by Seth Lynch
There was no evidence of Marty at her apartment. They may have another place together somewhere. I'll deal with Legrand when I get out of here; in the meantime, fatso down there needs sorting out.
I can't let Girondé keep coming for me until he succeeds. Then there is Megan and Filatre to consider. No, Girondé will have to die and the sooner the better. Perhaps with Girondé out of the way the other guy will take over. Then he could do what he said – keep Legrand's cash and forget about the killing.
The men are still talking and Girondé is drinking a glass of wine. I creep to the wall and pull out my knife. Girondé arrived alone; he may leave alone too. Or he might send the other two away and spend a few moments alone in his safe haven below. When he gets up to leave I could get downstairs and stab him in the lung. I've done it before and, if you get the angle right, they die almost silently. Only bubbling blood and gasps for air are to be heard. His overcoat doesn't look any thicker than a standard issue German trench coat.
Then I'll deal with Pascal. Nobody else knows I'm here; only he could link me to Girondé's killing. I'll have to suffocate him. Then I'll dump his body in the river. If the flics even bother investigating these deaths they'll look for rival gangsters.
I crawl out of the bedroom on my belly with my knife held between my teeth. The best place to get at them will be via the other room downstairs. I listen out for a few moments at the top of the staircase. Then I stand up and make my way down, trying to put my feet in the prints I made coming up.
As I pass the door to their room I imagine kicking it open and gunning them all down. The element of surprise would be so great I could kill them all easily. Instead, I stand in the dusty room with all the piled up furniture and make like a hat stand. The knife feels easy in my hand. I picture the actions I'll need to perform when killing Girondé. Three or four fast strides; my left arm goes around his neck; my right brings the knife up quick and hard. Blood will gurgle in his mouth. For a moment he'll struggle. I'll hold him as he dies and then leave his body in the hallway. If I keep my gun tucked into my trousers I can use it if the others come out to see the show.
I wait for them to make their move. My pulse pounds in my jugular. The rhythm is steady and strong. Entranced by the beat my mind begins to drift. Killing is easy – too easy – and some days it seems that everybody's at it. I can't sleep at night because of the deaths which come to haunt me. Germans from the trench, the one I shot as we were running across no man's land. There was another; I was with the snipers and I picked him off as he lit a cigarette. I went on a raiding party and I took one out in the same fashion that I'm planning to take out Girondé. There were others too, and some I will never know about. The times I threw a grenade, or sat with a mortar crew and spent an hour barraging a trench. I heard screams and I must have taken lives. They were all wartime deaths. Then there was Saint-Denis, down by the river. I often see his eyes as they looked in that instant I hit him with the rock. Do I really want to add to this roll-call? Will my life's achievements be the sum of a series of acts of violence? On my deathbed – if I'm given such a luxury as a bed – will I say: I killed people, most of whom deserved it?
I need to stop thinking this way. Gironde won't even blink as he sticks it to me. Like he said, he'll slaughter me, my wife, and my children. I don't have a wife or children but Gironde doesn't know that. He is a man who'd creep into a kid's bedroom and slit their throat. Meanwhile, I'm stepping down when I ought to be stepping up. If Gironde leaves this building without my knife in his belly, then we're all in trouble.
This is all fat man gangster talk. He's trying to impress his Apache goons. The bit about my wife and kids is to step them going for him. He's right when he says fear and reputation are all he's got. If they fear him enough he remains in charge. If they don't, he's gone.
Am I no better than a greasy hoodlum? Do I need to create a reputation based on fear? In my dreams I drown in the blood I've spilt. Each death is another nightmare waiting to haunt me. The idea of war repulses me and yet I contemplate my own killing spree like the most sadistic of generals. I have the opportunity to give the order to go over the top or I can give the order to lay down arms.
