SEVEN

He shook his left wrist: his man woke, uncurled, went to rub his eye in a childish, pathetic fashion and remembered his right hand was cuffed. Castang forgot about Sabine. She had been a useful device for keeping his mind oilstoned over an hour or so, necessary because this sad burden he had been convoying had shot at him that morning. A few hours in a train had increased his apathy, but he was still a burden, now more than ever. He had to be carted over to the local stone jug, and signed for a good few times in a painstaking fashion, like a registered parcel that has come undone and may have been tampered with. Accepted, but without prejudice to possible future complaints. It means a lot of shilly-shally for the postman. The prison officer was owlishly suspicious of Johnny. Strings and seals had come apart on him before (Johnny had in fact made a clever and well-publicised break from provisional detention once before, away up in the Pas de Calais). Was this tatty package even really Johnny? Not by any chance some other individual with the same name as well as place-and-date of birth?

     There was a good deal more bumbledom about Johnny’s possessions, which were few; now this money he’s carrying: of suspect origin surely, and the judge will have something to say about that.

     Having – at last – got all his papers rubber-stamped Castang found it was past six, and hell, he wasn’t going back to any poxy office. Nothing but a sandwich for lunch, a thing that had happened too often recently. Back to wife, and uxorious fleshpots. Stolid, perhaps, for a man who had been shot at a few hours ago, but no, not really. A travelling salesman, a professional of the road and the car, will come, statistically, face to face with some cretin opposite him who is overtaking blind. Quick reactions and a nasty squeeze gets him past with no more than an accelerated heartbeat. A moment later he puffs his breath out, feeling his lips tight and his jaw muscles rigid, gets his shirt collar unstuck off his neck, and tells himself that that was a narrow squeak, for we tend to talk in clichés when disturbed. He goes on driving, since he has work to do. He will not, perhaps, tell his wife. What would be the use of her feeling frightened each time he was on the road?

     Since a car is a more dangerous weapon than a gun, and kills more people, including policemen, Castang saw no need to dramatise being shot at.

     As for Vera, who had not seen him since the night before, she was glad to have her travelling salesman back. He was having supper after a beer and a shower – all three unusually welcome – when the phone rang. Punishment for not having rung the office.

     ‘Castang,’ said Richard’s flat voice.

     ‘Yes, my lord. Just this moment in. Thought you’d gone home.’

     ‘Thoughtful of you. Paris has been on at me, being a bit officious, to tell me you were bringing that burglar down with you.’

     ‘That’s right. Got him in the cellar now. I was going to tell you but I was just rinsing off the blood.’

     ‘He give you trouble?’

     ‘Full report for you in the morning. Petty cash account and everything. Let’s see; chewing gum, comic book, postage stamps, sticking plaster – ’

     ‘That will do,’ said Richard.

     ‘You want me to come in and type it all out now?’

     ‘What are you doing?’

     ‘Just getting into my dinner jacket – there’s the banquet for the visiting team and then we’ve all got tickets for the Folies-Bergère after the big booze-up.’

     ‘Come in to see me tomorrow first thing. Pack your little bag, because you’ll be on the road.’

     Castang made a face. Vera, listening to the spare earpiece, made a worse one.

     ‘What is it this time?’

     ‘Oh, nothing unduly strenuous,’ with a faint sarcastic emphasis. ‘A telex. Your old woman who writes poetry. I know nothing about it at all, except that she is in the past tense and the judge has decided upon an enquiry.’

     ‘Oh,’ went Castang; an ‘oh’ of surprise, slight shock, discouragement, and irritation, but not of boredom. He had liked Sabine, even if she were – had been – a most irritating person.

     ‘What happened?’

     ‘A housebreaker, I gather; vagabond of some sort. Open-and-shut affair, no doubt. The local people have had all of today to work on it and seem to be treating it as banal. The judge is being zealous, that’s all. You’ve met her, you know what she told you, and you’ve been on the ground, so you’re the obvious choice. I tell you now simply so that you’ll be ready to leave.’

     ‘Oh all right, all right.’

     ‘And Castang,’ said the quiet voice.

     ‘What is it now? Help! – my bandages are slipping.’

     ‘Yes, I know, Paris told me all the exciting news. All right then; take it easy, there’s a good boy. No need to get worked up, next week will do for the haircut. All right boy; good night.’

     He put the phone down and said, ‘I’d better go to bed,’ in a resigned voice.

     ‘What was all that about your bandages slipping?’ asked literal-minded Vera, suspiciously.

     ‘Stupid joke. Just a way of saying I was tired and fed up.’

     ‘I see,’ said Vera. What was the use of asking more and getting told lies? ‘I’ll pack a bag. How long for, d’you think?’

     ‘No idea. Make it three days. Maybe I can go fishing.’