A Killer for a Song

by John Gardner

  “There the description does not fit. No.”

  “The dead man?”

  “Michel Pesant: a hoodlum, professional killer, known to us.”

  “He work with anyone in particular?”

  Couperose looked towards the uniformed officer who passed the buck neatly back with his eyes. The glance indicated that the policeman’s lot was not a happy one.

  “It depends,” said Couperose, this time steeling himself and actually shrugging.

  “Depends on what?” Edith sounded lethal, like a cut-throat razor freshly stropped. “Depends on what?” he repeated. “His mood? Whether or not there’s an R in the month? What are you running here, Couperose, a TV guessing game?”

  “I resent ...” began Couperose.

  “You resent?” Edith pulled himself up to his full height, which would have frightened someone of more stunted growth than himself. Yet there was unpleasantness in the action, “You have no right to resent anything. One of our senior officers has been murdered while under your protection. You are privy to facts. You know exactly what the circumstances are, and you cannot deny it.” He threw a twisted leer across the room. “Mostyn was acting as a lure. I presume he had told Oakes.”

  Couperose hesitated. “I am not certain.”

  The pause went through pregnancy and ended still-born. Edith sighed. “That’s Mostyn. But you knew all about it. You knew the set-up; you knew where the enquiries had led us. Yet you push Oakes around; lock him in his room, and then let him get away.”

  “There’s a description out.”

  “Sod the description. The man’ll feel hunted.”

  “I am perhaps not making myself clear. Oakes knew he was a lure. I’m not certain if he knew why or who was after him. Mr. Edith, I became uncertain. Oakes was in the room when the Colonel died. The bullets came from Oakes’ gun. Oakes had it in his hand. It is possible that ...”

  “That Oakes killed him? Don’t be an idiot. With the information you had? Chiliman’s in Paris, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “But you thought Oakes had got involved there?”

  “It was a possibility.”

  “Don’t be naive, Couperose. If he was involved, do you think Mostyn would not have known?”

  “It was confused.”

  “And it’s more confused now. Oakes is running from you and the police, and us, and the others. He does not know that only the others want him dead, and it’s doubtful that he even knows why.” He paused as though for effect. “Michel Pesant, deceased: with whom did he work?”

  “Well, there is one man.”

  “Give.”

  “Henri Frelon.”

  Edith gave a snort. “Henry Hornet. His own name?”

  “It’s the name by which he’s known. I don’t think he was born with it.”

  “It sounds like something from Runyon,” he heard the line buzzing in his head: ‘I am stepping into Mindy’s and who am I seeing propping up the bar but Harry the Hornet.’ “Now the woman Oakes was with,” he continued aloud. “We know anything there?”

  “Nothing definite. If you untangle the statements, she seemed close to Oakes, and Frelon - if it is Frelon - abducted her.”

  “And Frelon is a dangerous customer.”

  Couperose wanted to say that Frelon was almost as dangerous as Edith. He simply nodded.

  “And what of friend Griffin and the Lavenham girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All in all, old lad,” Edith precariously smooth, “you’ve made a right goulash. Mostyn dead; Oakes missing; Griffin missing! Lavenham missing and one hoodlum shot dead. Where, Couperose, do we bloody go from here?”

  “We follow up on the Bentley.”

  “You think that’ll do us any good? Find the Bentley and we find Oakes? Balls. Whatever else he is, Oakes is experienced. He’s out of one trap. If I know his kind he’ll dig in somewhere and wait for the news media to give him a clue about Pesant, or, possibly, Frelon. A clue that might lead him to the lady. You got any clues?” he needled.

  “If it is Frelon, then he has a lot of contacts on the Côte D’Azur.”

  “That’s more like it. Wait about,” he scrutinised his watch, “about five hours. Then leak some juice to the Press. We know any of Frelon’s haunts in the south?”

  “Not off hand, but I can find out.” Couperose moved towards the telephone like a greyhound who’s spotted the electric hare a shave before any of his competitors.