I can't kill Girondé, then Pascal, and the other two if they get in the way. I know I can do it, physically. I know that once I set on this course you can be sure they will all die. A gangster's children are no less deserving of a father than the German children I've orphaned. And then, with them all dead, will I go and play chess with Filatre and kiss Megan's lips? Someone sneezes and it brings me back from my contemplation. I must break the spell violence has cast upon me. I shan't go home tonight with blood on my hands. My mind is made up. Girondé can live, even if that means I have to leave my beloved Paris.
I climb out of the window and force my way past the broken grey gate. The alley feels as if it is closing in on me as I dash through it. I run to the Métro station and jump into a carriage heading south. There isn't much for it now; I have only one way out.
Once off the train I make for a café and call Filatre – he's still at André's café. I tell him to make use of his house in the suburbs and not to return to the office until I say. I then call Megan and give her similar instructions. Luckily she had been planning to visit a friend in Dijon for the weekend. I have a house call to make before I can go home.
Today has been good, weather-wise. Megan and I should have spent this Saturday evening lounging around sipping cocktails. I should be with her now, dancing at the Copenhagen and smoking with Mikhail, or doing whatever it is people do in Dijon. Of all the things I could be doing on a Saturday night I'm standing in an alleyway, down in Montparnasse, smoking a cigarette and looking over at a seedy apartment block. The door is open and I could slip in easily. There are a few too many people around for my liking. When it quietens down I'll cross over and pay mademoiselle Legrand a visit.
Being a Saturday night the comings and goings are getting boisterous. People come and whistle up at windows from which others shout down to the street. Small packs dance along the road. Bottles crash somewhere unseen, ready to cause Sunday morning punctures. Figuring I'd have to spend the night and half the morning waiting for a quiet time, I cross the road.
A young woman bumps into me in the doorway. She smiles seductively; I smile too and check my wallet is still there. There are a few people sitting on the stairs drinking wine and smoking. They part, letting me pass, paying me as little regard as they might a cat. There is light escaping from under Legrand's front door. The key is not beneath the mat. I try the handle and the door opens. If I'd sent some gangsters out to kill a man in the morning I would lock my door at night. I can hear her in the living room singing to herself.
'Evening, mademoiselle, planning a vacation?'
She turns with a start; my gun is trained on her belly.
'You better sit down – why not use that chair in the corner?'
I nod towards the old chair. I take a metallic tubular seat and sit facing her.
'What do you want? I told you all I knew this morning,' she says.
'Sure, you told me all right. Then I went up to Montmartre and made friends with Girondé. He tells a different story – one where you do the paying. The way I see it, you're going down for two murders and one attempted murder. If there are any more I'm sure the flics will enjoy beating the details out of Girondé's crew.'
'You've got it all wrong -'
'I followed you to the café this morning. I saw you make the call, then I went home and waited for a visitor who turned up as expected. I persuaded him to tell me all about the shabby house up in Montmartre. Then I went and met Girondé and his gang.'
Her face pales and she sinks further into the chair.
'So tell me, mademoiselle Legrand, how long have you and Marty been lovers?'
'We aren't lovers.'
'From where I'm sitting you look like a sweet kid – so why do I have the urge to throw you out the window?'
I grab her arm and yank her from the chair. She struggles and I put one hand over her mouth and carry her over to the window. With the other hand I flick the latch and push the window open. If it worked on Pascal it ought to work on her.
'You are either going to talk to me or you are going to commit suicide.'
'You wouldn't dare!'
I push her half way out the window and make like I'm going to lift her the rest of the way. She struggles in my arms, fighting to get back into the apartment. Her aloofness has gone. Sweat is running down the back of her neck. Her breathing is fast and erratic.
'Stop! Stop!' she says.
I pull her back inside, turn her around, and then give her a shove towards the centre of the room. She takes a few steps back before regaining her balance. For a moment she stands there and looks as if she might come at me. Then she collapses into one of her chrome chairs and buries her face in her hands.
