The Dark Return of Time

by R. B. Russell

  As we reached the library door the first man arrived with a tray bearing my tea. The two exchanged confused glances and within a few seconds I was in the room, alone. This time I was able to eavesdrop on the discussion. Handley was demanding an explanation.

  I started to tremble just as I had done when I’d witnessed the abduction in the Passage des Abbesses. The way that I had been taken hold of reminded me of the way that the men in the balaclavas had held the naked couple. It had been a powerful enough grip, but I knew that there was much more strength there if required. Handley had done his job with an assurance similar to that of the men in the Passage. In comparing the height of both of Hopper’s men, with their broad shoulders and muscular build, with those I’d seen at the abduction, they were too similar for it to be a coincidence. I felt a sudden need to sit down.

  I had been a fool, creeping down the hallway towards the mysterious voices like some character from an Enid Blyton adventure. I had been so sure of myself, not only because of a naïve sense of right and wrong, but due to a stupid belief in my own invulnerability. But now I was sure that the men in the house were also those from the Passage, it would imply that Candy had been telling the truth; Hopper had been behind the abduction, torture and deaths. And if he had burnt down Candy’s building, probably with her inside, what might he do to me?

  I waited with a sense of mounting dread. I had to sit down, but my shaking would not stop. I decided that if Hopper did not arrive within five minutes I would get up and try to leave. I took deep breaths, trying to keep calm. I thought through my exit and rehearsed the words I would use if challenged by his men. Perhaps, I considered, it might be a good time to return to England. Suddenly the idea of being safe, even living with my mother, was very tempting.

  The second-hand on my watch moved slowly, and the minute hand apparently not at all. Before my self-imposed time limit was up, there were footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and Hopper entered, alone. He appeared to be calm.

  ‘What did you overhear?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied. I knew how defensive I sounded, and how tremulous my voice was. ‘I was just waiting for you, looking at the pictures in the corridor, when one of your thugs grabbed me and frog-marched me back in here.’

  ‘I apologise. He knew you were here about the books and thought it odd that you were wandering around the house.’

  I couldn’t answer that, and didn’t try to. Instead, I pointed to the small parcel on his desk: ‘I brought you the first edition of The Horse’s Mouth.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he smiled, slightly absently. ‘You can take away the Folio Society copy now.’

  He handed me my glasses and picked up the parcel from the desk. He couldn’t resist opening it.

  ‘You referred to Handley and Franklin as my “thugs”,’ he said, taking the book out and putting it on the arm of his chair after only a cursory glance. ‘The description’s not inappropriate. But what worries me is the way your mind seems to be working at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’ I tried to affect calmness.

  ‘From here I can almost see the cogs whirring in your brain, the tumblers moving into place. And I know exactly who’s set your thoughts in this odd direction. I do understand your suspicions.’

  I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘Candy was sure you set up the abduction.’

  ‘In the Passage des Abbesses? Yes, that’s exactly how her mind works, sadly.’

  ‘She told me you were involved. And now her apartment’s been burnt out, with her in it.’

  An expression of annoyance crossed his face, at which point fear gripped my chest. He considered his reply for a few seconds.

  ‘There’s been a fire at Candy’s apartment?’

  ‘It was gutted.’

  ‘And they’ve found her body?’

  ‘No, well, we assume it’ll be in there.’

  ‘Who’s assuming that?’

  ‘The fireman, the police....’

  He shook his head gravely: ‘I’d like to think you’re wrong. I’ll do what I can to find out. But do you really believe I arranged for her to be killed?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘I know that you don’t like the relationship I have with Candy. Neither do I. Don’t you think I could have simply told the authorities where to find her? Then she’d have been sent back to England.

  ‘I’m involved in many businesses, Flavian. I like making contacts with people who can help me. I suppose I can be pretty ruthless, and it sounds a little dramatic, but there are people out there who I should probably call enemies. And it’s unfortunate that I have to employ men like Handley and Franklin, but they’re good for fetching and carrying. Yes, they can put the frighteners on people, if need be, but there is another side to me. It’s the side that likes music and books. I love art and appreciate fine wine and women. I’m sentimental about them all! I promise you that if Candy Smith is dead I’ll be seriously upset.’

  He took up his telephone and pressed a single number.

  ‘Handley, there’s been a fire at the apartment of my old friend Candy Smith. Look into it will you, discreetly, and make sure she’s okay. Thank you.’

  He put the phone down. ‘I understand you’re worried, but don’t think the worst until we know for sure. My man has a few contacts, we’ll have the information soon enough.’

  I stood up, hoping to leave, but not daring to think I would be allowed to.

  ‘I don’t want you to believe that I’m the man Candy claims,’ he seemed to be genuinely saddened. ‘My main weakness is a lack of culture and education. Really, I’d prefer not to have any business concerns; I’d rather retire and read and discuss books. My dream is to end my days in the great museums and libraries of the capital cities of Europe.’

  ‘So why not sell your businesses and retire?’