  Gest finished his second performance at ten thirty-six. It was a lousy house: a covey of American tourists and half-a-dozen French businessmen out on the make. The tourists lapped up the atmosphere; the French businessmen were too busy trying to grope their secretaries, or whoever was substituting for the wife, to take much notice of Gest’s enunciation, breath control or self-assured handling of the lyrics.

  The reluctant applause was raucous from the Americans and diffident from the locals.

  Gest squeezed through the tiny passageway beside the bar, and went down the stairs to the small dressing-room which he shared with two members of the band. The band was still up there providing slow and lethargic music which would not overtax the clientele who were mostly of an age when shuffling close on a tiny floor was more attractive than leaping about in abstract frenzy.

  Castervermentes was in the dressing-room picking his teeth.

  “They’ve shredded it,” he said.

  Gest closed the door behind him, very quietly. He felt very tired and disillusioned. Two major blunders in forty-eight hours was as near disaster as you could get without actually bursting into flames.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know the details. Michel got himself wasted.”

  “Dead?”

  “Terminated,” Castervermentes showed his gold fillings. “A small calibre slug right in the throat. Nobody got to him in time.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Chalon-sur-Saône. There are further complications. Henri had to take the girl as a hostage. He called me. I haven’t told Chiliman yet.”

  “And Oakes?”

  “Disappeared, but he’ll have to come up for air sometime. I told Henri to get the girl down to Cap Martin. To the house.”

  “Will Chiliman mind that?”

  “He won’t have to mind; and as for you, James, I suggest that tonight you are taken ill with the flu. I will deal with the situation here, but you should not appear for a couple of nights.”

  Gest nodded. “I should ...?”

  “We should,” Castervermentes sneered. “We should take an active part now. This has to be cleared up once and for all. Call Chiliman. Tell him what I have told you. Tomorrow I’ll settle this place and make sure they have a replacement. Then we’ll go down and join Henri. The woman must know his plans and she must share them with US.”

  Gest’s face contorted fractionally-a wince, as though he was feeling some pain meted out to another.

  ***

  Boysie was certain that the Peugeot had either taken the N9 out of Chalon, or crossed onto Autoroute 6. Certainly they were heading south, but after only fifteen minutes travelling Boysie knew the chase was impossible. The shoot-out at Chalon would have escalated matters and the police were after him anyway. They would soon have all the roads blocked and every mobile in the area alerted. One thing was sure: he had to ditch the Bentley soon.

  He doubled back off the N6, pointing himself towards Dijon, peering through the gloom and taking stock. His natural instinct urged him to go on chasing, but his training and experience said something entirely different. There was little he could do to help Zizi or himself at this point. Hole up. Hole up somewhere quiet and wait for matters to break. The French coppers would be looking for the Peugeot as well as the Bentley. When something broke it would be all over the papers and TV.

  It took only a few seconds for Boysie to make up his mind. Dijon was on the direct rail route to the south. He would never get as far as Dijon in the car, but that had to b
e his stopping-off point.

  He drew the car into a layby and studied the map under the shaded interior lamps, conscious of the sweep hand of his watch pushing time on its way and narrowing the chances. He had come off the N6 onto a side road which had taken him through the village of St. Germain-du-Plain. If he doubled back in a wide sweep he could probably get to a point somewhere just outside Beaune, or even better make the wider sweep to Dole which was further east but appeared to provide more cover.

  He snapped the lights off, restarted the engine and pulled out once more. There was little traffic on the secondary roads and Boysie sneaked the Bentley through the rough lanes with no trouble. An hour later he pulled the car off the road again, a few hundred yards from a signpost which told him it was four kilometres to Dole.

  Sitting in the driving seat he pondered for the best part of a minute. Leaving the car there, in full view by the roadside, would be like chalking Indian signs. After all, a Bentley was not exactly standard transport for the area, and nobody was going to mistake it for a farm implement.

  Slowly, Boysie got out and, standing in the shadow of some bushes, relieved himself, willing his eyesight to penetrate the darkness. Nothing, except the thicket of bushes which appeared to stretch back for ever.

