A Killer for a Song

by John Gardner

  “So am I. I meant that my cornering is better than it was, and I seem to be able to get more speed on the straight.”

  She looked at him for a long time. “It is good to see you again, Boyzee, but you are mad: all zee Eenglish are mad. You make me laugh, so tomorrow I get you out of Paris, and you get me out. Tonight ees for other things. I’m glad you came ‘ere: tonight I am very abandoned.”

  Taking his hand, Zizi pulled Boysie to his feet and led him, unresisting, to her bedroom.

  Paris slept. Many security and police officers did not. William Edith arrived and did not sleep. Neither did Boysie, nor Zizi.

  XI - BREAK

  A change in tone-quality encountered in passing between different registers

  Mostyn’s murder was still the lead story in all the papers, and the news bulletins carried it at number one. Zizi, sitting in the back of the Bentley wrapped in black mink, translated, in her own inimitable style, as the ORTF newsreader tripped and rolled the words over each other.

  “Zere is still zee mystery going round zee death of an Eenglish civilian servant at zee Baltimore ‘otel last night. Colonel James George Moustin, a tall-rank government official was shot dead in his chamber.

  “Zee police have wishes to meet another Eenglishman who is fellow travelling with the corpse. ‘Ee is Brian Oakes, tall with blue eyes and muscles. ‘Ee is possibly dangerous and should be gone up to with cautions - I’ve always gone up to you with zee cautions, Boyzee.

  “Zee police also search for another Eenglish couple, named Sharles Griffin and Lyric Lavenham, who were in Paris last night. ‘Ee’s describing Sharlie, Boyzee. What do they want with Sharlie? And who ees this Lyric Lavenham? She sounds like a cheap soap.”

  Boysie, sheltering behind sunglasses - in spite of the sky being grey as the chauffeur’s uniform which he wore - felt concern inching up his spine. Griffin and Lyric were missing and that did not bode well. It did not bode anything at all.

  “Why will they want Sharlie?” Zizi persisted.

  “Maybe he stole the pea out of some passing gendarme’s whistle,” Boysie tried to be flippant. “Or spiked the Commissioner’s Pernod.”

  “Be serious, Boyzee,” for a second she sounded like the cutting edge of a commando dagger. “People ‘ave died. You ‘ave troubles. Now Sharlie ‘ave troubles also.”

  “Sharlie always had troubles.”

  Zizi had gone out early and bought a few necessary things for him - razor and shaving cream, toothbrush and paste, two pairs of jeans, a jacket, three roll necks and four pairs of obscene underpants, the fronts of which were decorated with giraffes and elephants which took on extra dimensions when worn. Zizi was an extremely good judge of size.

  They also laid careful plans. At any roadblocks she would explain that her chauffeur was suffering from laryngitis and could not speak.

  Then, just before they left, she escorted Boysie down the street to the local Uniprix where he had his photograph taken on an automatic machine. Back in the apartment, Zizi disappeared for twenty minutes or so, returning with a Carte d’Identité giving Boysie’s name as Jean-Baptiste Chênes. It looked like the real thing.

  “Eet is the real thing, Boyzee,” Zizi answered when he queried its source. “You think I would trifle with zee doggy merchandise?”

  “The word is dodgy.”

  “Words,” said Zizi with disdain. “Zee actions speak loudest.”

  It was also arranged, at Boysie’s insistence that he would drive Zizi towards the Côte D’Azur, but would not take her all the way.

  “It’s good of you, and typical, but I don’t want you too deeply involved.”

  Zizi looked pained, then shrugged her shoulders with Gallic fatalism. “We will drive to Chalon-sur-Saône, the Royal Hotel there is magnifique for the lovings. One night of blissfulls and then we part, just like zee lovers in a romance.” She gave a small sigh; then her face broke into a dazzling and wicked smile. “Maybe I can get a new chauffeur on my way back to Paris.”

  She went to the door, then, as though changing her mind, retraced her footsteps into her living room, emerging a few moments later carrying a small black automatic pistol which looked as though it would be good for starting races.

  “I’ve ‘ad this for a long time,” she offered the weapon to him. “It’s good, yes?”