  ‘It’s not that easy. You can’t just shut yourself off from the world you’ve created. People won’t let you, and anyway, I need educated men like you and your father to help me. I need your advice to amass a fine library. A Monsieur Grillet is advising me on art,’ he said, and smiled. ‘And you will help me sweep away all these Folio Society books!’

  I laughed, despite myself. Hopper opened the door and as we walked out he asked, ‘What was the first Sherlock Holmes book?’

  ‘A Study in Scarlet.’

  ‘And how much will a copy set me back?’

  ‘A nice copy of the first edition, first issue, would be, perhaps, seventy-five thousand euros.’

  ‘A first issue?’

  It was ludicrous to be discussing the niceties of book collecting, but it was a relief. It was so unlikely, so stupidly melodramatic, that the man before me could ever have had me taken away and tortured by Franklin and Handley. I explained:

  ‘There was meant to be a mistake in the first few copies printed that wasn’t in later ones.’

  ‘So it’ll cost me more to have a copy with a mistake in it? I’ll have to think about that.’

  I was wrong about the first issue of A Study in Scarlet; oddly enough the later issue contains the mistake, not the first. The details came up as an aside in a long and circuitous discussion with my father. As we talked, all my suspicion of Hopper returned.

  ‘If he orders a copy of A Study in Scarlet then it’s obvious that he’s paying us off,’ I insisted. ‘Candy seriously upset him and now she’s dead.’

  ‘It may be a coincidence, and we don’t know for sure she is...’

  ‘So you just want to go along with all this? You want to make what you can out of Hopper?’

  ‘I don’t want any money from him if he’s a crook...’

  ‘He’s not just a crook. He’s a murderer!’

  ‘...And I don’t want to take any risks.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘If I go and see him...’

  ‘You mustn’t.’

  ‘What I was going to say was that if I
go and see him, I’m not sure I’ll come away any the wiser. I’ll still be suspicious. And I certainly don’t want to annoy him.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I think that you have to go to the Police with your suspicions.’

  ‘So far they’ve taken very little interest in anything I have had to say.’

  ‘But at least your conscience would be clear.’

  VIII

  The interview room was narrow, sterile and knowing. The policeman who entered glanced down at a sheet of paper, bored, and said, ‘Monsieur Bennett…’ He then remembered, amusement animating his features: “Flavian!”

  We’d previously met in the Passage des Abbesses.

  ‘I’m worried about Candy Smith. There was a fire last night where she lived in the rue Andre Gill.’

  ‘I have been told about the fire. But it is still too soon to understand what happened. Do you have some information?’

  ‘She was employed by Reginald Hopper. She recently upset him by bidding on a book at auction that he wanted. She tried to spoil the sale....’

  ‘May I record this conversation? Otherwise I will have to take down notes, and switch between English, and writing in French...’

  I agreed, but while he found a cassette and put it in the machine, my composure withered. Once the little wheels were going around, I found it hard to make the direct accusations that I had planned. I relied heavily on reporting what Candy had told me, having explained who she was and why she was in Paris. The policeman let me ramble on, asking questions from time to time, and I could hear how circumstantial and unlikely it all sounded. The policeman was polite throughout, and when I finished, he switched off the tape recorder.

  ‘I will talk to Monsieur Hopper,’ he promised. ‘And to Monsieurs Handley and Franklin. I need to find more information regarding Mademoiselle Smith, but your suspicions will be thoroughly investigated. Now, I have your address....’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure that I’ll be in Paris much longer.’

  The idea had come to me earlier that day as I’d waited for Hopper in his study, and now that I had actually articulated it, I felt some relief. It struck me as cowardly to leave, but prudent. I would have to discuss the decision with my father, of course. Leaving him behind felt wrong, and my concern for him was the only reason I didn’t immediately pack up my belongings when I arrived back at the apartment.

  The insistent ringing of the doorbell sounded loud; four floors below somebody wanted me urgently. It was only just becoming light and I ran into the main room, sure that something was wrong. I pressed the button and asked who was calling, worried, for some reason, that it might be Hopper, or my father. It occurred to me that it might even be Candy. However, a voice informed me that it was the police, and I released the lock on the door down below.

  When the knock came at the door to the apartment itself I checked at the security squint and could see two uniformed officers. The first man to enter had more buttons and braid on his uniform than one following him. In the time it had taken them to get up the stairs I had put on a dressing gown, but wearing my pyjamas I felt at a distinct disadvantage.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Vous avez parlé à un de mes supérieurs hier au sujet du feu sur les rue des Martyres? Et vous avez posé des questions sur Candy Smith?’

  I must have looked blank, and he repeated the question in English. ‘You asked about the fire. You asked about Candy Smith?’ He chose his words carefully: ‘I must tell you, there has been an enquête préliminaire...’

  ‘A preliminary investigation?’

  ‘Oui. The report is not official, but it is believed that the fire was started délibérément.’

  ‘Deliberately?’

  ‘Sur the rez-de-chaussée, the ground floor, dans la cage d’escalier...’ he looked at me and then his colleague, but unaided he translated as ‘in the stairwell’.

