They were days that reassured him, and their unchanging character was as much a part of his life as the eccentricity he protected in himself, flourishing only because of his devotion to the continuity underneath. One of the attractions of a last tour in Paris was his feeling for a past that had never slipped away, one he’d come to know in the heady years after the liberation, when he was first invited by his masters to explore the secret byways of the city.
He had enjoyed the spectacle of an old lady coming back to life and walking out again.
In the years that followed, Paris had been an anchor through his wanderings. In times of trouble, he’d reach for it, and feel the pull through the storm. He loved its smells and moods, and, because he was a reserved man by nature, he envied its arrogance. Flemyng had asked in the last few days if that was why he seemed out of sorts – that he couldn’t bear the sight of Paris trembling.
Craven’s decision to go to London on this Monday seemed impulsive, and Janet, his secretary, marked it down as another sign of his disturbance, which she ascribed to his creeping illness. But she couldn’t be sure. Booking his passage, she took his instructions for absolute discretion without a murmur – her life was played out in closed compartments – although she noted his distracted manner and downbeat spirit.
There had been talk in the embassy about his unease at the thought of upheavals in the streets, and some amusement – Bolder said that for the first time in his life Freddy was getting frightened of the unknown – but Janet had sensed something underneath, and thought that she should watch the others with care. For what, she didn’t know.
As Craven left the restaurant, two waiters holding open the brass-bound doors for him and giving him formal bows of farewell before they closed the other diners in, she would have seen another sign. He was unsure whether or not to cross the street.
He hesitated on the pavement, as if worried that he might not make it to the other side in time. Then he stepped back, his overnight bag seeming to pull at him, and moved along the line of shops that led towards the end of the boulevard. He walked slowly, carrying the burden of his weariness.
But he was fortunate.
Before he reached the junction, a figure appeared at the traffic lights ahead, turning away from him unawares, and looked towards the station, standing to attention with his head held high. He wore a wide-brimmed felt hat, a light grey suit and carried a small brown suitcase that was polished and gleamed in the sun.
Sandy Bolder.
And Craven knew, on the instant, that he was bound for London.
Bolder had said nothing when they spoke, only two hours before. Why?
Craven stopped at the window of a cigar shop, and gazed at the implements and painted boxes racked up on their silver stands, his reflection clear on the glass against the gloom inside. He was still. Without changing position he could see Bolder almost skipping across the street and setting a course for the station through the swarm of taxis honking down rue de Dunkerque. He watched until his colleague had disappeared through the stone arches and a crowd closed behind him.
When Craven began to walk again, he had slowed down, his natural response to shock. He stepped only a few yards to a dingy café on the corner and went to the bar where he had a coffee and cognac. Exchanging words with men in their fifties who smoked on either side of him and drank pastis, he appeared calm. There were two students in the corner, long-haired and laughing. Craven’s companions snorted; one spat on the floor. After a few minutes, he checked his watch. The Calais train would be on its way.
Dropping a few coins on the zinc bar and picking up his bag, he hailed a taxi. He sank into the corner as it rattled over the cobbles, taking no interest in the streets nor the traffic pressing in on them.
‘Mr Craven, sir.’ The guard inside the embassy gate was proud that they were both naval men, which made him enthusiastic for the formalities.
‘George,’ said Craven, touching his hat and upping his pace as he crossed the courtyard.
He sat at his desk for two cigarettes, and recast his plan.
He was interrupted after a few minutes by one of the Gurkhas who manned the communications room. ‘Message from London, sir. We thought you’d left the embassy, and we were going to hold it. But George saw you coming back, so here it is, sir. Your eyes only.’ He handed across a yellow envelope and Craven opened it as he left the room.
It was worth lighting his pipe. Craven smiled and, unusually, spoke aloud to himself. ‘Well, who’d credit it? Freddy’s luck strikes again.’
He asked the switchboard to place a call, and within a quarter of an hour he was put through.
Ten minutes later his secretary was surprised to see him coming through her door. ‘What went wrong?’
‘Janet, we need to have a quiet conversation,’ he said as he shut the door and slid a chair towards her desk. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Quite the contrary.’
He sat down and lit up. She said nothing.
‘I know you will have said nothing about my travel arrangements. But did Sandy Bolder have a ticket for London, too? For today.’
She had booked nothing for him. ‘He would come to me in the normal way of things. But I have no reason to think that he’s gone over. Have you?’
Craven shrugged. ‘Never mind. I heard something, that’s all. We haven’t spoken. All right?’
‘Of course we haven’t.’ She smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have let you interrupt my afternoon anyway.’
He said he wanted to make a request, on their usual terms. There was a London flight from Orly at four. ‘Tight, but I can make it.’ Looking across the desk, he seemed to Janet to be nervous, because he kept his hands off her desk. But his eyes twinkled.
‘I’ve then got an arrangement that I want you to make, a rather unusual one.’ He knew that Janet, like him, was a devotee of Thomas Cook’s European railway timetable, which Craven treasured and sometimes picked up in order to get himself to sleep, so his instructions were simple and quick. She made a note on her pad, in pencil, which she would destroy at the end of the day.