'Time to spill it, sister,' I say. I take a few strides over to where she's sitting and place a foot on the arm of the chair. She looks up at me, white faced and forlorn. I lean in closer. 'I'm waiting.'
'We were lovers for a week or so. Then he left. I got over it quick – it wasn't anything serious. Then people started turning up looking for him. Well I knew Girondé, so I told Marty that I'd deal with it. He pays me a fee each month and then a large sum each time I have to make a call. I pay Girondé out of that.'
'So where does Marty live?'
She looks away. I take her chin in my hand and force her face back to the front. She fixes me with an evil look, wishing me a thousand deaths but knowing none of them would come soon enough to help her. I release her chin, take out a cigarette and light it. 'So where does he live?'
'I don't know exactly – down south in a village called Vaour. There can't be more than twenty people live there, I'm sure.'
I grab her arm and drag her into the bedroom. From there I take up the picture of her with her parents. Removing the picture I throw the frame onto the bed.
'First thing we are going to do is ring your folks. You better give me the number, as I'll be doing the dialling. Then we will call Girondé – tell him there has been a mistake and you are cancelling the contract – you will pay him anyway. Then I will go. If anything should happen to me then this photograph will be sent to the police along with my case notes. Even a Parisian flic will be able to build a case from that. I'll give you twenty-four hours to leave town.'
I don't have much else to threaten her with – but if she keeps the photograph on her bedside table she must think highly of her folks. When I look in her eyes I can see her measuring the angles, trying to work out an escape route. She agrees to my demands. What else could she do?
I march her down to the telephone in the café on the corner. First, I call her parents – an old woman answers and I hand Legrand the telephone. For two minutes I listen to her tell her mother about the weather and how well she is doing in her job. I write their number on the back of the photograph. Then she calls Girondé. I listen in and there is some arguing on the other side. The problem that end - they have already dispatched two people to kill me. I know where one of them is so I'd better keep a look out for the other; must be the fidgety guy with the knife. Legrand argues and they agree to recall them, but with no guarantees. That'll have to be enough. I nod and she agrees with Girondé. I'd love to turn her in, but right now that would be too big a risk. She scurries off the moment I release her arm. I doubt she'll drag her escape out over the entire twenty-four hours. I head for the Métro.
Somewhere on my street, a man is waiting for me; waiting for the chance to stick his knife in my back. He doesn't know what I look like, which gives me a chance. I walk on the opposite side of the road from my apartment. Trying to appear disinterested, I peer into all the dark doorways and stairwells. I walk on past the apartment without seeing a soul. There's no way Girondé could have gotten word to recall him already. Two houses down I hear a cough. I spin round to look but there's nobody there. I know a spot further up the road where I can hide out and keep an eye on the apartment. Forty minutes pass before an auto drives up and pauses outside my place. A shadowy figure approaches the driver's window and then gets in the auto. They speed away and I push off from my spot to have a word with Pascal.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The traps! They completely slipped my mind. That would be a treat for Megan: me lying at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck and Pascal dead from starvation in the wardrobe. Maybe he wouldn't be dead; Megan will be back on Monday morning. I'm certain a grown man can survive for three days without food. How long can he last without water? None of this matters as I'm not at the bottom of the stairs and all the tripwires have now been cut.
Thankfully, Pascal has not soiled himself in my wardrobe. He looks like an overgrown puppy, jumping up and down in his chair making whining noises and looking at me with his big brown eyes. I drag the chair out into the room and make a show of checking my revolver is loaded. If Pascal is anything like me he'll have spent the last few hours imagining all the things he is going to do to me, none of them nice.
'There are two or three ways we can do this,' I say. 'More if we include torture. I could hit you on the head and dump your unconscious body out into the street. I could throw you in the river – I know what you're thinking, but I'd make sure there was nothing between you and the water. Or I could take out your gag and release you here. You could get up and walk outside without making a fuss. That way I won't have any awkward explaining to do, and you won't have a fractured skull or lungs filled with slurry.'