  Boysie took it - a .22 calibre Beretta Jaguar with a full magazine, all eight shells, and a loaded spare. “It’s good no,” he grinned. “But better than nothing. With luck you might stop a mouse with it. You’d have to get very lucky to kill humans.”

  “Let’s ‘ope you don’t ‘ave to; but if you do, then you’ll be lucky - I promise.”

  They headed out on Autoroute 6, negotiating two road-blocks manned by alert police who Zizi lulled into a sense of male chauvinist superiority by the judicious use of a throaty voice and bland sensuality. It was a performance which must have ranked among the greats - including Bernhardt’s Phedre.

  Both Boysie and Zizi chuckled happily as they sped away from the city’s environs and the sun finally broke through the grey overcast.

  Neither of them noticed the white Peugeot keeping station at a good distance.

  The Nostradamus was not a clip joint, you only paid one hundred per cent more than in a respectable club, and that came pricey if you were taking the wife out for steak and chips; only you did not take the wife to a place like the Nostradamus: there was too much competition.

  At nine in the morning the interior looked, and felt, as drab as an alcoholic’s tongue. Gest had no wish to be there, but there was not much option. He had a contract, and that meant rehearsals were necessary. The rehearsal pianist was a big black heavy whose musical ear was not over accurate, and Gest was getting irritable when Maurice, one of the barmen, came through to say that he was wanted on the telephone.

  The team had been searching for most of the night, and Gest was tired, having been up directing the operation by phone. They had been successful they thought.

  Now Henri was calling him.

  “We were right. He’s there with the girl and they look as though they’re moving out.”

  “How?” Gest sounded as though an ice cube would not even sweat on his lips.

  “Car. She has a Bentley and it’s been brought round.”

  “Okay. Stay with them. Complete it if they get clear.”

  “I’ll come back to you.”

  “Do that.”

  He replaced the receiver, took it off again and dialled Chiliman’s number.

  “My team’s onto them.”

  In his mind he saw the slim Henri and swarthy Michel together in the Peugeot. They were both professionals who could do a job well, with minimum fuss.

  “Good,” muttered Chiliman, breathing heavily. “Tell me when it’s done and make it soon.”

  “It’ll be in the open. Out of Paris. I have no control over time.”

  “Just do it.” Chiliman put down the phone and Gest, feeling more irritable, stomped back into the main room of the club where the black pianist had put his instrument into idle.

  ***

  They lunched at the Petite Auberge in Auxerre ignoring the covert glances from other patrons who did not approve of the blatant relationship between mistress and chauffeur. Zizi flirted outrageously through the Consommé Mercedes laced with sherry; Boysie returned the compliment during the Côtes de Veau à la Maraîchère, and the whole business became warmly erotic at the arrival of the Gateau Saint-Honoré, and, later, the cheese: Boysie crunching at the celery sticks in bad imitation of Albert Finney as Tom Jones, Zizi drinking her La Tache as though it was moisture from a lover, sipping and flicking her tongue into it in a manner which Boysie found disturbing enough to banish all caution. Death, his or anyone else’s, was a million light years away and there was a power strike everywhere but in his loins.

  They left Auxerre in a flush, drove a couple of miles, turned off into a side road, found a coppice with mossy banks which would have delighted Oberon or Titan
ia, or both, stripped and took each other in a fury which dimmed the already weak sun. An hour later they were back on the road, this time abandoning the fast autoroute and taking the N6 down through Avallon and Saulieu to Chalon-sur-Saône.

  They parked on the outskirts of the town, allowing Boysie to change from the formal grey of the chauffeur’s uniform into the recently acquired jeans and turtleneck. At five-thirty they drove into Chalon, through the old coach entry of the Royal Hotel and into the parking lot behind. Stretching themselves like lazy cats, they strolled quietly into the hotel reception where they were welcomed with professional élan.

  The room had leaded windows, panelled walls, a large bed and an atmosphere which merged solid dependability with a hint of romanticism.

  Zizi flitted around, unpacking as though she was there for a long stay, while Boysie, tired from the recent exertions, stretched out on the bed, lulled by Zizi’s mutterings and the few street sounds which filtered from below.

