by Peter Watson
The furniture in the room was undistinctive, the carpets worn, the lamps uncared for, in that two of the bulbs didn’t work when I tried them. There were one or two contemporary paintings on the walls, but none by a hand that I recognized.
I went upstairs.
The bedroom was on a par with the living room. A bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, more pictures like those on the floor below. A stack of books by the bed, some scientific, some political, no novels or history. An alarm clock, three packs of cigarettes—so he did smoke—very few clothes in the wardrobe, some condoms in the chest of drawers. Some money rolled up in an elastic band, a set of spectacles, some candles for when the electricity failed.
A gun.
A revolver which, if I was not mistaken, was of Russian make. It wasn’t loaded but a box of bullets was half hidden under some underwear in the same drawer.
Now why would François Perrault need a Russian gun?
I didn’t stop to think but picked it up, with the bullets, and went through into the study.
This, clearly, was where Perrault lived, where he spent his time.
It was a large room, with one window on the square, a large desk in the middle, piled high with papers and what looked like scientific models. There was a sofa against one wall. There were no pictures on the walls here, for every available area of space was covered by bookshelves—there must have been thousands of books in this room. Science titles predominated, and politics was also well represented, but so too were modern French novels—Gide, Camus, Genet.
I moved to the desk. A bulky typewriter stood in pride of place, paper still in it. Scientific journals, typed pages, folders, cigarette packets, ashtrays, a candlestick, a camera, all competed for space here. There was a black folder with, in gold capitals, UNIVERSITAIRE DE BELFORT on the cover—his old place of employment. Next to the chair, papers were stacked on the floor—Perrault was clearly in the course of writing something. I cast my eye over what was in the typewriter, but it was mathematical and I could make neither head nor tail of it.
Next to the typewriter was what looked like a diary, open. I looked at the entries. There, in an entry for the very next day, were written four words followed by a large exclamation mark: “Legros, soudain et enfin!”
Perrault was meeting Legros tomorrow.
What I had to do, I had to do now, tonight.
Then I noticed something else.
Over the fireplace, on the mantelshelf, was a photograph, elaborately framed, as if a lot of thought had gone into it.
The photograph showed Perrault and this time he wasn’t in white tie and tails but in a denim jacket and a hat with a peak. And next to him, smiling, with a broad bushy moustache, was none other than Iosif Dzhugashvili himself, better known as Stalin.
—
LATER THAT AFTERNOON I put in an appearance in the office. At the very least, Justine would want to know where I had been, and if I didn’t turn up at all, she would be even more inquisitive.
“Hello, stranger,” she said softly as I walked through the main room.
I smiled and gave her a half-wave. “Let me check my post,” I said, “then we can talk.”
I went into my office and closed the door behind me. There were telegrams from London, army communications about supplies, intelligence reports, bills to pay, requests for leave, and one small envelope, still sealed, marked TOP SECRET. I opened that first, fancying I knew what was in it.
I spread out the thin paper on my desk. I was not disappointed.
+WHAT·NEWS·OF·THE·WEDDING?·STOP+
It wasn’t signed.
I screwed up the piece of paper in my hand and slipped it into my pocket, to be disposed of somewhere else. They would get their answer soon enough, I hoped.
I scanned the rest of the post, lingering on just one, from Hilary.
+MANY·THANKS·INTERIM·REPORT·STOP+MINISTER·MOLLIFIED ·FOR·NOW=HILARY+
That was something.
I got up, went round my desk, opened the door, and beckoned to Justine. I sat on the edge of my desk as she leaned against the jamb of the door.
“Are you having your own private war? Where have you been?”
She didn’t say it aggressively; in a way, she wasn’t so far off.
I showed her the empty envelope the “wedding” telegram had arrived in, the one with TOP SECRET on the front.
“There is a war still on, Justine, and everyone can’t be in on everything. I have orders I can’t tell you about.”
She raised her eyebrows so I made a tactical retreat.
“If you’re very good, I’ll tell you. Actually, this secret is nothing special. De Gaulle wants to know what we are up to and I had to brief his chief of staff, a man called Leclerc—know him?”
She shook her head. “And what did you tell him—I hope you didn’t talk about the meeting in the theatre. You promised—”
“No, of course I didn’t,” I interrupted. “Of course not. I told him what we’ve been doing, our trip to La Santé, to Saarburg, the plan to visit Pforzheim. Just that. Is there any news on Pforzheim, by the way? What have you been doing?”
She played with the elastic band on her wrist. “Party business, mainly.” She nodded to the outer office. “Roland knows about Pforzheim. Ask him.”
“I will,” I said, looking at my watch, to show I wanted to move on.
I stepped around my desk and gestured to the papers on it. “I’ve got all this to catch up with. Can you get by without me tonight? I’ve got to go to a dinner and intelligence briefing out near Versailles. I may have to stay the night.”
She moved forward and gently stroked the lapel of my jacket.
“Of course. In fact, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m having dinner with François tonight.”
“Old flames getting together?”
I made light of it, but this was not good news. What if dinner turned into…more? What if she went back to his apartment, and stayed?
