The Killing Spirit

by Jay Hopler

  I don’t know Trevanny personally. Need I emphasize that I don’t wish to make his acquaintance, nor do I wish you to mention my name? My suggestion is if you want to sound him out, come to F’bleau, put yourself up at a charming hostelry called L’Aigle Noir for a couple of days, ring Trevanny at his shop, make an appointment, and talk it over. And do I have to tell you to give another name besides your own?

  Tom felt a sudden optimism about the project. The vision of Reeves with his disarming air of uncertainty and anxiety—almost suggestive of probity—laying such an idea before Trevanny, who looked as upright as a saint, made Tom laugh. Did he dare occupy a table in L’Aigle Noir’s dining room or bar when Reeves made his date with Trevanny? No, that would be too much. This reminded him of another point, and he added to his letter:

  If you come to F’bleau, please don’t telephone or write a note to me under any circumstances. Destroy my letter now,

  please.

  Yours ever,

  Tom

  4

  The telephone rang in Jonathan’s shop on Friday afternoon, March 31st. He was just gluing brown paper to the back of a large picture, and he had to find suitable weights—an old sandstone saying LONDON, the glue pot itself, a wooden mallet—before he could lift the telephone.

  “Hello?”

  “Bonjour, M’sieur. M. Trevanny? … You speak English, I think. My name is Stephen Wister, W-i-s-t-e-r. I’m in Fontainebleau for a couple of days, and I wonder if you could find a few minutes to talk with me about something—something that I think would interest you.”

  The man had an American accent. “I don’t buy pictures,” Jonathan said. “I’m a framer.”

  “I didn’t want to see you about anything connected with your work. It’s something I can’t explain over the phone. … I’m staying at the Aigle Noir.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was wondering if you have a few minutes this evening after you close your shop. Around seven? Six-thirty? We could have a drink or a coffee.”

  “But—I’d like to know why you want to see me.” A woman had come into the shop—Mme. Tissot, Tissaud?—to pick up a picture. Jonathan smiled apologetically to her.

  “I’ll have to explain when I see you,” said the soft, earnest voice. “It’ll take only ten minutes. Have you any time? At seven today, for instance?”

  Jonathan shifted. “Six-thirty would be all right.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m wearing a gray plaid suit. But I’ll speak to the porter. It won’t be difficult.”

  Jonathan usually closed around six-thirty. At six-fifteen, he stood at his cold-water sink, scrubbing his hands. It was a mild day, and Jonathan had worn a polo-neck sweater with an old beige corduroy jacket, not elegant enough for L’Aigle Noir, and the addition of his second-best mack would have made things worse. Why should he care? The man wanted to sell him something. It couldn’t be anything else.

  The hotel was only a five-minute walk from the shop. It had a small front court enclosed by high iron gates, and a few steps led up to its front door.

  Jonathan saw a slender, tense-looking man with crew-cut hair move toward him with a faint uncertainty, and Jonathan said, “Mr. Wister?”

  “Yes.” Reeves gave a twitch of a smile and extended his hand. “Shall we have a drink in the bar here, or do you prefer somewhere else?”

  The bar was pleasant and quiet. Jonathan shrugged. “As you like.” He noticed an awful scar the length of Wister’s cheek.

  They went to the wide door of the hotel’s bar, which was empty except for a man and a woman at a small table.

  Wister turned away as if put off by the quietude, and said, “Let’s try somewhere else.”

  They walked out of the hotel and turned right. Jonathan knew the next bar, the Café du Sport or some such, roistering at this hour with boys at the pinball machines and workmen at the counter. On the threshold of the bar-café, Wister stopped as if he had come unexpectedly upon a battlefield in action.

  “Would you mind,” Wister said, turning away, “coming up to my room? It’s quiet and we can have something sent up.”

  They went back to the hotel, climbed a flight of stairs, and entered an attractive room in Spanish decor—black ironwork, a raspberry-colored bedspread, a pale green carpet. A suitcase on the rack was the only sign of the room’s occupancy. Wister had entered without a key.

