World War 2 Thriller Collection

by Len Deighton

‘Then who do you think did?’

  ‘I told her not once. I told her a thousand times.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  She pursed up her mouth in a gesture of contempt. ‘What do you think I told her, M. Annie’s cousin Pierre? I told her that to record conversations in such a house was a dangerous thing to do. In a house owned by people like those people.’

  ‘People like what people?’

  ‘In Paris one does not talk of such things, but it’s said that the Ministry of the Interior or the SDECE8 own the house to discover the indiscretions of foolish aliens.’ She gave a tough little sob, but recovered herself quickly.

  ‘You were fond of Annie?’

  ‘I never got on well with women until I got to know her. I was broke when I met her, at least I was down to only ten francs. I had run away from home. I was in the laundry asking them to split the order because I didn’t have enough to pay. The place where I lived had no running water. Annie lent me the money for the whole laundry bill – twenty francs – so that I had clean clothes while looking for a job. She gave me the first warm coat I ever had. She showed me how to put on my eyes. She listened to my stories and let me cry. She told me not to live the life that she had led, going from one man to another. She would have shared her last cigarette with a stranger. Yet she never asked me questions. Annie was an angel.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like it.’

  ‘Oh I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that Annie and I were a couple of Lesbians.’

  ‘Some of my best lovers are Lesbians,’ I said.

  Monique smiled. I thought she was going to cry all over me, but she sniffed and smiled. ‘I don’t know if we were or not,’ she said.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Anything would be better than to have stayed in the place I was born. My parents are still there; it’s like living through a siege, besieged by the cost of necessities. They are careful how they use detergent, coffee is measured out. Rice, pasta and potatoes eke out tiny bits of meat. Bread is consumed, meat is revered and Kleenex tissues never afforded. Unnecessary lights are switched off immediately, they put on a sweater instead of the heating. In the same building families crowd into single rooms, rats chew enormous holes in the woodwork – there’s no food for them to chew on – and the w.c. is shared by three families and it usually doesn’t flush. The people who live at the top of the house have to walk down two flights to use a cold water tap. And yet in this same city I get taken out to dinner in three-star restaurants where the bill for two dinners would keep my parents for a year. At the Ritz a man friend of mine paid nine francs a day to them for looking after his dog. That’s just about half the pension my father gets for being blown up in the war. So when you people come snooping around here flashing your money and protecting the République Française’s rocket programme, atomic plants, supersonic bombers and nuclear submarines or whatever it is you’re protecting, don’t expect too much from my patriotism.’

  She bit her lip and glared at me, daring me to contradict her, but I didn’t contradict. ‘It’s a lousy rotten town,’ I agreed.

  ‘And dangerous,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Paris is all of those things.’

  She laughed. ‘Paris is like me, cousin Pierre; it’s no longer young, and too dependent upon visitors who bring money. Paris is a woman with a little too much alcohol in her veins. She talks a little too loud and thinks she is young and gay. But she has smiled too often at strange men and the words “I love you” trip too easily from her tongue. The ensemble is chic and the paint is generously applied, but look closely and you’ll see the cracks showing through.’

  She got to her feet, groped along the bedside table for a match and lit her cigarette with a hand that trembled very slightly. She turned back to me. ‘I saw the girls I knew taking advantage of offers that came from rich men they could never possibly love. I despised the girls and wondered how they could bring themselves to go to bed with such unattractive men. Well, now I know.’ The smoke was getting in her eyes. ‘It was fear. Fear of being a woman instead of a girl, a woman whose looks are slipping away rapidly, leaving her alone and unwanted in this vicious town.’ She was crying now and I stepped closer to her and touched her arm. For a moment she seemed about to let her head fall upon my shoulder, but I felt her body tense and unyielding. I took a business card from my top pocket and put it on the bedside table next to a box of chocolates. She pulled away from me irritably. ‘Just phone if you want to talk more,’ I said.

  ‘You’re English,’ she said suddenly. It must have been something in my accent or syntax. I nodded.

  ‘It will be strictly business,’ she said. ‘Cash payments.’

  ‘You don’t have to be so tough on yourself,’ I said. She said nothing.

  ‘And thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ said Monique.