‘I’m sure the timing will work,’ he said.
‘I’m certain of it,’ she said. ‘And to make sure that you have a good journey the other way, shall I get you on the night train from Victoria on Thursday?’
‘You read my mind,’ he said. ‘The Golden Arrow it is.’
She wished him good luck, and he rose.
Craven then made his way along the corridor towards his room, stopping at Will Flemyng’s poky office on the way. The door was closed. ‘Anyone in?’ He gave it a slap with his hand.
Flemyng appeared, shirtsleeves rolled up. ‘Come along now if you can,’ said Craven. And then, over his shoulder, ‘Bring that bottle with you. I see it’s open.’
They sat on either side of the desk, and Flemyng poured two full glasses of Chablis.
‘Cheers.’
Craven raised his glass without speaking, then savoured his wine for a few moments. ‘We need to have a frank talk, you and I, don’t you think?’
‘As always, Freddy.’ He sipped his drink.
‘I’m going to tell you something odd. Bolder is on his way to London, I’m fairly sure. Either that or he’s got an assignation with a dame in Calais, but that’s not very likely, is it? And he didn’t ask Janet to book his passage. Nor did he tell me. What do you make of that?’
Flemyng asked how he had found out. ‘I saw him at Nord,’ said Craven.
‘So you were on your way, too,’ Flemyng said. ‘Why?’
Craven laughed. ‘That’s my Will. But I’m asking the questions. Have you any idea?’
Flemyng sipped his wine.
‘Have you?’ Craven repeated himself. He had leaned back to pat the head of the wooden doll behind his desk.
‘No, except that he’s been behaving strangely. More excited than usual. And it isn’t the students. He doesn’t think much of them.’
Craven was watching him. Flemyng’s longish face was serious, symmetrica
l dark creases highlighting a mouth that had turned downwards. He was well tanned, and on this afternoon looked swarthy although he had shaved carefully as usual and his black hair was smooth. After a few moments Craven turned away to the window, and drank. He spoke without looking back at Flemyng, drawing on his pipe.
‘Sometimes I think I’m losing my grip here.’ He waited until a cloud of smoke was settling round his head.
‘I’m not going to push you, Will, because I hope it isn’t necessary and I want to give you a little time; let you ponder things for a bit. But remember, my boy, that I can read you. You’ve noticed something with Sandy’ – Flemyng was surprised by the switch to the familiar mode – ‘and it may be troubling you. Well, I’m bothered, too, and I want you to come to me when the moment is right. Sooner rather than later. You understand.’
Flemyng’s voice was quiet.
‘I do, Freddy’, and suddenly he had to look directly into the eyes of the old man who’d swung back to face him. ‘But I don’t want to make up stories,’ Flemyng said. ‘Castles in the air.’
‘Certainly,’ said Craven. ‘Nor do I want secrets in the air.’
He stood up and stretched, his energy a signal that the conversation had refreshed him. Flemyng didn’t respond.
‘We have to live with the damned things,’ Craven said, ‘and we can do without manufacturing more of our own, just for the sake of it.’
Flemyng could see a red spider’s web of blood vessels in one eye, and Craven’s forehead had a tint of purple.
‘I’ll be gone for a few days. Back on Friday I should think. Then we’ll talk.’
Flemyng wished him well, asked no questions and tried a smile.
Craven said, ‘We do lead rather ramshackle lives, don’t we? It occurs to me that if Sandy is away, too, you’re in charge. Marvellous. Enjoy it, my boy.’ But his expression was serious. ‘Take these.’ He handed him a brass ring with two keys. ‘These will get you into the left-hand drawer of my desk. If anything happens to me when I’m away… or if there’s a crisis of some kind, please don’t hesitate. But take good care of these, please. Old men have to make their dispositions. You never know.’ He smiled at him. ‘Keep them. Even I can’t go on for ever.’
Flemyng laughed as he put the keys in an inside pocket, but knew that he looked awkward in collecting the glasses and changing the subject – the spring weather, the latest from Nanterre, the preparations for May Day and talk of riot squads gathering at police stations across the city – and that Craven was watching him. The old man allowed him to speak, and said nothing more. Flemyng was dismissed from the room with a nod.
On his secure phone, Craven made some brief calls. Jonny Hinckley in Brussels, always on the inside track. Then an old friend in London who answered his question easily: a check with the office language school could be arranged at short notice. He was cheerful throughout, talking briefly but enthusiastically, as if he were happy to be making an unexpected visit home. When another message was delivered from the code room, he was even happier. Janet confirmed his taxi and his flight. His third phone call was to one of his boys who’d done well.
‘And how is spring in Berlin?’ he began.
*
Flemyng sat for some time in his own office. He finished the bottle of wine, which was unusual for him, and knowing that Craven would be wondering how he would react to their conversation he decided to veer away from Bolder and his trip to London. Instead, he called the embassy switchboard and asked them to book a call to Scotland, and his brother. The rest of the office had been enjoying direct calls to London for a year, but the luxury hadn’t yet arrived at the Lochgarry exchange. He knew there would be a record of his call available to anyone who inquired, which was one reason for making it. Flemyng knew, too, that there was a good chance he would be overheard.