  In this state he drifted into a half-sleep in which his subconscious took over, leading him into a dream fantasy in which he was a lozenge in a glass with a handful of other lozenges. It was safe and comforting, because he knew the lozenges were really people, like himself, who could be activated by the addition of a little water. But, at that moment, he hoped nobody would add the water. He liked being a lozenge.

  If Boysie had been conscious of all the sounds going on around him, he might have identified the hum of the white Peugeot’s engine as it passed the hotel; then, again, when it returned ten minutes later, swinging into the parking lot. Its two occupants got out, examined the Bentley, and made for reception to secure overnight accommodation.

  Henri and Michel were relieved. They had lost track of the Bentley after leaving Auxerre, having no idea that their quarry would turn off merely to indulge natural appetites. For a few hours they wasted time, searching roads and stopping at numerous hotels to examine the cars in parking lots. Coming across the Bentley at The Royal, Chalon, had been a combination of luck and experienced thoroughness. Another hour and Henri would have been forced to call Gest in Paris and admit they had lost the scent.

  Boysie’s sleep curve began to descend, and with it the subconscious threw up basic insecurities. The safety of the lozenge dream dissolved. Instead, Boysie walked down some exclusive street, to a hairdresser where he left his head to have the hair cut. Then, suddenly, it was time to get to an appointment and he needed his head, but could find neither the street nor the hairdresser.

  He was sweating when Zizi woke him, kissing him gently around the mouth and making soothing noises. Her eyes showed puzzlement and concern.

  “You were making zee mooning noises.”

  “Moaning,” Boysie automatically corrected. “What’s the time?”

  “Seven. Time to eat.”

  Boysie grinned at her, his face belying the trepidation and depression which had come with the dreams. “Do I get a choice of starters and dessert?”

  “They ‘ave a good menu.”

  “Potage à la Zizi and Strawberries Zizi.”

  She waggled a finger at him, “Do not laugh, Boyzee. There is such a dish as Strawberries Zizi.”

  “I know, I ate it after lunch.”

  “No, it was created in my honour by a prince.”

  “Royalty. I’m impressed.”

  “Well,” she shrugged with a little moue. “He was only a White Russian prince, employed at Maxims at zee time, but Strawberries Zizi is inspired. You make it ...” “With strawberries?”

  “With pineapple, scooped out and filled with zee berries and soaked in sugar and best champagne cognac.”

  “And you drink the gravy. Okay, Zizi, let’s eat and get smashed in celebration of my escape. Then, in the morning you can drive me to Dijon where I’ll catch a train for the south.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “You sure I can’t come with you, Boyzee?”

  “Positive, fancy face. I have a feeling that even if the gendarmerie don’t catch up with me, someone else will, and that I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

  Boysie washed, combed his thinning hair, slipped into the jacket which Zizi had purchased that morning, and, after a moment’s hesitation, checked that the Beretta was loaded before sliding it into the right hand pocket.

  They ate regally - coquilles de volailles, homard à la broche Ravigote, and sabayon à la Creole-and drank the best part of a magnum of Heidseck. Neither took any notice of their fellow diners - there were eight or nine other people in the dining room, including the two men who had booked into the hotel earlier that evening: this pair finished their meal and withdrew a good half-hour before Boysie and Zizi brought their dinner to its coffee and brandy conclusion.

  “I am pickles,” announced Zizi as they left the dining room.

  “Good for you,” Boysie’s head was spinning pleasantly and the world looked decidedly rosy. “I think a breath of fresh air would do us no harm.”

  Zizi grinned stupidly. “We will go and wish Benjamin a good night.”

  “Benjamin?”

  “My motorcar; my Bentley. I am always giving him a name. I call heem Benjamin. Benjamin Bentley.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since about a minute ago. Boyzee, I love my motorcar. I must see he ees tucked in for zee night.”

  They strolled gently out to the car park, passing a Fiat and a little white Renault standing near the shadow of the hotel wall.

  “Look,” said Zizi, raising an arm dramatically, “Benjamin ‘as company.” There was a white Peugeot drawn up next to the Bentley. “I wonder if they are ‘appy together.”