  “What’ll you have?” Wister went to the telephone. “Scotch?”

  “Fine.”

  The man ordered in clumsy French. He asked for the bottle to be brought up, and for plenty of ice, please.

  Then there was a silence. Why was the man uneasy, Jonathan wondered. Jonathan stood by the window where he had been looking out. Evidently Wister didn’t want to talk until the drinks arrived. Jonathan heard a discreet tap at the door.

  A white-jacketed waiter came in with a tray and a friendly smile. Stephen Wister poured generous drinks.

  “Are you interested in making some money?”

  Jonathan smiled, settled in a comfortable armchair now, with the huge iced Scotch in his hand. “Who isn’t?”

  “I have a dangerous job in mind—well, an important job—for which I’m prepared to pay quite well.”

  Jonathan thought of drugs: the man probably wanted something delivered or held. “What business are you in?” Jonathan inquired politely.

  “Several. Just now one you might call—gambling.… Do you gamble?”

  “No.” Jonathan smiled.

  “I don’t, either. That’s not the point.” The man got up from the side of the bed and walked slowly about the room. “I live in Hamburg.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gambling isn’t legal in the city limits, but it goes on in private clubs. However, whether it’s legal or not is not the point. I need a person eliminated, possibly two—and maybe a theft done. Now, that’s putting my cards on the table.” He looked at Jonathan with a serious, hopeful expression.

  Killed, the man meant. Jonathan was startled; then he smiled and shook his head. “I wonder where you got my name!”

  Stephen Wister didn’t smile. “Never mind that.” He continued walking up and down with his drink in his hand, and his gray eyes glanced at Jonathan and away again. “I wonder if you’re interested in ninety-six thousand dollars? That’s about forty thousand pounds, and about four hundred and eighty thousand francs—new francs. Just for shooting a man—maybe two; we’ll have to see how it goes. It’ll be an arrangement that’s safe and foolproof for you.”

  Jonathan shook his head again. “I don’t know where you heard that I’m a—a gunman. You’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Jonathan’s smile faded under the man’s intense stare. “It’s a mistake. Do you mind telling me how you came to ring me?”

  “Well, you’re—” Wister looked more pained than ever. “You’re not going to live more than a few months. You know that. You’ve got a wife and a small son—haven’t you? Wouldn’t you like to leave them a little something when you’re gone?”

  Jonathan felt the blood drain from his face. How did Wister know so much? Then he realized it was all connected, that whoever told Gauthier he was going to die soon knew this man, was connected with him somehow. Jonathan was not going to mention Gauthier. Gauthier was an honest man, and Wister was a crook. Suddenly Jonathan’s Scotch didn’t taste so good. “There was a crazy rumor—recently—”

  Now Wister shook his head. “It is not a crazy rumor. It may be that your doctor hasn’t told you the truth.”

  “And you know more than my doctor? My doctor doesn’t lie to me. It’s true I have a blood disease, but I’m in no worse state now—” Jonathan broke off. “The essential thing is, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Wister.”

  As Wister bit his underlip, the long scar moved in a distasteful way, like a live worm.

  Jonathan looked away from him. Was Dr. Périer lying, after all? Jonathan thought he should ring up the Paris
laboratory tomorrow morning and ask some questions, or simply go to Paris and demand another examination.

  “Mr. Trevanny, I’m sorry to say it’s evidently you who aren’t informed. At least you’ve heard what you call the rumor, so I’m not the bearer of bad tidings. It’s your own choice, but under the circumstances, a considerable sum like this, I would think, should sound rather pleasant. You could stop working and enjoy your—Well, for instance, you could take a cruise around the world with your family and still leave your wife—”

  Jonathan felt slightly faint. He stood up and took a deep breath. The sensation passed, but he preferred to be on his feet. Wister was talking, but Jonathan barely listened.

  “ …my idea. There’re a few men in Hamburg who would contribute toward the ninety-six thousand dollars. The man, or men, we want out of the way are Mafia men.”

  Jonathan had only half recovered. “Thanks, I am not a killer. You may as well get off the subject.”