Ten minutes later his phone rang and Mungo was at the other end. ‘I hope you’re in better form than you were the other night, mon frère.’ He couldn’t hide his concern about Flemyng. ‘This is not like you, ringing during the day. What’s wrong?’ They were back where they had left off on Saturday night.
‘Nothing at all. I wanted to apologize for being off colour last time. This is a jumpy place. We’re like animals in the field that know the storm’s coming, but not when. So this is me asking you not to worry.’
‘And Abel,’ said Mungo. ‘You’ll want to know if I hear any more. He’ll be here in two weeks. A flying visit as usual, I expect. But, Will, if you could come it would be special for me.’
‘He hasn’t been in touch since we spoke?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll try to get back,’ Flemyng said, and with good wishes to Mungo and Babble he said goodbye.
A minute later, along the corridor, Craven’s phone rang.
‘Scotland. He rang home.’
Craven’s taxi for Orly was due in ten minutes, so he searched in his desk for the half-bottle of whisky he kept for airport emergencies and decanted it into a pewter hip flask. Then he was on his way to the embassy side door, bag in hand.
At that moment, Bolder was on the dockside at Calais, full of zest. There was a strong westerly breeze and he enjoyed the air and the spray as he watched a ferry leaning into the swell and turning at the harbour wall. It would be a lively crossing, so he would stay on the upper deck. He had checked the other passengers gathering beyond the customs shed and there was no one who seemed familiar, from the embassy or anywhere else. Had any acquaintance turned up unexpectedly, Bolder would have been the first to strike up a conversation because he was always ready, but it wasn’t necessary.
It was one of his unusual traits that he liked to stand out in a crowd, going against the traditions of his trade. Where Flemyng would adopt a quiet and diffident pose in most kinds of company, giving out signals of ease, and Craven would mimic the demeanour of any crowd to become part of it, Bolder had never tried to lose his natural swagger. He was showing off his new dove-grey suit for the summer and a tie brighter than any of his friends in London would choose. Most notably of all, he carried himself with a deliberate erectness, sometimes exaggerated by a habit of tilting his head back with his sharp chin jutting out, a pose that Flemyng once told him made him look as if he was being measured up for the prow of a ship.
At the moment the gangway was clattering on to the quay, and Bolder was shuffling into line, Craven was approaching Orly in the taxi, his hand on the flask in his bag. Flemyng was lingering in Janet’s office.
He’d brought two memos that he wanted to send home in that evening’s bag, to be taken by a Queen’s messenger on the night train. One was a leisurely account of the Nanterre upheavals, in which he erred on the side of drama. Why not? Then he exchanged gossip with Janet about her Easter holiday in Normandy and his hopes to go to Scotland in May, events permitting. As he left he asked casually about Craven.
‘Freddy’s in London tonight, I gather.’
‘You probably know more than me,’ she said, which Flemyng chose to take as a confirmation. If Craven had other plans in Paris, she would probably have told him.
Saying that he was heading home early, he went to his room and tidied his desk, locking his briefcase away for the night. He carried nothing with him as he went downstairs, only a thin novel in his pocket.
George called out to him in the courtyard. ‘Message, sir, come by hand. I’m glad I caught you.’
He took the envelope, gave thanks, and passed through the gate. There was a café on the next corner where he often stopped on the way home, and he went inside before he opened it.
The waiter who stood by him until he had read the short letter said it must be good news.
Flemyng looked up, smiling. ‘Yes, it is.’
Grace Quincy was asking if they could meet, and soon.
*
Taking a sheet of notepaper from the tail-coated concierge at the Meurice, Flemyng wrote a short note to Quincy. His hand was easy and elegant and he took care to express his frustration at havin
g missed her at the hotel where he’d hoped to make contact on the way. But he would be delighted to meet, whenever she pleased: sadly, it couldn’t be that evening. But could she ring him in the morning? He wrote out the phone number at his apartment. Then he said he had read her piece in the New Yorker and it had moved him greatly. He signed the note ‘Will’ and, conscious that it was early days, ‘Flemyng’ in brackets.
Addressing the envelope with her room number, which the concierge had been happy to give him, he left the note and took one of the taxis at the front door to Bastille. From there he walked for nearly a mile, taking care to stop twice, at a tabac and a café. No one was following him. He sat at a table and took a second piece of notepaper from his pocket that he had picked up at the Meurice and wrote a few words, using block capitals.
‘Eight o’clock OK?’
He signed it ‘W’.
Continuing his walk for five minutes more, turning eventually into a street of high apartment blocks that ran towards the river, he found the building he was looking for, pushed back the high entrance gate and slid the envelope under the first door to his left. He walked to the other end of the street and took a new route towards Bastille, where he arrived about half an hour later and walked through to Place des Vosges.
He had time to eat. For more than an hour he lingered in a brasserie under the stone colonnade, producing a Simenon paperback from his inside pocket which he began as he waited for his cassoulet. Afterwards he took a table near the bar and read, taking his time with one drink. At a quarter to eight he paid his bill and was gone.
Paris Spring Page 10
