by Seth Lynch
I move swiftly, timing my interception well. Stefan is fumbling in his pockets for his keys. He notices me standing next to him and does his best to pretend he hasn't. I follow him into the apartment as he puts the key in the lock. Without any conviction he attempts to shut the door on me.
The apartment is filthy. The grime on the cracked windows shuts out the scant light on offer today. Two chairs appear to have been discarded near a wooden table. The walls are bare and haven't been painted this century. Mould grows in the corners and the place feels damp. Empty tins of food sit around with forks still in them. The linoleum floor is strewn with old newspapers and old clothes. The mess is covering the holes in the floorboards. Altogether it's not too much better than my old place in Saint-Denis.
'A bit of a shit hole you have here, Stefan.'
'If you don't like it, the door is there. I never invited you in anyway.'
He turns to look at the door or simply away from me. I light a cigarette. I offer him one which he takes. He doesn't light it. His hair looks greasier than I remember. It hangs lank and lifeless over his face. Dandruff rests on the shoulders of his stained and tatty jacket. Marks down the front could be yoghurt, bird-shit, or semen. The trousers look shiny, cheap, and worn out. He looks a lot worse than when I last saw him.
'Have you washed since we last met?'
'I washed my cuts and bruises.'
'You know, Stefan, I want to apologise.' As I speak I feel a sudden remorse hit me in the stomach. 'Yes, in fact I really do. I'm sorry. I treated you badly and without good cause.'
'Thanks. Now can you go?'
'You're still in love with her, aren't you?'
'Fuck off, monsieur Salazar.'
'All right, I shall. Before I go I want to ask you a question. Do you imagine a woman like Marie would want you? The only woman who'd look twice at you is a hooker while deciding if you are worth the money. You stink; you are a foul and dirty creature. To be honest, you turn my stomach.'
'I thank you once more for your apology.'
'Let me do something. Let me get someone to clean up this dung heap of an apartment. We'll go out and get you cleaned up. If Marie is going to turn you down let her at least know what she is missing.'
'I don't really want to be pally with you, monsieur Salazar.'
'I don't blame you. But ask yourself: if I were Marie, would I rather be with a repugnant Stefan or a clean and presentable Stefan. Does she really want to walk down the street hand-in-hand with Quasimodo's little brother?'
'I judge people by what they are, not what they look like. Appearance is vanity, a superficial disguising of the soul.'
'All right, you win. I'm going to the café opposite for about an hour. If you want my help, come over. If not, then please accept my apologies once more.'
I don't have a backup plan. If Stefan doesn't come then I'll never find out why Marie wanted to find Marty. That will annoy me on occasion but it's an annoyance I can live with. Actually, I think I do want him to come so I can make it up to him. He'll never get anywhere with Marie but, if he smartens up, maybe he'll catch the eye of some other girl. I ought not to feel too guilty about him. I gave him that beating before my change of heart about violence. I can't go back in time and guilt is such a destructive emotion. So long as I never do it again, that is all that can be gained from it. Besides, I never have a backup plan.
Now that I think of it most of my planning never crawls above the level of instinct. Although this case is as good as over it would be wrong of me to carry on working this way. Unfair on me, and on my clients. If I decide to carry on with detective work I shall garner Megan's help and start planning my actions out in advance. I might not solve the cases any quicker but it might keep me out of trouble.
The bell above the café door tinkles. Stefan sits down opposite me in a state of high agitation while affecting a sulk.
'If you can help me with Marie then I'll forgive you.'
I speak to the café owner and within twenty minutes two old Breton women are sent to clean Stefan's apartment. I pay twice what they asked as I know what's in store for them.
I walk my greasy shadow down to the public baths. After a good scrubbing I tell him to apply a serious dose of Eau de Cologne. Most of the strange odours which hang about him are now gone. Once his hair is cleaned we oil it to keep it off his face. I have to explain the difference between the fragrant oil I was using and the oil that comes from not washing. He doesn't sound convinced. I'm not too sure I am either.
