by Seth Lynch
'Did he give a name?'
'Said he was called Yoann.'
'Yoann! Send him up, I've been expecting him.'
'Are you sure that is a good idea, I mean...' Filatre makes an awkward gesture with his head towards Megan.
'I don't follow you.'
'Well, there might be fleas and lice but also... are you sure you want him seen?'
'That's true, I'd forgotten about that. Megan, Yoann is a chap I knew in Saint-Denis. He was very near a trench shell when it exploded. It stole part of his face. He wears a dirty little veil but you can see through it. The scarring is hideous and there are some holes. I got used to it but I do remember how other people reacted when they saw him.'
'If he is a friend of yours I'd like to meet him,' she says.
'I never said he was a friend. I never had any friends up there. He is one of the two drinking buddies I had.' I look over at Filatre. 'Send him up.'
'I'll send him up, but I won't join you if you don't mind.'
Yoann enters the room; I hold back a gasp. I'd forgotten how ghastly his wounds were; I'd forgotten how low I'd sunk. This man would make a run of the mill tramp look like a prince. He'd need more than a few sponges and a bar of carbolic to take that smell away. The stench is quite sickening. Only a year ago I'd regularly sit next to him in a grubby café and I don't remember him smelling at all.
'Come in, Yoann, and take a seat.'
'Is that you, Reg? You actually do look like a lord laid up there in those posh pyjamas. Was all that guff actually true?'
'It actually was. Would you like a cigar? Megan, go and fetch us a couple of good cigars.'
I don't want a smoke but the smell will drown out Yoann's. Megan leaves us alone as she goes for the cigars. I know she'll need a bit of time to get over having seen Yoann so I don't expect her to return soon.
'How you doing, Yoann? Still smiling I see.'
'I never stop, Reg.'
'How's Emil?'
'Gone.'
'Where?' I catch Yoann's eye. 'Oh.'
'Stepped in front of the Rouen express. Makes me think you were right about him.'
'I only said all that to rile him. How about you, have you found any other drinking buddies?'
In the ten minutes he's been here I've managed to forget about the scar tissue. Yoann makes it easier somehow; he must have been quite something before the war.
'Are you kidding? A guy like me, I have to beat them off.'
I sit up on the bed so I can face him properly.
'Yoann, tell me quickly, was it him?'
'I don't think it was. I asked around and spoke to some of his neighbours. They know me, so they talked. This guy is from Belgium but not from Namur. He's a few years older than you said. I don't think Marty is his real name.'
'Thanks, Yoann. Here's some cash for your trouble.'
I push a few notes into his hand. He slips them into his jacket pocket.
'It was no trouble, Reg, but I'll take your money – it's thirsty work coming all the way down here.'
'If you ever need more you know where I am.'
Megan returns with three cigars already cut. She hands them out, taking one for herself.
'I might have known Reg would end up with a girl who smokes cigars.'
'Is there something wrong with that?' Megan asks, while striking a match on the sole of her boot.
'I'd rather live in a country where the women smoke cigars than one where the men go to war,' he says.
Yoann holds the smoke in his mouth. Rivulets escape from the holes in his cheek. With his veil and twisted face he looks like a cross between Valentino and Quasimodo. The cigars are doing their work by disguising his smell. Megan tries to prise out a few stories about our days in Saint-Denis together. Yoann spins her a few yarns based on the truth. I doubt there are many who could stomach those stories undiluted.
By three o'clock Yoann has gone and Megan has left to meet my aunt for tea. That suits me fine - I don't want tea, I want information with a little vengeance on the side.
Revolver holstered and walking cane in hand I wobble to the Métro station.
Being out in the crowd is unnerving; I'm jumping at shadows, convincing myself that someone is sneaking up behind me with a cosh. The trip to Lacman Brothers is short; paranoia making it feel much longer.
