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

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      19

      Jean-Paul stared at the Englishman and wondered why he had sought him out. It was more than a coincidence. Jean-Paul didn’t trust him. He thought he had seen Maria’s car in the traffic just before the Englishman sat down. What had they both been plotting? Jean-Paul knew that no woman could be trusted. They consumed one, devoured one, sapped one’s strength and confidence and gave no reassurance in return. The very nature of women made them his … was ‘enemy’ too strong a word? He decided that ‘enemy’ wasn’t too strong a word. They took away his manhood and yet demanded more and more physical love. ‘Insatiable’ was the only word for them. The other conclusion was not worth considering – that his sexual prowess was under par. No. Women were hot and lustful and, if he was truthful with himself, evil. His life was an endless struggle to quench the lustful fires of the women he met. And if he ever failed they would mock him and humiliate him. Women were waiting to humiliate him.

      ‘Have you seen Maria lately?’ Jean-Paul asked.

      ‘A moment ago. She gave me a lift here.’

      Jean-Paul smiled but did not comment. So that was it. At least the Englishman had not dared to lie to him. He must have read his eyes. He was in no mood to be trifled with.

      ‘How’s the painting going?’ I asked. ‘Were the critics kind to your friend’s show the other day?’

      ‘Critics,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘find it quite impossible to separate modern painting from teenage pregnancy, juvenile delinquency and the increase in crimes of violence. They think that by supporting the dull repetitious, representational type of painting that is out of date and unoriginal, they are also supporting loyalty to the flag, discipline, a sense of fair play and responsible use of world supremacy.’

      I grinned. ‘And what about those people that like modern painting?’

      ‘People who buy modern paintings are very often interested only in gaining admittance to the world of the young artists. They are often wealthy vulgarians who, terrified of being thought old and square, prove that they are both by falling prey to quick-witted opportunists who paint modern – very modern – paintings. Provided that they keep on buying pictures they will continue to be invited to bohemian parties.’

      ‘There are no genuine painters?’

      ‘Not many,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Tell me, are English and American exactly the same language, exactly the same?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. Jean-Paul looked at me.

      ‘Maria is very taken with you.’ I said nothing. ‘I despise all women.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because they despise each other. They treat each other with a cruelty that no man would inflict upon another man. They never have a woman friend who they can be sure won’t betray them.’

      ‘That sounds like a good reason for men to be kind to them,’ I said.

      Jean-Paul smiled. He felt sure it was not meant seriously.

      ‘The police have arrested Byrd for murder,’ I said.

      Jean-Paul was not surprised. ‘I have always thought of him as a killer.’

      I was shocked.

      ‘They all are,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘They are all killers for their work. Byrd, Loiseau, Datt, even you, my friend, are killers if work demands.’

      ‘What are you talking about? Whom did Loiseau kill?’

      ‘He killed Maria. Or do you think she was always like she is now – treacherous and confused, and constantly in fear of all of you?’

      ‘But you are not a killer?’

      ‘No,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Whatever faults I have I am not a killer, unless you mean …’ He paused before carefully pronouncing the English word, ‘a “lady-killer”’

      Jean-Paul smiled and put on his dark glasses.