  Returning to the car, he manoeuvred it into position, then began to drive slowly and resolutely into the foliage. Above the engine note there was the crunch and slap of branches, parting whipping back against the windshield. After twenty yards the bushes proved too much even for the Bentley.

  The car lurched, tipped to one side, the engine stalling. Boysie switched off the ignition, checked that the doors were locked, that the pistol was still snug in his pocket, then, taking a small torch from the glove compartment and stuffing the map into his waistband, he clambered from the car, closing and locking the door on the driver’s side.

  It was impossible to see how well the vehicle was hidden from the road, but he retraced the path the Bentley had swathed through the thicket, picking his way with the aid of the torch and, where he could, pulling the flattened bushes and foliage back into place until he once more reached the road. The whole operation took half-an-hour. Somewhere in the night an owl hooted and the sound of a car grinding its gears floated over the flat earth.

  He stood still for a few moments, ears pricked and senses alert, aware that pinpoints of light clustered far away to his right, of the silent country sounds of the night, and an overwhelming sense of hostility. For the first time since the shoot-out he realised how frightened he was. But that was an old sensation, almost friendly now. If it told him nothing else, at least he knew through it that he was alive.

  Almost casually, Boysie lit a cigarette, cupping his hand to hide the flame and drawing the poison deep into his lungs. Then, superstitiously, he crossed his fingers, hunched his shoulders against the chill night air, and headed towards the town, trying to push the next problem out of his consciousness.

  Dole is an agricultural centre and particularly concerned with wine-in the Middle Ages it was part of Burgundy: its railway station has no sparkle, the bouquet is diverse, spicuous as a kangaroo in a cats’ home. Public places are all little limbos and only fascinating to train freaks. Late at night even freaks would be put off by the ambiance of this station.

  Boysie waited thirty-five minutes for a local and got into Dijon just after midnight. There he felt as conspicuous as a kangaroo in a cats’ home. Public places are all dangerous if you’re on the run - particularly at night when there are no crowds for cover. As he walked across the broad concourse at Dijon, Boysie felt vulnerable and not a little lonely - as though somewhere out of sight a marksman had him firmly in the crossed wires of his scope.

  Outside the station, in the streets, the traffic was sparse and there appeared to be few people on the pavements. Dijon was not exactly your swinging city, thought Boysie, even if the girls were supposed to be mustard.

  Long ago, a hundred years it seemed now, in the army, Boysie had learned at least one useful lesson. If you are dodging the column, or are somewhere that you should not be, then the trick was to look as though you belonged and proceed with purpose. Now he set off down the street as if he was receiving the freedom of the city.

  Hole up, he had said to himself; hole up and wait for something to break. The query came back loud and clear -hole up where? And how?

  The French fuzz, he realised, had him both ways. He could not walk into an hotel and present himself as Brian Oakes, boy wonder, because they knew about Brian Oakes from Paris. Nor could he walk in with the Carte d’Identité claiming himself as Jean-Baptiste Chênes, Gallic garcon. They knew about Jean-Baptiste Chênes from Chalon.

  How then would he hole up? A whore? Not the best way, he had decided that in Paris. A pick-up, male or female? Sweaty, and could prove difficult. The gloom began to settle as he pounded one leg in front of the other, not daring to syphon himself off into one of the many Bar-Tabacs which still seemed to be open.

  It was dark, lonely and cold on the streets of Dijon. It was getting colder all the time and the street was no place to make friends, Boysie thought. Friends appeared to be getting more scarce with every step.

  The Hotel Cloche hove in sight, placed opulently in what some would term a select commercial square: the sign said Place Darcy. It was big with a lot of lights. Most inviting, and Boysie kept heading towards it. He had read Arthur Hailey’s Hotel like everyone else, and in that book there were a dozen wrinkles, fool-proof plans and tricks which got you into a hotel for free.

  He reached the main doors and peeled off away from the hotel, knowing, with brilliant inner comprehension, that if he tried to emulate any of Arthur Hailey’s characters he would fail miserably and end up in the hoosgow.