Place de Vendôme is large enough and busy enough for a man to hide right out in the open – he'd have to be a rather stupid man or not care too much about being caught. I take up a position on a café terrace and use a pair of field glasses to observe my target. The miserable little bastard is at his post. There is still an hour before they close and I guess he'll be among the last to leave. Since my last foray out of doors the weather has improved. The wind and rain which seemed to promise a prolonged winter have been replaced with warm sunshine. Spring is here and there's nothing sweeter than spring – except, of course, revenge.
Ninety minutes pass before the doorman relinquishes his post. Leaving a few coins on the café table I make my way as quickly and discreetly as I can across the square. Merging with the crowds on the street, I fall in a few yards behind him. We all make our way to the Métro. I'm glad it's the Métro and not an auto-bus; it'll make it easier to hide. We travel east, out to Belleville.
Once out of the Métro we flow in to the narrow residential streets. The crowds disperse until it's just him and me. Finally I have my chance and I grab it without hesitation.
'All right, buddy, you come with me.'
I stick the barrel of my revolver into his spine, hard enough for him to stumble forward.
'Who are you?'
'I'm the guy who's going to kill you if you don't turn down that alley.'
The alley is sheltered and we walk about halfway along it.
'Now tell me who it was,' I say.
'I know that voice... you were in the bank.'
'That's right, I was, and every little bit of pain I've felt since then is going to be inflicted upon you unless you start talking.'
'You've got the wrong man, mister. Whoever it was, it wasn't me.'
I push him towards the wall. He reaches out with his hands – not quickly enough. He hits the top of his head on the brick work.
'Turn around and look at me.'
He turns around; his forehead above his right eye is beginning to bleed.
'Whatever happened to you had nothing to do with me. I did my best to help you.'
'Help? How?'
'All that prying after monsieur Marty, that's what set them on you.'
'Set who?'
The blood, made runny by sweat, starts flowing into his eye. I pass him a handkerchief which he holds to the wound.
'Them. She called them as soon as you left. They probably got to Sordine's place before you did. Then what happened?'
'Then... I'll ask the questions. I reckon it was you who made the call. It was you who set them on me and it is you who's going to pay.'
'Reckon what you will but it's happened before. Someone comes asking questions about monsieur Marty then they end up attacked and dumped somewhere. Always they give their card to mademoiselle Legrand on reception. Always she makes a call when they leave.'
'Always, how many times?'
'You are number three that I know of. It's possible there were more, but unlikely.'
'What do you get out of it?'
'Sod all. I don't want any part of it. Besides, I reckon monsieur Marty probably deserves whatever he gets.'
'And you were acting as if he were your pal when I asked about him before.'
'That was to put you off. Asking about monsieur Marty can be lethal – as you know.'
'So what have you got against him all of a sudden?'
'Marty was a real piece of work,' he says. 'I liked him at first; you always do with guys like that. It was the way he handled women, it wasn't proper. Then there's all the folk he stole from.'
'Stole?'
'Yeah, I call it stealing. They end up with nothing; he ends up with everything. Look, monsieur Salazar, you're not going to shoot me, so put that thing away, will you?'
I holster the gun. Either he is one hell of a liar, and I'm not ruling that out, or he's telling the truth. Whichever it is doesn't matter now - I can't shoot him in cold blood.
'I've told you more or less all I know. If you can make it worth my while I can give you a little more.'
'What exactly?'
'Where she lives.'
'Who?'
'They must have hit you hard. Her! The girl who made the call and got you done over – mademoiselle Legrand.'
'So what do you want?'
'Two hundred francs. I'll give you her address and I won't mention our meeting to anyone.'
'Someone who sells a girl's address would sell anything.' I hand him the cash. 'Remember, if you double cross me, the next time we meet there'll be no talking, just a knife in your lung.'
I leave him in the alley counting his money like a prostitute. I'm shaking a little. That whole encounter went badly. If someone had seen us or he had screamed out I'd be a lot worse off than two hundred francs. With the Legrand girl I'm going to have to be colder. I can't confront her in the street or threaten her with a gun. I'll need to catch her off guard and use something else to make her talk.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I ride the Métro trying to formulate a plan. Instead I'm distracted by my aching leg. Without enough room to stretch it I have to stick it out in the aisle. I could go and sit in the seats for wounded veterans – after all I am wounded and I am a veteran. The only thing preventing me is the idea of another wounded veteran getting on and engaging me in conversation.