“We are old flames, as you say, but the flame went out long ago. The reason for the dinner is very different. What I am about to tell you is top secret too: François has been invited to Russia. It won’t be easy for him to get there, but we are beginning to plan for after the war. He trusts me and he wants to discuss what might happen. There will be no sex.”
This was riveting news. If Perrault was scheduled to meet Daniel Legros tomorrow, and going to Russia any time soon, then…then…everything fell into place.
But I needed to end this conversation on a different note, something personal, intimate, away from politics and war.
“I didn’t see Max in the outer office. Is he all right? Will you look after him tonight? Or is Roland babysitting again?” I grinned.
She made one of her French faces. “No! Max is in disgrace. In the park today, for his walk, he chased after another dog, a bitch, and before I could do anything, he was…you know, he was…he made sex with the bitch. It was embarrassing. He is locked in my apartment—you are not to let him out. He must learn he has done wrong—why are you laughing?”
“I’m not laughing, I’m smiling. Is what he did really so terrible?”
“Yes, yes, it was. I had to pull them apart. It was humiliating.”
“I’d pay money to have seen that.”
“Ouf! I am beginning to go off you, Englishman.”
“Have lunch with me tomorrow and I’ll make it up to you.”
“We’ll see,” she said, curling a strand of hair around her finger. “I may not have forgiven you by then.” But as she let go of her hair, and turned on her heel, she gave me a quick smile.
· 26 ·
I WAS AT THE CAFÉ IN the Place Royère by eight thirty. I sat outside, because although it was fresh it was darker there, with fewer people. This time I had with me a French novel I had found on a shelf in Justine’s flat, L’Etranger by a certain Albert Camus. I ordered—and paid for—a beer and a brandy. That should see me through for an hour and a half.
I had made a p
recise calculation. If François Perrault was having dinner with Justine, he would not be home before ten thirty and perhaps not even then. As I looked across the square, all the windows in his flat were dark. So too was the tabac, a blind drawn down its door, big cardboard cut-outs of cigarette packs in its windows. You couldn’t see inside. That suited me.
I sipped my cognac and opened the novel. My plan was to remain in the café for an hour or so. I needed to be in the square just in case, for some reason or other, Justine’s dinner with François ended prematurely. But then I would transfer to the more remote spot I had identified the day before—the double doors set back in a niche by the motorbikes. If I moved there too early, it would look suspicious, someone just lurking in the shadows. Later, there would be far fewer people around.
I couldn’t concentrate too hard on the novel, of course. I could never take my eye off the square completely. Confident as I was that Perrault would not be home any time soon, I still couldn’t be sure.
The waiter approached me.
“Another beer, please,” I said before he could say anything.
“Encore un cognac aussi?”
I shook my head.
He went off and I scrutinised a man crossing the square. It wasn’t Perrault.
I had the correct money for the beer on the table by the time the waiter came back, hoping he would just pick it up and leave. No.
“Would you like something to eat?” he said.
I shook my head. “No, thank you very much.”
“Do you want to move inside? The lighting is better, if you want to read.”
He was just trying to be friendly, and possibly hoping to add to his tips for the day, if I had dinner there.
I leaned forward. “I’m not hungry and I suffer from asthma. I’m more comfortable outside—thank you.”
I kept my head turned, so he couldn’t look directly at my face.
“I understand, monsieur. Just say if you need some water.”
I nodded without looking at him, and inspected L’Etranger.
He went away.
I was sure that, if what I planned for later came off, he would remember me. Of course he would. Whether he would link me to what I was going to do, I didn’t know. If the police questioned him, and he mentioned me, I am sure they would attach some importance to it. But there was nothing inherently suspicious about asthma. It was not in itself remarkable.
He left me alone after that, and I went back to my joint task of keeping one eye on the square and reading my book.
I finished my beer, waited a few more moments, and then, without looking back at the waiter, I left the café, in the direction away from Perrault’s apartment and the tabac.
I strolled around the square until I reached the double doorway I had noticed, by the stack of parked motorbikes, at the far corner. Up close, it looked as though it led into some sort of yard. The shadows there were deep and I quietly stepped into the murky gloom and stood still.
Ten o’clock came, 10:15, 10:25.
Then I saw them.
What was this? Was Justine going to spend the night with François? She had told me all that was over, but, well…people lie. But that was less important, I told myself, than how it affected my plan.
I had to kill Perrault tonight, here in this square.
But I couldn’t kill Justine.
I watched as they paused at his front door, let themselves inside, and closed it behind them. A few moments later, the first-floor lights went on.
Then the lights went on at the second-floor level, where his bedroom and his study were. Were they still discussing politics? Or had Justine really lied to me, and were they preparing to spend the night together?
I waited, hoping that some idea would come to me.
It didn’t.
At eleven o’clock the lights in the café were put out and the square grew a great deal darker.
Still no idea came to me.
About a quarter of an hour later, I saw the light in Perrault’s study go out, though the one in his bedroom stayed on.