  He circled the block, sniffing the air. The aroma around the Hotel Cloche was one of tranquillity, service, soft mattresses and cosseting. He needed cosseting, and from that need sprang nerve and action. After all, he thought as he climbed the steps, nerve was part of the job-the fact that his had always been shaky, except with women, was beside the point.

  There was a tall young man with slick plastic hair behind the reception desk. He regarded Boysie as though he had inadvertently stepped into a careless pile of ordure. Boysie did not flinch.

  “You speak English?” he snapped, trying to sound confident, authoritative and rather at the end of his tether.

  The young man hesitated for a second. “Yes,” he said with diffidence.

  “My car has broken down, I’ve had to walk into Dijon, about three miles. I’m cold, dirty, I’ve just spent an hour with the garage and I want a room - your best if possible, with a bath.”

  It worked. The young man could recognise the voice of authority and money.

  “Certainly, monsieur,” his fingers clicked and a page materialised out of thin air. The other hand slid a registration card in front of Boysie. “Your baggage, monsieur?”

  “It’s in the bloody car. At the garage. I’ll have it brought over in the morning. All I want to do is sleep now.”

  The young man looked doubtful for a moment, so Boysie dug into his pocket and brought out the French currency and traveller’s cheques, praying silently. The young man held up a horrified hand, so Boysie put the money back and began to fill in the form.

  Nom it said. Then, Prenoms. Boysie took no notice of that: forms were not for English milords. Sir Richard Hannay, he wrote. He gave his address as Munching House, Gonad Place, London, W.8. They also wanted his passport number so he scribbled 38765, added the date, signed the card and pushed it back at the receptionist.

  “Your passport, sir?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Boysie exploded. “What do you want, my blood? The blasted passport’s with my luggage - with the Rolls ...”

  The receptionist picked up the passing reference to the Rolls with lifting eyebrows and glanced at the card. The Sir Richard Hannay did it. The superiority vanished, servility taking over and five minutes later Boysie was lying in a hot bath.
Through the open doorway he could see a large bed; breakfast was ordered for eight in the morning with Le Monde, a razor and shaving cream. Boysie thanked heaven for the lingering class-consciousness of the classless society.

  He dried himself, stretched, performed a couple of exercises without much enthusiasm, reloaded the automatic with the spare magazine and tucked it under his pillow, slid into the bed and allowed fatigue to take over.

  He did not dream.

  ***

  At five past eight a waiter woke him and there was a breakfast table laid out with a neatly folded paper next to his plate.

  Boysie poured himself a cup of black coffee, broke a roll into two, spread it with butter and apricot jam, peeped into the bathroom to make certain the shaving gear had been provided, and sat down, stark naked, at the table. Even then he paused to take a sip of coffee, before opening the newspaper. Casually he unfolded Le Monde and there was no need to be a language expert in order to translate what he saw. Dry ice flooded Boysie’s veins.

  There was a large, and unflattering, photograph of himself on the front page. There was also a picture of Zizi, and of a man he did not recognise, though the text told him that it was Henri Frelon and the coppers wanted to interview him-badly.

  At the bottom of the page there were a couple of inset maps: one of the area around Chalon with the Hotel Royal circled; another of the Côte D’Azur, from Cannes to Menton and the Italian frontier.

  Don’t panic, Boysie told himself, knocking over the coffee and making a dash for the bathroom. Just keep your head, the receptionist who had booked him in last night could well have gone off duty without seeing the paper. Anyway the photograph was not much good and you would have to be blessed with ESP to recognise Boysie. He ducked into the roll neck, back to front. There was something about it being unlucky to change clothing if you put it on the wrong way round. To hell with that. His hands were quivering as though the wrists were on springs.

  Even when he was finally clothed, Boysie realised he was suffering from blasts of indecision. He needed a shave, but could not make up his mind whether to take the shaving cream as well as the razor-space in his pockets being limited. It seemed an age before he decided to jettison the cream, which was as well, for his pockets were already crammed with torch, pistol, passport and identity card, map, money and razor.