The scrubbing can't disguise the hideous clothes he is wearing. They will always be bad - in fact I'm not certain they would survive a launder. We journey to the centre of Paris and a gentleman's outfitters I use.
The shop window is crowded with mannequins wearing smart suits and dapper top hats. Silver-topped walking canes and elegant umbrellas complete their equipage. Inside there is a long table draped with cloth. There is a whole range of colour on display – from black to charcoal grey. I normally go for their less common colours, like pale blue, myself.
The assistant grins broadly and opens his arms in a gesture of welcome. The smile and arms drop when he catches sight of the kid lurking behind me. The assistant is reluctant to measure Stefan, afraid to touch his filthy clothes. I explain what we are after as the assistant stands, hesitant, with a tape measure dangling from his fingers. Somewhere in the void of his mind he places a set of scales; on the one side he puts the money from the sale and on the other he places Stefan's soiled garments.
'What exactly will sir be requiring?' he asks.
'This man is going to need the lot; vests; shirts; collars; a formal suit; a day suit; two pairs of shoes; and some tennis shoes. Have you got anything you can have ready for him in the next two hours?'
'It would not be our best, sir. We could not actually make a suit in that time.'
'Take a good look at him - he doesn't need your best. Your worst would be better than that lot. I want him out of those clothes and in something vaguely presentable by the close of play today.'
'Very good, sir.'
'Now go and fetch him something he can wear now. Fetch them from anywhere. I don't want him in these rags any longer. In fact, Stefan, you go in there and undress. Take anything you want to keep from your pockets and then throw your clothes out over here. You,' I say turning to the assistant, 'gather up the clothes and burn them. I don't want to hear anything else from either of you until this man is outfitted well enough for me to be seen with.'
We leave the outfitters with Stefan looking quite smart and devoid of his disagreeable odours. At some point it goes beyond getting him a few things to say sorry and turns into a project in its own right. Already I've spent significantly more than I'll get from Marie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There are a few restaurants in Paris that don't dish up flesh. Then there are the anarchist syndicates which serve food for strict vegetarians – nice and cheap, but you do your own washing up. Stefan makes a fuss about not having meat. I ignore him and order for us both. The food arrives and he wolfs it down before complaining again.
We head over to a café for a moment of reflection. He looks presentable in his new clothes. Even his finger nails have lost their grime. To top it all he is smiling. He's not as ugly as I first thought him and he wouldn't look out of place on Marie's arm. However, I doubt he'll ever breach the absolute distance she maintains from other people. Two young ladies are casting Stefan favourable glances. I feel like Professor Higgins.
'I found Marty you know,' I say.
'Who is Marty?'
No one gives a detective a straight answer – conversations are games of give and take. I follow the protocol, like the dance of a scorpion before the sting.
'Marty is the man Marie hired me to find.'
'Tell her he's dead.'
'Interesting idea,' I say. 'Do you think she will be satisfied by that or will she want to visit his grave?'
'Te
ll her you can't find him. I'll get a job and pay you the money you lose on the case. Or you can keep the new clothes and make it up to me that way instead.'
'First, you might explain why I should tell my client all these lies.'
'From what I can fathom the man is a... better not use that word here. She doesn't talk about him, but I have found out a few things. I think they were lovers, when they lived in Belgium. One day he deserted her. I think he used to knock her about a bit too. Whatever it is she wants from him it will bring no good. Please listen to me; don't tell her where he is.'
Stefan holds my arm and fixes my eye like the ancient mariner. He and the mariner share a similar obsessive madness.
'I'll tell you what, Stefan; I'm going to see her now and you can tag along. If she needs someone, you'll be there. And look at you now; your shoulder is all nice and clean so she can cry on it without contracting Weil's disease.'