  “Maybe,” started Boysie, slowly, “maybe in the morning there will be a new race of little super cars”

  “Peugelies,” laughed Zizi.

  They picked out two more unsteady paces before Boysie’s intuition reacted: he had a sudden mental picture of the Merc riding Mostyn, Couperose and himself into Paris from the airport, and the white Peugeot leeched to them along the motorway.

  The short hairs on the back of his neck rose in unison with the flip roll of his stomach. In spite of his blood-alcohol level, Boysie moved with surprising speed, leaping away from Zizi, drawing the Beretta and flicking off the safety, crouching low and spinning full circle, at the same time shouting, “Get away, love. Get some cover. Behind your car.” Simultaneously he wished he had some heavy armament - a Colt 45 or that Luger Mostyn had given to him in Mexico ten years before.

  He did not actually sight the figure shadowed in the hotel wall, seeing only the flash and hearing the bullet hit something behind him - the Bentley possibly; but by this time his Beretta was up and he squeezed the trigger three times, pointing rather than aiming towards the flash.

  For a couple of seconds his brain recorded only sounds: a short gasp from the shadows of the wall, a clatter and falling noise; Zizi’s little shriek and the sound of her shoes as she ran towards the Bentley; then the other shot - a flash from near the Peugeot - the crack in his left ear merging with the thump and a shout, in French. He fired twice towards the cars and saw the shape of the gunman as he stood, perfectly still, full-frontal, taking careful aim.

  Automatically Boysie ran towards the cars, firing twice more, wildly, at random and only in the general direction of the figure. The shot came, and again missed, Boysie’s two rounds having thrown the man.

  He yelled again, “Zizi, take care, you’re going towards him.”

  But it was too late. Zizi came into his line of vision, close to the gunman who was now between the two cars. He saw the figures merge, heard Zizi shriek again and then heard the sickening slap of a bunched hand on flesh.

  Boysie dived to his right, rolling as he went, back towards the Fiat and Renault, the concrete jarring his back and shoulders as he went. There were other sounds from the hotel, confused shouts and running.

  From the area of the Peugeot and Bentley, the French voice roared out again. “Michel. Michel.” Then the slam of a door and a hurried burst of
life from the Peugeot’s engine, lifting to a roar as the car suddenly came alive, surged in reverse, and then leaped forward, its headlights full on, heading for the exit.

  Boysie lifted his right hand, squinting along the sights, but the hurried impression was of a man in the driving seat and a woman slumped next to him.

  He seemed to have got lucky as Zizi had predicted, for there was no further sound from the darkness of the hotel wall, though activity escalated around the door leading from the hotel to the car park. Boysie’s hand dipped back into his pocket, fingers coming into contact with the Bentley’s keys which Zizi had left in his care. Dizzy and off-balance, he staggered to his feet, taking off at a sprint towards the car, aware that the Peugeot with the gunman and, presumably insensible, Zizi, had braked violently and was turning left out of the coach yard entrance.

  There was no fumbling. The driver’s door came open fast: the motor starting like a dream. It was only when Boysie was spinning the wheel to the left, streaking the big car out onto the road, that he realised he had not flicked the headlight switch.

  XII - SOLO

  A piece or passage performed by one person-either alone, or with others in a subordinate, accompanying role

  Anger bunched the muscles on William Edith’s neck and around his mouth. It was a livid anger as transparent as polished plate-glass, but not as smooth.

  He had brought two young men with him to Paris. They stood, now, looking gloomy, their reflected moods rapidly alternating between reproach and apprehensiveness.

  Gerard Couperose and two of his men in plainclothes, plus a uniformed officer, had the look of people in high dudgeon.

  William Edith spoke softly, yet it was obvious to all that he was experiencing great difficulty in maintaining control.

  “You’re absolutely certain it was Oakes?” he said, menacing softly.

  “It fits the description,” Couperose began a shrug, then changed his mind. “He was registered as Jean-Baptiste Chênes. In French, chêne is ...”

  “An oak. I know. I am conversant with your language. The woman was not Miss Lavenham?”