The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  My father knew that something was wrong immediately I arrived at the shop. We sat in the office and he let me talk.

  Putting the events into words again brought back the trembling. I felt stupid that I was unable to relate what had happened without becoming emotional. A few years before my father wouldn’t have listened to me so sympathetically or without interruption. However, since moving to Paris he seemed to have mellowed.

  When I had finished, he ran his fingers through his long, grey hair and nodded. He lit a cigarette and I waited for him to say something. Then he got up from his chair and patted me on the shoulder. Almost absent-mindedly, he asked:

  ‘The man who’d been looking in the shop window... was he one of our regular customers?’

  ‘He looked like he ought to be.’

  My father frowned. Before I could say anything he said:

  ‘I know you’re embarrassed by the shop. But I rely on British customers just as much as English-speaking Parisians. It doesn’t matter whether they’re tourists or ex-pats.’

  ‘But do you really need the Union Jack on the shop sign and stationery?’

  ‘I suppose you think they’re the last refuge of the scoundrel? No doubt you see yourself as “cosmopolitan”, rather than allied to any particular country?’

  I couldn’t answer him directly because the accusations were correct. I said:

  ‘The man annoyed me because he was reinforcing a stereotype.’

  This all seemed to be beside the point, but perhaps there was nothing my father could have said in reply to my account of the abduction.

  As the day slowly passed I thought about the man with the cane, and wondered if my attempt to live in Paris was an affectation of its own; I had only followed my father across the Channel because I couldn’t stay in London with my mother after what had happened. I also had a newly acquired English degree but didn’t know what I wanted to do with it. If I was lonely in Paris, then at least it was a challenge to live in another country. In London I’d have been resentful.

  After work, habit directed me on my usual route home, towards the Passage des Abbesses. It felt strange going down the steps, alongside the tourists, only to discover that there was nothing at all to be seen in the square. It was busy and people passed by without even realising that it had been the scene of a crime. I wanted to ask them where they had been twenty-four hours before.

  For several days I heard nothing of the abduction, and was happy for it to be that way. The shop was busy during the day, and in the evenings there was a week-long season of early Polanski films at the cinema on the rue Tholozé. For four nights my dreams moved away from the abduction and back to Corrina, but then, on the Monday morning, I saw the front page of Le Figaro.

  My father passed me the newspaper reluctantly, uncertain of my reaction. Prominently displayed was the photograph that the policeman had shown me. I wasn’t wearing my spectacles, but I could see, clearly enough, that the young couple were sitting together on the grass, grinning at the camera. Her lip and nose were pierced, while he had a number of studs in his ears. He was wearing a striped shirt and shorts, and she had on a white summer dress and clips in her bright pink hair. I hadn’t noticed the details when I’d seen the photograph before, but it was certainly the same one. The opening paragraph of the report stated that the naked bodies of Stefan and Camille Martischewsky had been pulled out of the Seine the previous day. There were unconfirmed reports that they had been tortured before being shot. I could read no further.

  The morning passed slowly, although I worked furiously, arranging, rearranging, and dusting sections of bookshelves. That afternoon I took my father’s car to collect a few lots that we had won at an auction over the weekend. Although I had learned to drive in London, Paris traffic always seemed more aggressive, and it took all my concentration to navigate to and from the auction house, and not to add to the dents in the car. However, even when my thoughts were determinedly on driving, the word ‘tortured’ kept repeating itself in my mind. I did everything I could not to think about it, but still the couple’s faces appeared before me. I didn’t see them as they were in the photograph, happy and with no idea of their fate, or even how they had looked naked, bound and thrown into the back of the van. Their faces were presented to me as they had been in my dream; close and staring into my eyes, asking for help.

  It was just after two o’clock that night when I woke up from a nightmare in which they were tied to chairs in a dark, underground room. I watched something happening to them, but was relieved not to be able to remember quite what it was. I woke up sweating and ashamed, because in my dream I’d somehow been colluding in their torture. In my dream Corrina was there as well.

  Television provided a balm that night. Sitting in the living room I tried to watch an inane series of late-night programmes. I didn’t want to go back to sleep, but frequently succumbed to fitful dozing

  III

  The parcel that had been delivered to the shop was well-wrapped. Under the brown paper was cardboard, a layer of bubble-wrap, and then plain white paper enfolding each of the individual Puffin books. They had been ordered for a customer, and I was preoccupied with checking them against the invoice when someone came in through the door.

  I looked up and said ‘Bonjour’, taking in the man’s slightly square features and manicured appearance before I realised where I had seen him before.

  ‘Good morning,’ he replied in English. ‘Do you, by any chance, sell Folio Society books?’

  ‘Reluctantly, yes.’

  ‘Why reluctantly?’

  ‘Well, we have a preference for first editions.’