  17

  First there came a small police van, its klaxon going. Co-operating with it was a blue-uniformed man on a motor-cycle. He kept his whistle in his mouth and blew repeatedly. Sometimes he was ahead of the van, sometimes behind it. He waved his right hand at the traffic as if by just the draught from it he could force the parked cars up on the pavement. The noise was deafening. The traffic ducked out of the way, some cars went willingly, some grudgingly, but after a couple of beeps on the whistle they crawled up on the stones, the pavement and over traffic islands like tortoises. Behind the van came the flying column: three long blue buses jammed with Garde Mobile men who stared at the cringing traffic with a bored look on their faces. At the rear of the column came a radio car. Loiseau watched them disappear down the Faubourg St Honoré. Soon the traffic began to move again. He turned away from the window and back to Maria. ‘Dangerous,’ pronounced Loiseau. ‘He’s playing a dangerous game. The girl is killed in his house, and Datt is pulling every political string he can find to prevent an investigation taking place. He’ll regret it.’ He got to his feet and walked across the room.

  ‘Sit down, darling,’ said Maria. ‘You are just wasting calories in getting annoyed.’

  ‘I’m not Datt’s boy,’ said Loiseau.

  ‘And no one will imagine that you are,’ said Maria. She wondered why Loiseau saw everything as a threat to his prestige.

  ‘The girl is entitled to an investigation,’ explained Loiseau. ‘That’s why I became a policeman. I believe in equality before the law. And now they are trying to tie my hands. It makes me furious.’

  ‘Don’t shout,’ said Maria. ‘What sort of effect do you imagine that has upon the people that work for you, hearing you shouting?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Loiseau. Maria loved him. It was when he capitulated so readily like that that she loved him so intensely. She wanted to care for him and advise him and make him the most successful policeman in the whole world. Maria said, ‘You are the finest policeman in the whole world.’

  He smiled. ‘You mean with your help I could be.’ Maria shook her head. ‘Don’t argue,’ said Loiseau. ‘I know the workings of your mind by now.’

  Maria smiled too. He did know. That was the awful thing about their marriage. They knew each other too well. To know all is to forgive nothing.

  ‘She was one of my girls,’ said Loiseau. Maria was surprised. Of course Loiseau had girls, he was no monk, but it surprised her to hear him talk like that to her. ‘One of them?’ She deliberately made her voice mocking.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody arch, Maria. I can’t stand you raising one eyebrow and adopting that patronizing tone. One of my girls.’ He said it slowly to make it easy for her to understand. He was so pompous that Maria almost giggled. ‘One of my girls, working for me as an informant.’

  ‘Don’t all the tarts do that?’

  ‘She wasn’t a tart, she was a highly intelligent girl giving us first-class information.’

  ‘Admit it, darling,’ Maria cooed, ‘you were a tiny bit infatuated with her.’ She raised an eyebrow quizzicall
y.

  ‘You stupid cow,’ said Loiseau. ‘What’s the good of treating you like an intelligent human.’ Maria was shocked by the rusty-edged hatred that cut her. She had made a kind, almost loving remark. Of course the girl had fascinated Loiseau and had in turn been fascinated by him. The fact that it was true was proved by Loiseau’s anger. But did his anger have to be so bitter? Did he have to wound her to know if blood flowed through her veins?

  Maria got to her feet. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. She remembered Loiseau once saying that Mozart was the only person who understood him. She had long since decided that that at least was true.

  ‘You said you wanted to ask me something.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it matters. Sit down and tell me.’

  She shook her head. ‘Another time.’

  ‘Do you have to treat me like a monster, just because I won’t play your womanly games?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  There was no need for Maria to feel sorry for Loiseau. He didn’t feel sorry for himself and seldom for anyone else. He had pulled the mechanism of their marriage apart and now looked at it as if it were a broken toy, wondering why it didn’t work. Poor Loiseau. My poor, poor, darling Loiseau. I at least can build again, but you don’t know what you did that killed us.

  ‘You’re crying, Maria. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’m not crying and you’re not sorry.’ She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps that’s always been our problem.’

  Loiseau shook his head but it wasn’t a convincing denial.