Mademoiselle Legrand lives in a small apartment block in Montparnasse. That part of town is populated by students and foreigners newly arrived in Paris. Pretty much the perfect selection; there'll be all sorts of people coming and going and they won't pay me the least bit of attention.
I get out of the Métro onto the boulevard Montparnasse and walk around for a while to stretch my leg. The evening is quite a pleasant one, ideal for spending time on a café terrace, sipping wine and watching the world decay around you. No time for that now, I have work to do.
I find the apartments without difficulty – this is one of the areas I like to walk around when I can't sleep. Some prophetic soul has even propped open the front door with an old broom. The doorman claimed not to know the number of Legrand's apartment. Lucky for me it is printed quite clearly on her mailbox; number six.
I walk up to Legrand's apartment on the second floor. I make no effort to blend in or hide. The only questions people are likely to ask me are: 'got a light?' or 'fancy a good time?' I reach Legrand's front door and stick my ear to the woodwork. The only thing I can hear is my breathing. Being a Friday night, she is probably out enjoying herself, spending the extra cash she earns from tipping off assassins. Most of the other inhabitants will be out at cafes, bars and dance halls and won't return until the early hours. I'd much rather be out there too, much better than lurking around a strange apartment block. Sometimes this job is plain creepy.
I feel exposed standing here. Apartments four and five are near the stairs, six is along a short corridor. I'm covered from the stairs but if somebody comes out of apartment four they'll be looking straight at me. If that happens I'll have to bluff it out; this is Paris and she is a very attractive girl - I bet she has men hanging around here all the time.
I try the door - locked. Behind me a window looks out over a courtyard, a bleak affair with washing lines and dustbins acting as the only highlights. Her bedroom must be at the end of the corridor on the other side of the wall. By climbing out of the hall window and edging along, I may be able to get in through her bedroom window. The evening is warm enough for people to leave their windows open, especially when they are this high up. Now that the sun is going down I can probably do this without anybody noticing.
I open the window and lean out to take a good look down. The drop onto the coal barge was probably the same height. If I land wrong though, with my leg in the shape it's in, I could lose it. Hit my head, and I'm done for. Who cares? I live in the age of the automobile; I take my life in my hands every time I cross the street. Fortune favours the brave, let it also look kindly upon this poor fool.
After clambering onto the window sill I take another look down. If I was very lucky I could walk away from that fall with only a few bruises. Do very lucky people fall from windows? My right leg is trembling. Why am I doing this?
I lower myself out the window. My feet scramble about until they find the ledge below. By turning them sideways I can fit the whole foot on the ledge. There is an upper ridge of about four inches. Enough to get a hold on - although it's at an awkward height - and my hands are gripping the ridge an inch or so below the height of my elbows. Moving is more difficult than I thought and the wind is stronger than I'd expected. After a few false starts I get into a slow rhythm which sees me about three-quarters of the way along. Now I need to change the position of my feet. Having them sideways was fine when I was standing still, now they are restricting my movement. I edge my feet around so the toes are touching the wall – movement will now be a lot easier; left, right and down.
A muscle, buried somewhere in my left hand, has locked up. To fix this I'll need to open and close my hand a few times, only I can't because my right hand is too weak to support my weight. What sort of an idiot climbs out onto a window ledge with a dodgy hand and a stiff leg?
By leaning back a few inches I can see the bedroom window. There is nothing to consider now - it's move or die. Ignoring all complaints from my body I edge myself further along. The window is closed! Shit and shit again. If it was my window I would have left it open. Nearly all the other apartments have their windows open. The bitch, she has done this on purpose.