  With inappropriate satisfaction he said, with a sudden upward movement of his hands: ‘The building went—whoosh! The door to the top was open. That is why it was complètement brûlé. The other apartments are damaged; smoke, water... Les investigateurs examined every floor but report no bodies. They have not found Candy Smith.’

  I was relieved, and finally asked them to sit down, which they did, although they gave the impression that they would rather be somewhere else.

  ‘But why are you here at six in the morning?’ I asked.

  ‘I am working, monsieur. And my superior told me, I must tell you, that there is no body of Candy Smith.’

  ‘But you are still searching for her?’

  ‘Of course! First, we ask the landlord. He is foreign, Spanish, and believed the building to be vide, empty. He lets the building fall down because he wants permission to reconstruisez, ah, construct a new building, but the planificateurs de ville, they so no. So, we do not have information that anybody lived in the top apartment.’

  ‘But I told your superior, I went inside, and Candy Smith was definitely living there. It was run down...’

  ‘She was not there officially, but yes, somebody had been living there.’

  ‘Have you talked to Reginald Hopper? He admitted to me that he was paying her. He may have organised her accommodation as well.’

  ‘Oui, we have talked to Monsieur Hopper. He asks, why would he burn her accommodation when he could just report to the police that she was in France illegally?’

  ‘Because he was angry with her! You investigated what happened at the auction.’

  ‘We have discussed this with colleagues in Saint-Quentin and there was a woman there. She placed a bid but did not pay. The auctioneer was wrong to sell you the books.’

  ‘That’s not important. What happened to Candy is important. If she wasn’t in the fire, where is she now?’

  ‘We do not know. We have consulted the Police in Britain and she is wanted by them. She had disappeared. We had not been searching for her before, but we will be now.’

  ‘I’m very worried about her.’

  ‘Was she a friend? Or was she just somebody who told you her... her suspicion’s of Mr Hopper?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Our investigations show that Monsieur Hopper is a businessman, and he has a strange past. But, il n’est pas venu à notre attention. We are not interested in him.’

  ‘He employs a man called Handley, and another called Franklin. I don’t trust either of them.’

  ‘We take seriously what you have reported to us. I promise that we will talk to everyone.’

  ‘But, tell me, those poor people who were taken from the Passage des Abbesses?’

  ‘That investigation continues,’ he said, in a tone that suggested that no more information would be forthcoming. ‘Another colleague deals with that.’

  ‘But if it’s related to Hopper, like the fire, and Candy...?’

  ‘Rapportée? We do not believe it. They are different cases.’

  He stood up, followed by the other office, and thanked me for my time. The second then mumbled something to the first, who turned to me:

  ‘If you see Candy Smith, please tell us. We must speak to her.’

  They left, and as I was up and awake, I washed and dressed. When I had finished breakfast it was too early to go to the shop and once again I considered packing my few belongings. I couldn’t quite make the decision.

  Bennett’s British Bookshop doesn’t normally open until ten, but that morning it did so at half past eight, to the annoyance of my father who came down to investigate. An hour later I had re-dressed the window, a job we had been putting off for weeks, and when my father came down at his usual time he appeared to be in a better mood. I was starting to tell him about my visit from the police when the clock behind the counter chimed the customary opening hour. Immediately afterwards a vehicle passed very slowly in the street. I recognised it as Hopper’s.

  I felt sick. I looked through the glass in the door and could see that the car was being parked. At
the angle I was watching from I could just see Handley walk around to the back and open the boot. He then removed the box of books that had been bought at the auction. Somebody else closed the boot for him.

  I considered changing the sign on the door to ‘fermé’, but as my father was behind the counter I decided, instead, to slip into the back. I left the office door only slightly open, and sat down before the computer as though I was doing some work.

  From where I was hiding I could hear my father greeted the visitors with a more subdued ‘Good morning’ than was usual for him. I heard the box being put down, heavily, on the counter.

  ‘The deal is that they’re now yours,’ Hopper said. ‘Your commission.’

  ‘Thank you, but haven’t you paid Flavian already?’

  ‘I have, but I have no need for these.’

  ‘Then thank you. I’m not sure that many of them can be offered as anything other than “reading copies”....’

  ‘No, it was my book that appears to’ve been worth eight hundred euros…. However, at least I have it now.’

  Hopper’s tone was neutral and I was feeling reassured until he added, ‘I would like to have a word with Flavian, if I may?’

  ‘He’s in the office,’ said my father, and, inevitably, a moment later Hopper was standing just outside. Although he could see me through the partly open door he still knocked.

  ‘Good morning. I was wondering if we could talk.’

  I had started to tremble, but said as levelly as I could: ‘I’m not sure there’s anything to discuss.’

  Hopper came in and closed the door carefully behind him.

  ‘Oh, but there is. You see, I’ve had the police asking me all kinds of questions. I think they’ve been talking to you.’

  ‘And you’re annoyed with me?’

  ‘You went to see them?’

  ‘Yes. I’m concerned about Candy.’

  ‘So am I. But she wasn’t in the fire. Did they tell you that?’