  ‘I don’t understand? I mean, the Folio Society have only ever published classics, and they’re beautifully designed. How can you fault them?’

  ‘I can’t, but their books will always be reprints, albeit very nice ones....’ It seemed obvious that this was not the real reason for his visit. ‘You were in the Passage des Abbesses last week, when the abduction occurred.’

  He casually fixed my eyes with his own. The irises were bright blue, though the whites were unpleasantly yellowed and slightly bloodshot:

  ‘Yes, and you were there too.’

  ‘But you walked away. I had to call the police.’

  ‘That was very public-spirited of you.’

  ‘I couldn’t be of much help to them. I couldn’t identify the people with balaclavas, or the van. But I know the police would like to talk to other witnesses, like you.’

  ‘I’m sure they would. But I’d only be able to give them the same information as you. We were both some distance away after all, and I expect your eyesight is better than mine.’

  ‘You really ought to go to the police. I told them there was another witness. I gave them your description.’

  ‘Did you? Well, I’m sure they’ll have more important things to do than look for me.’

  I was angry with him: ‘The people who were taken that day were tortured before they were murdered. Their bodies were found floating in the Seine. Don’t you read the newspapers?’

  ‘That really is very unfortunate. It’s probably all the more reason why we should both stay out of it. I mean, there are things that go on under the surface of any city...’ His tone was measured and his words carefully chosen. He nodded gravely: ‘I admire your sense of duty.’

  After a pause he said, ‘My name is Reginald Hopper.’ He drew a card from out of an inside pocket and passed it to me. ‘I live on the rue St Vincent. If you really feel the need to give my name to the police then please do so. I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but the choice is yours. In the meantime, are you interested in selling me any books?’

  ‘What are you after?’

  ‘The Bird Paintings of Henry Guthrie by Bruce Campbell. It was published by the Folio Society. It’s their edition that I want, if that doesn’t offend your sensibilities too much?’

  ‘I don’t think we have it.’

  ‘I thought it unlikely. It was limited t
o only 500 copies. It’s always eluded me for some reason.’

  My offer was made unwillingly: ‘We can undertake a search and let you know how much we’d charge. There’d be no commitment to buy.’

  ‘Thank you. But tell me why, exactly, you would favour a first edition over a Folio Society reprint? Especially if the reprint is better designed, bound and illustrated.’

  I’d been working with my father long enough to have the answer ready:

  ‘It’s the thrill of finding a book exactly as the author and the public first saw it. It’s how the publisher first issued it, after reading and liking the manuscript, probably with no idea whether it would be any kind of success.’

  I didn’t want to be talking of books, but had to explain:

  ‘If I’m to be honest, I don’t like any institution that tells me what books I should be reading. I’d prefer to make the decision myself. People who collect just Folio Society editions often do so with the idea that it implies they’ve got taste.’

  I was feeling belligerent.

  ‘Well,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m a Folio Society completist.’

  ‘The world would be a dull place,’ I replied weakly, ‘if we all shared the same taste.’

  He laughed, repeated the title of the book he wanted, and left in apparent good humour. As the door closed behind him, my father appeared from the back of the shop.

  ‘That’s really quite extraordinary...’ I started to say, staring at Hopper’s card. ‘A man’s just been in enquiring after a book…’

  ‘So he was the other witness? I decided not to interrupt you; I could hear what you were saying.’

  ‘Yes, and he obviously doesn’t give a damn about that poor couple!’

  ‘That’s up to him, I suppose. But I agree, it’s odd.’ He took the card. ‘Reginald Hopper, eh?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No, but I think he must be the man that Sebastian Bertrand, the bouquiniste, sells Folio Society editions to. According to Bertrand, Hopper spends a lot of money. It’d be nice to pick him up as a customer. Bertrand met Hopper at some literary event and talked him into buying a whole lot of Folio Society books that he hadn’t been able to shift. The Bird Paintings of Henry Guthrie, eh? I’ll make some enquiries.’

  I went back to the parcel of Puffin books and the door opened again. I took a couple of seconds before looking up with my usual ‘Bonjour’. In that brief moment I identified the perfume and was sufficiently alert to recognise the woman who had entered.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she said. ‘But you’re English?’

  ‘Yes, and so are you.’

  I was struck again by her resemblance to Corrina, but it was superficial; close up, and with the opportunity to appraise her properly, she appeared too fragile, and with dark-shadowed eyes. Her heavily made-up face was over-long, tapering to a small chin. She had a slight northern-English accent and was wearing the coat I had seen her in before. She was a shabby, cut-price Corrina and I despised her for it.

  ‘It’s a morning of coincidences,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Last week, in the Passage des Abbesses, there was an abduction. I passed you on the steps just before it happened.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you were probably too far away to see what happened. But our last customer was in the Passage at exactly the same time. I was standing right alongside him when it happened. By chance, he left here only a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s really a coincidence,’ she said slowly. ‘You see, I know Reginald Hopper.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Why was he here?’