Being caught and tied up will have hurt his pride. At this moment he'd probably sell his sister to avenge himself on me. He'd probably sell his sister for a pack of American cigarettes – if she's anything like him that's a good deal. I'd better sleep with the gun under my pillow from now on.
Pascal nods his head to signify agreement. He splutters as I pull the sock from his mouth. The spluttering is followed by obscenities. The sock goes back in. He struggles frantically with the ropes as if blind rage could loosen them. And what if you do loosen them, Pascal? I'll shoot you in the guts before you even realise you're free.
I give the chair a kick which topples it over. Pascal continues his struggle like a keen but inept Houdini. Not wanting to interrupt a man so engrossed in his work, I sit on the bed and light a cigarette. Closing my eyes I can imagine that there's a badger snuffling around the room, rather than a man tied to a chair with a sock in his mouth.
With the cigarette finished I haul Pascal back to the upright and remove the sock. This time he has the sense to stay silent. I keep the revolver trained on his back as I free his legs and arms. He tries to stand but collapses on the floor instead. Well, he won't come at me until the circulation returns, by which time he will be back in Montmartre and Girondé can take care of him.
I grab him by the shoulders and pull him to his feet. He explains what he'll do when we next meet. Without going in to all the various intricate details, he plans to cut out my liver and eat it. I allow him to go on like this for six or seven seconds before I shove him into the door frame. By releasing him all I'm doing is delaying the day when I'll have to kill him. Or the day he kills me.
From the doorway I frogmarch him to the top of the stairs. One push and he'll tumble down; all I'd have to do is finish the job if he survives. But that way I'll never be rid of him.
'You can see the door – use it once and you'll live. Use it twice and you'll die.'
I sit on the top step and watch him leave – a wild animal released into the jungle. Thoughts fire through my head, warning me I've made a fatal mistake.
He slams the door behind him and I dart to the living room window. Pascal looks briefly at the house before staggering off into the night. I remain at the window smoking a cigarette. People pass by underneath, alone or in small groups. The sound of men singing echoes from one of the side streets – making the most this Saturday night.
In case I'd forgotten, my eyes are reminding me; I've been awake for twenty hours and that was on the back of three hours' sleep. They are starting to sting and refusing to remain open. I go to the bedroom and lie on the bed in my shirt and trousers. The gun under the pillow is uncomfortable so I place it on the bedside table. The moonlight decorates my room with expressionist shadows. Exhausted, my mind is re-running scenes form Nosferatu. I'd much rather it had picked The Jazz Singer - I could have sung along.
*
Why didn't I kill Girondé? If ever a man deserved a knife in the ribs it was him. Perhaps I'm off the hook; or perhaps not, there will always be someone in his sights. They ought to hand out medals for killing men like him. Not that I'd have hung around to collect mine.
And Pascal, what will he do now? He's probably in some Montmartre dive trying to get a gun especially for me. Perhaps he'll round up one or two pals and make a party of it. If he tries that then Girondé might get wind of it and stop him. I'm putting a lot of stock in Girondé - a man who kills for profit.
If Pascal hasn't made an attempt on my life in the next twenty-four hours then there's a chance he won't come at all, unless I accidentally happen across him in a dark alley. The next few hours will be the most dangerous.
The light grows dimmer. The shadows lose their shape and take over my room by creeping up the walls and crossing the ceiling. The German officer I'd killed keeps coming in to my head, interspersed with images of Girondé. Blood drips from his mouth. His eyes are black voids filled with the stars which used to shine over No Man's Land. I can hear the sound of the artillery letting go a barrage from way behind the German lines. A snake with a dagger between its teeth is winding along the trench.
I've had nights like this before – so many of them in Saint-Denis and a fair few in London – they never end well. I ought to get up and stick my head in a basin of cold water. After that I should grab a bottle of whisky and start hitting it until it hits me back. That way I can spend the night unconscious and not have to endure these dead faces.