  Maria walked back towards the Faubourg St Honoré. Jean-Paul was at the wheel of her car.

  ‘He made you cry,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘The rotten swine.’

  ‘I made myself cry,’ said Maria.

  Jean-Paul put his arm around her and held her tight. It was all over between her and Jean-Paul, but feeling his arm around her was like a shot of cognac. She stopped feeling sorry for herself and studied her make-up.

  ‘You look magnificent,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I would like to take you away and make love to you.’

  There was a time when that would have affected her, but she had long since decided that Jean-Paul seldom wanted to make love to anyone, although he did it often enough, heaven knows. But it was a good thing to hear when you have just argued with an ex-husband. She smiled at Jean-Paul and he took her hand in his large tanned one and turned it around like a bronze sculpture on a turntable. Then he released it and grabbed at the controls of the car. He wasn’t as good a driver as Maria was, but she preferred to be his passenger rather than drive herself. She lolled back and pretended that Jean-Paul was the capable tanned he-man that he looked. She watched the pedestrians, and intercepted the envious glances. They were a perfect picture of modern Paris: the flashy automobile, Jean-Paul’s relaxed good looks and expensive clothes, her own well-cared-for appearance – for she was as sexy now as she had ever been. She leaned her head close upon Jean-Paul’s shoulder. She could smell his after-shave perfume and the rich animal smell of the leather seats. Jean-Paul changed gear as they roared across the Place de la Concorde. She felt his arm muscles ripple against her cheek.

  ‘Did you ask him?’ asked Jean-Paul.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t. He wasn’t in the right mood.’

  ‘He’s never in the right mood, Maria. And he’s never going to be. Loiseau knows what you want to ask him and he precipitates situations so that you never will ask him.’

  ‘Loiseau isn’t like that,’ said Maria. She had never thought of that. Loiseau was clever and subtle; perhaps it was true.

  ‘Look,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘during the last year that house on the Avenue Foch has held exhibitions, orgies, with perversions, blue movies and everything, but has never had any trouble from the police. Even when a girl dies there, there is still little or no trouble. Why? Because it has the protection of the French Government. Why does it have protection? Because the activities at the house are filmed and photographed for official dossiers.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re right. Datt implies that, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well I am sure,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘I’ll bet you that those films and photos are in the possession of the Ministry of the Interior, Loiseau probably sees every one of them. They probably have a private showing once a week. Loiseau probably saw that film of you and me within twenty-four hours of its being taken.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Maria. A flash of

  fear rose inside her, radiating panic like a two-kilowatt electric fire. Jean-Paul’s large cool hand gripped her shoulder. She wished he would grip her harder. She wanted him to hurt her so that her sins would be expiated and erased by the pain. She thought of Loiseau seeing the film in the company of other policemen. Please God it hadn’t happened. Please please God. She thought she had agonized over every aspect of her foolishness, but this was a new and most terrible one.

  ‘But why would they keep the films?’ Maria asked, although she knew the answer.

  ‘Datt selects the people who use that house. Datt is a psychiatrist, a genius …’

  ‘… an evil genius.’

  ‘Perhaps an evil genius,’ said Jean-Paul objectively. ‘Perhaps an evil genius, but by gathering a select circle of people – people of great influence, of prestige and diplomatic power – Datt can compile remarkable assessments and predictions about their behaviour in everything they do. Many major shifts of French Government policy have been decided by Datt’s insights and analysis of sexual behaviour.’

  ‘It’s vile,’ said Maria.

  ‘It’s the world in our time.’

  ‘It’s France in our time,’ Maria corrected. ‘Foul man.’

  ‘He’s not foul,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He is not responsible for what those people do. He doesn’t even encourage them. As far as Datt is concerned his guests could behave with impeccable decorum; he would be just as happy to record and analyse their attitudes.’

  ‘Voyeur.’

  ‘He’s not even a voyeur. That’s the odd thing. That’s what makes him of such great importance to the Ministry. And that’s why your ex-husband could do nothing to retrieve that film even if he wished to.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Maria casually.

  ‘Be reasonable,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It’s true I do little jobs for Datt but I am not his confidant. I’ve no idea of what happens to the film …’

  ‘They burn them sometimes,’ Maria remembered. ‘And often they are taken away by the people concerned.’

