The Spy Quartet: An Expensive Place to Die, Spy Story, Yesterday’s Spy, Twinkle Twinkle Little Spy. Len Deighton

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СКАЧАТЬ Byrd say, ‘I will not take it back; he’s a rotten little swine.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ said dinner-jacket tactfully, ‘you would be kind enough to make sure that your friends come to no harm in the street.’

      I said, ‘If they get out of here in one piece they can take their own chances in the street.’

      ‘Since you can’t take a hint,’ said dinner-jacket, ‘let me make it clear …’

      ‘He’s with me,’ said Loiseau.

      The man shied. ‘Chief Inspector,’ said dinner-jacket, ‘I am desolated.’

      ‘We are leaving anyway,’ said Loiseau, nodding to me. Dinner-jacket smiled and turned back to the woman with green eye-shadow.

      ‘You go where you like,’ I said. ‘I’m staying right here.’

      Dinner-jacket swivelled back like a glove puppet.

      Loiseau put a hand on my arm. ‘I thought you wanted to talk about getting your carte de séjour from the Prefecture.’

      ‘I’m having no trouble getting my carte de séjour,’ I said.

      ‘Exactly,’ said Loiseau and moved through the crowd towards the door. I followed.

      Near the entrance there was a table containing a book of newspaper clippings and catalogues. The woman with green eye-shadow called to us. She offered Loiseau her hand and then reached out to me. She held the wrist limp as women do when they half expect a man to kiss the back of their hand. ‘Please sign the visitors’ book,’ she said.

      Loiseau bent over the book and wrote in neat neurotic writing ‘Claude Loiseau’; under comments he wrote ‘stimulating’. The woman swivelled the book to me. I wrote my name and under comments I wrote what I always write when I don’t know what to say – ‘uncompromising’.

      The woman nodded. ‘And your address,’ she said.

      I was about to point out that no one else had written their address in the book, but when a shapely young woman asks for my address I’m not the man to be secretive. I wrote it: ‘c/o Petit Légionnaire, rue St Ferdinand, 17ième.’

      The woman smiled to Loiseau in a familiar way. She said, ‘I know the Chief Inspector’s address: Criminal Investigation Department, Sûreté Nationale, rue des Saussaies.’²

      Loiseau’s office had that cramped, melancholy atmosphere that policemen relish. There were two small silver pots for the shooting team that Loiseau had led to victory in 1959 and several group photos – one showed Loiseau in army uniform standing in front of a tank. Loiseau brought a large M 1950 automatic from his waist and put it into a drawer. ‘I’m going to get something smaller,’ he said. ‘This is ruining my suits.’ He locked the drawer carefully and then went through the other drawers of his desk, riffling through the contents and slamming them closed until he laid a dossier on his blotter.

      ‘This is your dossier,’ said Loiseau. He held up a print of the photo that appears on my carte de séjour. ‘“Occupation,”’ he read, ‘“travel agency director”.’ He looked up at me and I nodded. ‘That’s a good job?’

      ‘It suits me,’ I said.

      ‘It would suit me’, said Loiseau. ‘Eight hundred new francs each week and you spend most of your time amusing yourself.’

      ‘There’s a revived interest in leisure,’ I said.

      ‘I hadn’t noticed any decline among the people who work for me.’ He pushed his Gauloises towards me. We lit up and looked at each other. Loiseau was about fifty years old. Short muscular body with big shoulders. His face was pitted with tiny scars and part of his left ear was missing. His hair was pure white and very short. He had plenty of energy but not so much that he was prepared to waste any. He hung his jacket on his chair back and rolled up his shirtsleeves very neatly. He didn’t look like a policeman now, more like a paratroop colonel planning a coup.

      ‘You are making inquiries about Monsieur Datt’s clinic on the Avenue Foch.’

      ‘Everyone keeps telling me that.’

      ‘Who for?’

      I said, ‘I don’t know about that place, and I don’t want to know about it.’

      ‘I’m treating you like an adult,’ said Loiseau. ‘If you prefer to be treated like a spotty-faced j.v. then we can do that too.’

      ‘What’s the question again?’

      ‘I’d like to know who you are working for. However, it would take a couple of hours in the hen cage to get that out of you. So for the time being I’ll tell you this: I am interested in that house and I don’t want you to even come downwind of it. Stay well away. Tell whoever you are working for that the house in Avenue Foch is going to remain a little secret of Chief Inspector Loiseau.’ He paused, wondering how much more to tell me. ‘There are powerful interests involved. Violent groups are engaged in a struggle for criminal power.’

      ‘Why do you tell me that?’

      ‘I thought that you should know.’ He gave a Gallic shrug.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Don’t you understand? These men are dangerous.’

      ‘Then why aren’t you dragging them into your office instead of me?’

      ‘Oh, they are too clever for us. Also they have well-placed friends who protect them. It’s only when the friends fail that they resort to … coercion, blackmail, killing even. But always skilfully.’

      ‘They say it’s better to know the judge than to know the law.’

      ‘Who says that?’

      ‘I heard it somewhere.’

      ‘You’re an eavesdropper,’ said Loiseau.

      ‘I am,’ I said. ‘And a damned good one.’

      ‘It sounds as though you like it,’ said Loiseau grimly.

      ‘It’s my favourite indoor sport. Dynamic and yet sedentary; a game of skill with an element of chance. No season, no special equipment …’

      ‘Don’t be so clever,’ he said sadly. ‘This is a political matter. Do you know what that means?’

      ‘No. I don’t know what that means.’

      ‘It means that you might well spend one morning next week being lifted out of some quiet backwater of the St Martin canal and travelling down to the Medico-Legal Institute³ where the boys in butchers’ aprons and rubber boots live. They’ll take an inventory of what they find in your pockets, send your clothes to the Poor Law Administration Office, put a numbered armband on you, freeze you to eight degrees centigrade and put you in a rack with two other foolish lads. The superintendent will phone me and I’ll have to go along and identify you. I’ll hate doing that because at this time of year there are clouds of flies as large as bats and a smell that reaches to Austerlitz Station.’ СКАЧАТЬ