I may be able to force the window. Gripping the ledge for all it's worth, my hands refuse to obey any other commands. Time is running out. My remaining hope is that I can inch my way back to the hall window. I turn my body slightly to cast a glance down at the courtyard. Right below me are some metal bins - I can see myself landing on them. My hand hurts so much now that those bins are inviting. If I took a step back, within an instant the pain in my hand would be gone. The drop doesn't look so far anymore, I could close my eyes and let go. I struggle to put these ideas out of my head. Some part of me, the part which wouldn't allow my hands to push the window, knows that a twenty foot drop onto metal bins isn't a matter of a few bruises. Already I'm moving again and am nearly at the hall window. What would happen if that window fell shut? I'd have to smash it. Will my hands let go then, or am I going to have to smash it with my head?
The window is open. I've lost all pretence of bravery; I'm almost crying as I fall into the corridor. I lie there, a dishevelled heap on the floor – my formative years were spent like this. I roll over and land by the door to Legrand's apartment. Although I'm back where I started, this time I'm grateful to be lying here and not among the dustbins. My body, perhaps fearful I might try some other foolish enterprise, refuses to move. I remain on the floor looking up at the ceiling. When I'm able to get up I'm going to forget about this girl; I'll go home and see to a bottle of whisky. No, I'll go via the Copenhagen and buy some hashish from Mikhail. I'll spend the rest of the evening in bed smoking and listening to Duke Ellington records. Why, I wonder, do I not spend every evening in bed smoking hashish and listening to Duke Ellington?
The cold of the floor overwhelms my inertia, forcing me to get up. As I rise I catch sight of something on the floor. She's left the bleeding key under the mat! I'd knocked it out of place when I rolled on to it. Barely suppressing a mad cackle, I open the front door. Not wanting to lock her out I put the key back under the mat and then go explore her apartment.
I fumble around in the dark, afraid that turning the lights on could give me away. My eyes adjust quit
e quickly and there is still some light coming in from outside. If I'm caught I could be headed for jail. That feels trivial compared with facing death out on the window ledge. Instead of being afraid I feel slightly naughty.
Legrand has a small apartment. A little way inside the hall is a kitchen with about enough room for one person to move around – so long as they don't try to breathe out at the same time. Inside the kitchen is a small charcoal fuelled oven. There are two cupboards which have been pushed together to form a long surface. I guess that's all you need from a kitchen. The hall opens into the living room. On the right is a door which leads the bedroom I saw from the ledge. The few pieces of furniture are modern and slick. The coffee table is made of metal tubes with a glass surface. An ashtray and packet of cigarettes lay on the table. The chairs look like an argument between metal and leather. Three of the walls are painted plain white, the fourth is a dark purple.
An incongruous piece in the corner of the room attracts my attention – a dust covered upholstered chair. The springs are going but it's comfortable. This chair is in the corner and faces the entrance to the living room; it will make the perfect place to sit and wait for her to come home. Before I can rest and wait I need to check the bedroom. For all I know she may be laying across the bed – naked. As that pleasant image pops into my mind it occurs to me that the doorman may have been lying. I don't remember anyone calling that receptionist mademoiselle Legrand when I was at the Lacman Brothers' place. Some other girl could be living here, and what will happen when she gets back?
I cast a quick glance around the room without seeing anything which might identify the owner. The bedroom gives her away. The smell of her perfume fills the room conjuring her image right down to the dimples in her cheeks. On the dressing table there are a couple of photographs. One of them sees her with an elderly couple. They must be her parents. She is glancing coyly at the camera while they beam proudly at her. Funny, she didn't seem all that shy when I met her. There are no naked bodies on or in the bed. The wardrobe is full of dresses, all for warm weather; she must have put her winter clothes into storage. The draws are filled with stockings and underwear. Going through a woman's underwear when she is not wearing it may appear pointless, but this is often the place they hide their handguns. Would it be better to hide out in this room, under the bed or in the wardrobe? No, there isn't enough space. Besides, I don't want to jump out on her; when she arrives I want to look established and at ease. That will give me the psychological edge I'm after.
