick, to scatter into the sky.

  Nelly knew that she stank. The stolen robe from the Résidence had been half the weight and size of this one, and with just the threadbare towel and sliver of cheap soap thrown in on her first morning of imprisonment, no wonder her inner thighs were chapped and sore. No wonder too, she’d lost weight; felt bones she never knew she had. The food, if you could call it that, had been left on her filthy floor each morning at, she’d judged, the same time. Why, on this last occasion, in her airless, windowless prison, she’d been ready. Also the precious gun she’d kept hidden between her buttocks.

  Deo Gratias.

  She was outside in the windy heat, and running as if her heart would burst. First, into the parking area behind the chapel that protruded beyond the main building. No cars, not even a bicycle. Whoever was here, was here for good. But there was a coach. Brand new, and the incongruity of it surprised her. Green and cream with strawberry-coloured seats, its bulk cast a useful shadow while she changed behind the trash bins.

  “Vacances Mémorables,” she read along its gleaming side. “That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.” Then she put her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut to murmur what she remembered of the prayer.

  “Domini nuntiavit Mariae; et concepit de Spiritu Sanctu...” As though being blind would somehow make her smaller – part of the detritus that spilled out around the poubelles and heaped up against the kitchen wall. Cooking smells escaped from somewhere. Horse mince filled out with cheap pasta – like she’d had for the ‘hospitality’ meal in the Bois de Boulogne.

  Ugh.

  But the red bits – the haemoglobin still strung with tendons – had given her the trots. Trots and a stone floor. A partnership contrived in Hell. No wonder they’d not bothered to come and clean.

  Nelly finally stood up, adjusted her veil, then rehearsed with her gun. Every move in exact sequence, seven times for luck, only pausing when voices suddenly permeated the windless heat.

  She stopped breathing. There was one she recognised beyond all doubt. Claude Lefêbvre. Again.

  Jesus wept.

  She peered out of her sanctuary at the immaculate lawn studded with white markers topped by single red hearts. Graves. She shivered despite the melting heat, and thought of poor dead Chloë. Of her friend Colette, and, fleetingly, of her own mother.

  Beyond, lay a patch of newly rotavated soil, darkly brown after the brief drizzle, being hoed by three nuns whose robes were patched in sweat, their faces reddened by the sun. Suddenly and without warning, two of the group picked up their implements and walked away.

  “See you at Vespers,” the remaining one called out in that same high-pitched voice, the same inflection as she‘d heard on the train. Perfectly at home in the place.

  What the fuck’s going on?

  But danger touched every nerve as Nelly kept to the wall then began to stalk across the damp grass, her shadow trawling behind. Claude Lefêbvr
e was now less than a metre away, desultorily poking at the earth. She wasn’t preparing any ground for crops, she’d come to kill her. Or her and Colette.

  This was no movie, this was real, and a surge of courage suddenly filled Nelly’s body. She was ready.

  “Don’t bloody move till I say so.”

  The nun swung round, her veil revealing eyes of ice on fire. Her hoe fell to the ground.

  “Now. Over there. Vite.” Nelly pushed her towards a clump of poplars and scrub with a hut roof showing above. This was out of the sun at least, and out of sight of the Refuge. Supposing Lefêbvre too was armed? Supposing the other one was waiting...

  Mon Dieu.

  But she wasn’t going to give her that chance.

  “Your mate? She here as well?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “She went on to Bordeaux.”

  “So what are you up to? Bitch from Hell.” She’d pinned Lefêbvre against the shed. Her enemy taller, stronger in every way. “Where’s Colette Bataille? You tell me, or I’ll blow your head off.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  ”Why else are you here? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly come to join a Holy Order. Pull the other one.” Nelly moved the gun up between her adversary’s shoulders. “You show me where they’re keeping Colette Bataille or the word ‘morning’ will mean nothing to you.”

  Overhead the sun had beamed away the last of the usurping clouds and now reigned supreme over the wrecked vineyards as they processed back past the coach towards the chapel. Two minutes in which Nelly reminded Lefêbvre of Bertrand, at the same time desperate to get her bearings.

  At the archway to the cellars, the taller girl stopped, resting a hand on a pile of Breviaries left out for latecomers. The other was raised too quickly for Nelly to duck and the blow rocked her off balance. Her 9 milli spun down the steps into total darkness. Blindly she followed its echo, slithering and tripping on her oversize robe, bumping and jarring her bottom. Someone else had now joined Lefêbvre, a blur against the ceiling. Nelly reached the door and hammered with every molecule of strength, dizzy and faint.