  ‘He wants us to find a book for him.’

  She considered this, and then said, ‘You called the police about the abduction?’

  ‘Of course. It’s what most people would’ve done, surely? Not that Hopper was interested. He just walked away.’

  ‘But you told the police what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you tell them about Hopper?’

  ‘I said there was another witness, but I didn’t have his name then.’

  ‘Now you know who he is, you must tell the police.’

  ‘Why’s it of any interest to you?’ Even without her mocking resemblance to Corina she would have started to irritate me.

  ‘I know Hopper, and I think they should be told he was there, in the Passage, when it happened.’

  ‘He gave me his card, so I assume he’s got nothing to hide.’

  She laughed unconvincingly. Her hands had been moving restlessly as we spoke and she now clasped them to her chest. They were long and elegant, but the fingernails were badly-bitten.

  I asked, ‘Would you be prepared to give a statement?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. As you said, I was too far away.’

  ‘But I saw you running up the steps. You must have known that something had gone on.’

  ‘I was just getting out of the way of Hopper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s my business. Please, tell the police that he was there.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ I said, and slowly walked around the counter. I wasn’t going to physically prevent her from going out of the door, but I’d have liked to make it hard for her to leave without explaining herself. However, she had already started to back away.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I saw two people being violently abducted. It was horrible. And they’ve since been found dead. I don’t mind admitting that I’ve had nightmares about the whole thing.’

  I tried moving forward again, but she retreated once more. Her hands were moving, uncertain whether to reach for the door, or perhaps be ready to push me away.

  ‘Why don’t we both go to the police?’ I said. ‘I mean, if it’s so important to tell them Hopper was there.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have reasons, good reasons.’

  ‘But we’re talking about murder! If you have information you are the one who should be making a statement.’

  ‘There are reasons why I can’t.’

  ‘If I should tell them about him, perhaps I should also tell them about you?’

  ‘But I’ve not told you my name.’

  ‘If you want me to believe that he had something to do with it...’

  As she moved towards the door it opened and Mrs Travers entered. The younger woman had to step aside and Mrs Travers looked at the two of us suspiciously before asking, ‘Have my Puffins come in?’ She was a large woman with an upper-class accent, and I always found her intimidating.

  ‘They’ve just arrived.’

  The young woman in the black coat took the opportunity to slip out of the door. I had to find the courage to say to Mrs Travers, ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  Outside, I could see her walking quickly away up the narrow street.

  ‘Hey, I will tell them about you!’ I called.

  She stopped and turned around unwillingly.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ Her eyes were large and pleading. ‘Tell them about Hopper, and I’ll come and explain it all to you another time. Please. I promise I will explain.’

  IV

  Parisian officialdom of any sort has always worried me; there never seems to be any sincerity in the allowances they have to make for a foreigner. The policeman who took Hopper’s card from me that afternoon at the commissariat made a note and promised to pass it on to the investigating officer. He smiled blandly and returned to his paperwork. I would have told him about the woman as well; I certainly hadn’t fallen for the pathetic look in her eyes. But the man gave me the impression that I was wasting his time.

  I returned to the shop to find it empty of customers, and my father sitting at the counter reading the newspaper.

  ‘You told them all about Mr Hopper?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t seem to care.’

  ‘I suppose he was right. If he was standing next to you he wouldn’t have seen any more than you did.’r />
  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But I expect they’ll follow it up. They have procedures; they’ll need to cover themselves. It is a murder investigation, after all.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but I was made to feel like I was wasting their time.’

  ‘That young woman who came into the shop after him…’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I only saw her through the office door, but I’d been trying to think who she reminded me of. It’s your Corrina…’

  ‘We agreed that we wouldn’t mention Corrina.’

  ‘We did,’ he said, and sighed before saying, ‘Well, my news is that I’ve tracked down two copies of The Bird Paintings of Henry Guthrie. It’s an odd book, published in association with the Zoological Society of London in 1976. Walter Hudson has a fine copy for a couple of hundred pounds.’

  ‘For a Folio Society edition? Blimey.’

  ‘There were only five hundred copies printed. It seems to’ve been a first edition in its own right, rather than one of their reprints.’

  I yawned and my father said: ‘Why don’t you knock off now. Go home and try and get a decent night’s sleep without the aid of alcohol.’

  I decided to take advantage of his suggestion. Out of habit, when I left the shop I glanced up and down the road in case there were any potential customers. Instead, I recognised the young woman with the long black coat. She had turned away, but not quite quick enough. It was amusing to think of her as an elongated caricature of the old women in black who could still be seen on the Paris streets, apparently oblivious to the modern world around them.