It looked very much as though Justine had lied to me, and was spending the night. What was I to do? I tried to whip up a hatred of her that would justify what I was planning.
It didn’t work. I had no hatred for Justine.
And then I heard a sound. Moments later, Perrault’s front door opened and there were the two of them standing in the square, still talking. Justine was carrying something, a folder of some kind; she stood on tiptoe, kissed Perrault’s cheek, and then half ran across the square, by herself. I looked at my watch and realised she was running to catch the last Métro.
The familiar sweating on my neck stopped, and I suddenly craved a cigarette. But I couldn’t draw attention to myself by showing a light. Instead, I just watched as Perrault turned and went back through his front door.
Now it was just him and me.
—
THE SQUARE WAS DESERTED. The sounds of the night—the whistles and clanking of shunting railway trains, ambulances on emergencies, all-night buses—reached me in my shadowy niche. Occasionally, a child cried somewhere in one of the houses lining the square; a cat called out. Now and then the wind got up. Litter lifted, and settled back down again.
All the lights had gone out in Perrault’s flat about twenty minutes after Justine had left. It was now coming up to two o’clock. The square was dark and empty but I could only do what I planned to do when everyone was sound asleep and that, I judged, would be between two and four.
The sky was cloudy. That was a help—it meant there was no moon.
At ten minutes past two I made my move.
I had taken care to wear rubber-soled shoes so I made no sound as I walked slowly along the pavement.
I stopped first at Perrault’s front door. I checked the handle. It was locked. I had with me a large tube of glue, the new kind that Duncan Kennaway had introduced to Ardlossan, the kind that hardened on contact with air. I unscrewed the lid, inserted the nozzle into the keyhole, and began to squeeze the glue into the key-slot. I kept squeezing until glue was oozing down the front of the door, sluicing everywhere. Then I put the tube back into my pocket, wiped the drips off the tube and the front door with my handkerchief, and waited.
After five minutes I tried to insert the key I had with me into the keyhole. The glue had hardened and the keyhole opening itself was blocked solid. The moving parts inside would also be congealed now into one mass—and it would be the same on the inside of the door.
Perrault was trapped. If he tried to get out through the door, he wouldn’t be able to, not without breaking the door down. By which time…
I moved next door to the tabac.
My tension wrench and pick got me inside in no time. I shut the door behind me but didn’t lock it.
Having reconnoitered the tabac, I knew exactly what I was going to do. On the right side, high up behind the serving counter, were boxes of lighter fuel. I took down as many boxes as I could hold. On the left, low down this time, was a display of pipes and cigarette holders, and a shelf of matches. I didn’t need too many of them.
One by one, I unscrewed the bottles of lighter fuel and started sprinkling it over everything in the shop. The smell of alcohol rose to my nostrils—it was not unpleasant. I spread lighter fuel over boxes of cigars, packets of cigarettes, boxes of cigarette papers, over packets of tobacco, boxes of matches, all over the floor, all over the shelves, all over the serving counter. The atmosphere began to cloy.
Then I moved some metal cigar cutters and took down two tins of tobacco and tipped the contents into the waste bin behind the counter. I opened two packets of cigarette papers and threw them on to the tobacco.
Now I took out the other thing I had brought with me, all the way from London.
An incendiary device.
I heard voices—and froze.
I turned and, with a finger, moved the door blind ever so slightly so that I could see out.
Two women were
standing in the middle of the square, talking. They wore high-heeled shoes, tight skirts, plenty of make-up. Two ladies of the night comparing notes. I should have guessed—Pigalle, Paris’s main red-light area, wasn’t far away.
I watched them. The smell of lighter fuel was very strong now, scratching at my nostrils and throat. It wouldn’t leak out into the night air, surely? The women were looking my way.
But they were a good fifty yards in the distance and it was a quarter to three in the morning. They couldn’t see me.
Just then they kissed and moved off, in different directions.
I couldn’t follow their movements so I had to assume they lived in the square. Therefore, I now had to wait another half an hour, to let them get into bed.
I waited, looking at my watch every so often, and kept easing the blind aside to see if anyone else was arriving home late.
No one was.
At ten past three I sprinkled yet more lighter fuel over the contents of the shop. Then I took the lighter Celestine had given me and lit some of the packets of cigarette papers I had earlier doused with fuel in the waste bin.
The fuel-soddened papers ignited straightaway with a “whoosh!,” and the flames immediately began to spread.
I lit more cigarette papers and set fire to other parts of the shop that I had doused with lighter fuel. The flames were now spreading right across the fittings.
I lit the incendiary and laid it in the waste bin. It sizzled softly.
Now for what I hoped would be the clever bit. I took from my pocket two cigarette tins, the two I had bought on my first visit to the tabac. One by one I opened them to check that what I had put into the empty tins was still there.
Everything was in order.
I closed the tins and placed them just inside the door of the tabac.
I let myself out as the smell of burning began to scratch at my notsrils, not locking the door as I went. Then, without looking around me, I walked quickly back to my shadowy niche.
Reaching it, I turned and watched.
For a few moments, I could see and hear nothing.