  ‘You have never heard of duplicate prints?’

  Maria’s hopes sank. ‘Why didn’t you ask for that piece of film of us?’

  ‘Because you said let them keep it. Let them show it every Friday night, you said.’

  ‘I was drunk,’ said Maria. ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘It’s a joke for which we are both paying dearly.’

  Maria snorted. ‘You love the idea of people seeing the film. It’s just the image you love to project. The great lover …’ She bit her tongue. She had almost added that the film was his sole documentary proof of heterosexuality, but she closed her eyes. ‘Loiseau could get the film back,’ she said. She was sure, sure, sure that Loiseau hadn’t seen that piece of film, but the memory of the fear remained.

  ‘Loiseau could get it,’ she said desperately, wanting Jean-Paul to agree on this one, very small point.

  ‘But he won’t,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He won’t because I’m involved and your ex-husband hates me with a deep and illogical loathing. The trouble is that I can understand why he does. I’m no good for you, Maria. You would probably have managed the whole thing excellently except that Loiseau is jealous of your relationship with me. Perhaps we should cease to see each other for a few months.’

  ‘I’m sure we should.’

  ‘But I couldn’t bear it, Maria.’

  ‘Why the hell not? We don’t love each other. I am only a suitable companion and you have so many other women you’d
never even notice my absence.’ She despised herself even before she’d completed the sentenee. Jean-Paul detected her motive immediately, of course, and responded.

  ‘My darling little Maria.’ He touched her leg lightly and sexlessly. ‘You are different from the others. The others are just stupid little tarts that amuse me as decorations. They are not women. You are the only real woman I know. You are the woman I love, Maria.’

  ‘Monsieur Datt himself,’ said Maria, ‘he could get the film.’ Jean-Paul pulled into the side of the road and double parked.

  ‘We’ve played this game long enough, Maria,’ he said.

  ‘What game?’ asked Maria. Behind them a taxi-driver swore bitterly as he realized they were not going to move.

  ‘The how-much-you-hate-Datt game,’ said Jean-Paul.

  ‘I do hate him.’

  ‘He’s your father, Maria.’

  ‘He’s not my father, that’s just a stupid story that he told you for some purpose of his own.’

  ‘Then where is your father?’

  ‘He was killed in 1940 in Bouillon, Belgium, during the fighting with the Germans. He was killed in an air raid.’

  ‘He would have been about the same age as Datt.’

  ‘So would a million men,’ said Maria. ‘It’s such a stupid lie that it’s not worth arguing about. Datt hoped I’d swallow that story but now even he no longer speaks of it. It’s a stupid lie.’

  Jean-Paul smiled uncertainly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh Jean-Paul. Why. You know how his evil little mind works. I was married to an important man in the Sûreté. Can’t you see how convenient it would be to have me thinking he was my father? A sort of insurance, that’s why.’

  Jean-Paul was tired of this argument. ‘Then he’s not your father. But I still think you should co-operate.’

  ‘Co-operate how?’

  ‘Tell him a few snippets of information.’

  ‘Could he get the film if it was really worth while?’

  ‘I can ask him.’ He smiled. ‘Now you are being sensible, my love,’ he said. Maria nodded as the car moved forward into the traffic. Jean-Paul planted a brief kiss on her forehead. A taxi-driver saw him do it and tooted a small illegal toot on the horn. Jean-Paul kissed Maria’s forehead again a little more ardently. The great Arc de Triomphe loomed over them as they roared around the Étoile like soapsuds round the kitchen sink. A hundred tyres screamed an argument about centrifugal force, then they were into the Grande Armée. The traffic had stopped at the traffic lights. A man danced nimbly between the cars, collecting money and whipping newspapers from window to window like a fan dancer. As the traffic lights changed the cars slid forward. Maria opened her paper; the ink was still wet and it smudged under her thumb. ‘American tourist disappears,’ the headline said. There was a photograph of Hudson, the American hydrogen-research man. The newspaper said he was a frozen foods executive named Parks, which was the story the US Embassy had given out. Neither the face nor either name meant anything to Maria.