Stefan shows me a few shortcuts on the way over to Marie's. He also makes a few more attempts to change my mind. Eventually I warn him that I'll leave him behind if he doesn't stop whining. He sulks instead – I can take that, it's silent. On reaching the apartment I send Stefan over to the café Gondoles. Then I press her bell.
'Monsieur Salazar, come in.'
She holds the door open and waves her arm to guide me in. On my last visit she'd ushered me straight across to the café – this time I get to see her apartment. The cooking area and living are all one room. She has a long purple couch which sits under the window. The good quality of the item has told out; the thing has worn well. A wooden coffee table makes up most of the rest of the furniture. On the wall two paintings catch my eye. The first is a Dada montage. Not a bad one either – I wonder if she did it herself. The other looks like a painting by Otto Dix. I don't want to delay things by inspecting the signature. I wouldn't be able to tell if it were faked anyway.
'Sit anywhere, monsieur Salazar.' She makes a sweep of the room with her arm.
'You don't need the monsieur, remember.'
'You can still sit anywhere.'
She has taken the sofa so I sit opposite her on the coffee table. I can't see any other chairs.
'I have found your man. He lives near a village called Vaour. It's the middle of nowhere.'
'Nowhere?'
'He has a farmhouse a few kilometres from the village. The village is small and there are no nearby towns. The middle of nowhere. Marty himself is ill – Parkinson's.'
'Good. How much?'
'How much what?'
'Do I owe you?'
'I'm not sure off the top of my head. There was the trip to Vaour and a few minor expenses. I'll send you a bill.'
'I have seven hundred francs in the bedroom.'
'That will do then.'
She walks to her bedroom, returning with a roll of notes. 'You should send me the full bill – and deduct this from the total. Could you write down his address please?'
She walks over to a bureau and fetches some paper which she hands to me. I write the address and draw a map as she stands over me. She is trembling and has now lit a cigarette. I'm beginning to think that Stefan was right. None of my business I guess. 'And now I'll bid you good day, Salazar.'
'May I ask what you intend to do?'
'No. I am grateful to you. I really am grateful. I'll try to pay your bill promptly. Gustave Marty is a part of my private life and I don't discuss my private life.'
She has that look, the defiance she had when we first met. I'm not interested in the sordid details of their relationship. I reckon the kid summed it up pretty well; he's quite an insightful devil.
I take a long look at her before saying goodbye. This will be the last time I see her. I'm starting to get that satisfied feeling again. I can't wait to get home and tell Megan all about it.
On leaving the apartment I wave over at Stefan who leaves the cafe and scampers across the road. I don't wait for him; I walk off up the rue Cavendish to the Métro. Everything feels as if it is in the right place. I find that disturbing. In chess we call it Zugzwang - if everything is in the right place, and you must move, things won't be in the right place any longer. If things don't move they grow stale and rot, the right place will cease to be right. Ah, the train, come to save me from these pervasive doubts.
I take the Métro to Stefan's apartment and pick up my bicycle, then I cycle home. Looks like Megan has been living here; her things are in the kitchen and the bedroom. Would be nice if she were here herself. Feeling done in I lie on the bed and fall asleep.
I wake in the early evening. Almost as soon as I put the coffee on Megan arrives. We embrace - she squeezes me so hard my ribs hurt.
'Did you see my note?' she asks.
'No. I found Marty. I've been over to tell Marie, my client. It's all over, and I did it.'
'I always knew you could.'
'What note were you talking about?'
'You won't need it now. Someone named mademoiselle Sordine called. She said you left her your card.'
'That's right. She was Marty's secretary at Lacman Brothers. I'll give her a ring and let her know I found him.'
'She doesn't have a telephone. She was using a public one. You could send her a telegram.'
'I wanted this to be over.' I take a sip from my coffee. 'I'll tell you what. I'll go and see her. Then I'll pick up some champagne on the way back. Have you seen Filatre?'