  Wister went on. “But exactly what we want is someone not connected with any of us, or with Hamburg. Although the first man, only a button man, must be shot in Hamburg. The reason is that we want the police to think that two Mafia gangs are fighting each other in Hamburg. In fact, we want the police to step in on our side.” He continued to walk up and down, looking at the floor mostly. “The first man ought to be shot in a crowd, a U-bahn crowd. That’s our subway—’underground’ you’d call it. The gun would be dropped at once, the—the assassin blends into the crowd and vanishes. An Italian gun, with no fingerprints on it. No clues.” He brought his hands down like a conductor finishing.

  Jonathan moved back to the chair, in need of it for a few seconds. “Sorry. No.” He would walk to the door as soon as he got his strength back.

  “I’m here all tomorrow, and probably till late Sunday afternoon. I wish you’d think about it. …Another Scotch? Might do you good.”

  “No, thanks.” Jonathan hauled himself up. “I’ll be pushing off.” Wister nodded, looking disappointed.

  “And thanks for the drink.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Wister opened the door for Jonathan.

  Jonathan went out. He had expected Wister to press a card with his name and address into his hand. Jonathan was glad he hadn’t.

  The streetlights had come on in the Rue de France. Seven twenty-two. Had Simone asked him to buy anything? Bread, perhaps. Jonathan went into a boulangerie and bought a long stick. The familiar chore was comforting.

  The supper consisted of vegetable soup, a couple of slices of leftover fromage de tête, a salad of tomatoes and onions. Simone talked about a wallpaper sale at a shop near where she worked. For a hundred francs, they could paper the bedroom, and she had seen a beautiful mauve and green pattern, very light and art nouveau.

  “With only one window, that bedroom’s very dark, you know, Jon.”

  “Sounds fine,” Jonathan said. “Especially if it’s a sale.”

  “It is a sale. Not one of these silly sales where they reduce something five percent—like my stingy boss.” She wiped bread crust in her salad oil and popped it into her mouth. “You’re worried about something? Something happened today?”

  Jonathan smiled suddenly. He wasn’t worried about anything. He was glad Simone hadn’t noticed he was a little late, and that he’d had a big drink “No, darling. Nothing happened. The end of the week, maybe. Almost the end.”

  “You feel tired?”

  It was like a question from a doctor, routine now “No. I’ve got to telephone a customer tonight between eight and nine.” It was eight thirty-seven. “I may as well do it now, dear. Maybe I’ll have some coffee later.”

  “Can I go with you?” Georges asked, dropping his fork, sitting back ready to leap out of his chair.

  “Not tonight, mon petit copain. I’m in a hurry. And you just want to play the pinball machines—I know you.”

  “Hollywood Chewing Gum!” Georges shouted, pronouncing it in the French manner, “Ollyvoo Schvang Gom!”

  Jonathan winced as he lifted his jacket from the hall hook. Hollywood Chewing Gum, whose green and white wrappers littered the gutters and occasionally Jonathan’s garden, had mysterious attractions for infants of the French nation. “Oui, M’sieur,” Jonathan said, and went out the door.

  Dr. Périer had a home number in the directory, and Jonathan hoped he was in tonight. A certain bar-tabac, which had a telephone, was closer than Jonathan’s shop. Panic was taking hold of him, and he began to trot toward the slanting lighted red cylinder that marked the tabac two streets away. He would insist on the truth. Jonathan nodded a greeting to the young man behind the bar, whom he knew slightly, and pointed to the telephone and also to the shelf where the directories lay. “Fontainebleau!” Jonathan shouted. The place was noisy, and the jukebox was going. Jonathan searched out the number and dialed.

  Dr. Périer answered and recognized Jonathan’s voice.

  “I would like to have another test. Even tonight. Now—if you could take a sample.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I could come to see you at once. In five minutes.”

  “Are you—You are weak?”