'Erm, he's gone to England.' She looks over at the floor as she speaks.
'England? What on Earth for?'
'Personal reasons.'
'Personal reasons? What are you going on about?'
'He's a really nice chap, Reggie.'
'Yes he is. Why has he gone to England?'
'Well, I'm not a detective but I imagine he has gone to seduce your Aunt Bess.'
'The little...well good luck to him.'
'So get a move on, Reggie. I want that champagne.'
Cycling over to mademoiselle Sordine's part of town doesn't feel as bad as it did when I went on the Métro. When you walk or cycle the city changes slowly as you pass from district to district. The Métro is a monotonous tunnel which spews you, without ceremony, onto the streets above.
This area of Paris, apart from being disgustingly bourgeoisie, is a place I would never ordinarily visit. Why travel this far from Paris without then leaving it all together? If I was coming from the other direction, why get this close to Paris without going all the way in? What's the point of these places that are nearly in the city but not?
I arrive at Sordine's apartment block and leave my bicycle in the lobby. I notice the concierge in her little observation booth, observing me. I say, 'Sordine' and wink at her as I head up the stairs. Before I reach the top Sordine appears on the stairwell.
'Monsieur Salazar?'
'Yes, mademoiselle Sordine?'
'Yes, do come up.'
Sordine is a slight woman in her mid-forties. Her eyebrows have been erased and then drawn in again as if she'd had second thoughts about removing them. Her hair is pale brown and wavy. Something is holding it off her face. Perhaps it is willpower or hidden wires. She has a sleek dress – a few years old but holding its own. The cardigan is there for comfort and warmth. It certainly isn't there for style. She has naked legs ending in comfortable slippers.
I meet her at the top of the stairs. We shake hands and she ushers me into the apartment. The building, although centuries old, has been refurbished in the last few years. Her rooms have been decorated like a Victorian parlour. Dark, heavy drapes cover the windows. Satin cloth covers small tables which overflow with delicate, ugly, paraphernalia. The dark wallpaper in the hall and living room lends the place a timeless quality. The sun has been permanently excluded – one way to avoid disappointment on a day like today.
'Monsieur Salazar, may I ask, you seem to be English?'
She holds her hand out towards an armchair which I sink into.
'Yes, I am Engli
sh.'
'My dear departed grandparents were English. They moved to Paris not long after the Prussians left. I myself attended a school in England. Have you ever been to Cheltenham?'
Sordine has switched to speaking English. There is no trace of a French accent – only the over-emphasised tones of a Cheltenham school girl. Despite her reserve she exudes a certain warmth. At first glance I thought she was much older than she evidently is. Now I can see her face and hands I would place her closer to thirty than forty. There are no obvious wrinkles and her eyes almost sparkle. She has a sympathetic face which is pretty in its way. In a different era she would be happily married; in this one she will die a spinster.
Before I get the chance to speak she shuffles off to make lemon tea. I sit and listen to her pottering about. After five minutes she returns with a China tea set on a silver tray.
'Miss Sordine, I asked to see you about your old boss, Mr Marty...'
'I know, you said so in your note. I have been thinking it over. At first I didn't want to talk about him, didn't want to stir it all up again. Then I decided, no! I have been hiding from what happened for too long. Trying to pretend it isn't true. And seeing you, Mr Salazar, and as you are an Englishman like my dear Grandpa, I think I can tell you.'
Oh, God. What have I let myself in for?
'Do, please, go on,' I say.
'I will say it straight out loud.'
She has stopped talking, summoning the strength to continue. I feel uneasy - after all I don't need this information. There is something she wants to get off her chest and I'm in the firing line. She looks over at the fireplace. She's losing her impetus.
'Please continue, Miss Sordine. You don't really know me, so say what you want. Everything will be taken in the strictest confidence.'
I lean over, take her hand, and hold it gently.
'I find it hard to say it without remembering it. The truth is, he forced his attentions on me.'