  “Well—I thought if the test went to Paris tomorrow—” Jonathan knew that Dr. Perier was in the habit of sending various samples to Paris on Saturday mornings. “If you could take a sample either tonight or early tomorrow morning—”

  “I am not in my office tomorrow morning. I have visits to make. If you are so upset, M. Trevanny, come to my house now.”

  Jonathan paid for his call, and remembered just before he went out the door to buy two packages of Hollywood Chewing Gum. Périer lived way over on the Boulevard Maginot, which would take nearly ten minutes. Jonathan trotted and walked. He had never been to the doctor’s house.

  It was a big, gloomy building, and the concierge was an old, slow, skinny woman who was watching television in a little glass-enclosed room full of plastic plants.

  While Jonathan waited for the lift to descend into the rickety cage, the concierge crept into the hall and asked curiously, “Your wife is having a baby, M’sieur?”

  “No. No,” Jonathan said, smiling, and recalled that Dr. Périer was a general practitioner.

  He rode up.

  “Now what is the matter?” Dr. Périer asked, beckoning him through the dining room. “Come into this room.”

  The apartment was dimly lighted. The television set was on somewhere. The room they went into was like a little office, with medical books on the shelves, and a desk on which the doctor’s black bag now sat.

  “Mon Dieu, one would think you are on the brink of collapse. You’ve just been running, obviously, and your cheeks are pink. Don’t tell me you’ve heard another rumor that you’re on the edge of the grave!”

  Jonathan made an effort to sound calm. “It’s just that I want to be sure. I don’t feel so splendid, to tell the truth. I know it’s been only two months since the last test but—since the next is due the end of April, what’s the harm—” He broke off, shrugging. “Since it’s easy to take some marrow, and since it can go off tomorrow early—” Jonathan was aware that his French was clumsy at that moment, aware of the word moelle, marrow, which had become revolting, especially when Jonathan thought of his as being abnormally yellow. He sensed Dr. Perier’s attitude of humoring his patient.

  “Yes, I can take the sample. The result will probably be the same as last time. You can never have complete assurance from medical men, M. Trevanny. …” The doctor continued to talk while Jonathan removed his sweater, obeyed Dr. Périer’s gesture, and lay down on an old leather sofa. The doctor jabbed the anesthetizing needle in. “But I can appreciate your anxiety,” Dr. Périer said seconds later, pressing and tapping on the tube that was going into Jonathan’s sternum.

  Jonathan disliked the crunching sound of it, but found the slight pain quite bearable. This time, perhaps, he’d learn something. Jonathan could not refrain from saying before he left, “I must know the truth, Dr. Fierier. You don’t
think that the laboratory might not be giving us a proper summing up? I’m ready to believe their figures are correct—”

  “This summing up or prediction is what you can’t get, my dear young man!”

  Jonathan then walked home. He thought of telling Simone that he’d gone to see Périer, that he again felt anxious, but he couldn’t: he’d put Simone through enough. What could she say if he told her? She would only become a little more anxious herself.

  Georges was already in bed upstairs, and Simone was reading to him. Asterix again. Georges, propped against his pillows, and Simone, on a low stool under the lamplight, were like a tableau vivant of domesticity. The year might have been 1880, Jonathan thought, except for Simone’s slacks. Georges’s hair was as yellow as corn silk under the light.

  “Le schvang gom?” Georges asked, grinning.

  Jonathan smiled and produced one packet. The other could wait for another occasion.

  “You were gone a long time,” said Simone.

  “I had a beer at the café,” Jonathan said.

  The next afternoon between four-thirty and five, as Dr. Périer had told him to do, Jonathan telephoned the Ebberle-Valent Laboratoires in Neuilly. He gave his name and spelled it and said he was a patient of Dr. Périer’s in Fontainebleau. Then he waited to be connected with the right department, while the telephone gave a blup every minute for the pay units. Jonathan had pen and paper ready. Could he spell his name again, please? Then a woman’s voice began to read the report, and Jonathan jotted figures down quickly. Hyperleukocytose 190,000. Wasn’t that bigger than before?

  “We shall, of course, send a written report to your doctor, which he should receive by Tuesday.”