PARIS was my favourite city, not to live in but to visit, and it gave me no pleasure to slink in like a creature from the demi-monde and hole up at a cheap hotel in the Latin Quarter, Esmeralda, just across the Seine from Notre Dame.
Though charming, Esmeralda was a rickety wooden fire-trap, appropriately on Rue St Julien le Pauvre, and situated behind Shakespeare and Co., a shop selling secondhand English books. Esmeralda had been a haunt of mine as a youth. It was the first place I had stayed at in Paris in the winter of 1971–72 at age sixteen. Even if the excitement now was tempered by age and the small detail of my being a hunted man, I still felt a buzz.
It was a bright Saturday morning and by the time I had arranged a room it was nine a.m. Jet lag still hadn’t taken hold so I wandered down Boulevard St Michel to St Germain and stopped for a coffee at Cafe Aux Deux Maggots. It, like Shakespeare and Co., had been a favourite hang-out of Hemingway’s in the twenties and thirties. Unfortunately, like a lot of Paris, Maggots had lost the charm that had attracted impoverished writers. They had been replaced by tourists and local poseurs who had become proficient only at writing their signatures on Visacard receipts for over-priced food.
Still, it was early enough in the morning to avoid that crowd and there were only a handful of patrons on the glassed-in terrace with me.
At the table next to mine were two attractive young women, one in a yellow floral dress and another in tight navy slacks. They smiled. I smiled. There is nothing like freedom when you don’t have it and I felt good, even euphoric.
The woman in the summer dress had dark hair and big, wide eyes, not dissimilar to Cassie’s, and her face was intelligent. She sat with legs apart and the dress thrown between them so that her slender calves were exposed. It was a natural position rather than a provocative pose, which again reminded me of Cassie.
I moved inside the cafe, and used the public phone there to contact her at the Hotel Lutetia.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Not far away.’
‘How did you find my number?’
‘Rang the Institute. Walters always stays at Lutetia.’
There was a nervous silence from Cassie.
‘Is Walters there?’ I asked.
‘No. He went to London.’
‘Why?’
‘To see the Queen for all I know. He said it was business.’
‘You don’t sound too happy.’
‘I don’t like coming all this way to be left in a place where I don’t have the language.’
‘I’d like to see you.’
Cassie hesitated.
‘I’ve got some shopping to do,’ she said.
‘How about coffee?’
‘I really am busy.’
Lutetia was not too far away. I finished my coffee and took a brisk walk there.
Just as I was about to cross the road to the hotel entrance on Boulevard Raspail, Cassie came out wearing a blouse, tight jeans and sneakers. My first instinct was to go right up to her, but she had made it clear that she had no wish to see me. There was an opportunity now for a ‘chance’ meeting once she was some distance from Lutetia.
I followed her back to St Germain, where she did some window-shopping, and then entered Les Fleurs cafe, close by Maggots.
The tourists and locals were out in force now, and as Cassie looked for a seat on the crowded terrace, I ducked in a side entrance and grabbed a table inside. She couldn’t find a place and was ushered inside by a waiter. I scooped a dirty coffee cup from the table next to me and pretended it was mine.
Cassie looked right through me and sat down two tables away.
The new appearance had worked again. I pulled out a cheroot and fumbled in my pockets.
‘Would you have a light?’ I asked.
Cassie glanced at me, surprised to hear a familiar accent.
‘Sorry, don’t smoke,’ she said.
‘Don’t tell me, unless you’re on fire.’
Cassie paid closer attention this time as a waiter obliged me with a light. I removed the dark glasses. She narrowed her eyes and her face filled with recognition.
‘Did you follow me here?’ she said.
‘I got here first,’ I said, indicating the used cup.
Cassie was sceptical.
‘Of all the cafes in Paris,’ she said, ‘you had to come into my favourite. I don’t believe it.’
I shrugged.
‘Have you had been shopping?’ I asked.
‘Not yet.’
She didn’t seem too keen on conversation.
‘It hasn’t been all that bad here, has it?’ I said. ‘Paris has so much to offer.’
‘I’ve done a few of the tourist things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, the usual, you know, The Bourse, the sewers, a few cancer wards.’
I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. In fact I was never sure with that sardonic wit of hers. The Paris sewers were a tourist attraction, and she could have been a stock-exchange buff for all I knew. I didn’t press her. She was uncomfortable meeting like this.
Cassie looked round impatiently.
‘I’d kill for a coffee,’ she said, ‘how do you get a waiter here . . . Garçon!’
‘They don’t like being addressed that way.’
‘Garçon was the way we were taught in third form!’
‘Try Monsieur.’
Cassie got up and approached a waiter who was clearing a table. She touched him on the arm.
‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘if you see a waiter, could you send him over?’
The little balding man, with a countenance which alternated between expressions of boredom and alertness, reacted indignantly. He shrugged and pouted.
‘The service is not brilliant, I must say, Monsieur,’ Cassie went on.
‘I give good service always, Madame,’ he said, showing he had mastered English and at the same time insulting Cassie, who at thirty, looked more of a Mademoiselle.
He deliberately served new arrivals. Rebuffed, Cassie returned to her table.
‘“I give good service always, Madame”,’ she mimicked.
‘He must be a head waiter,’ I said.
Cassie stared at me a moment, and laughed. The ice was broken.
I moved to her table and she asked me about the eventful time since I had seen her. It took a cup of coffee and ten minutes. I decided not to tell her I had been batching at her apartment, or that Maniguet had been killed there.
She ordered a second coffee. I took that as a signal she believed me.
‘And you really don’t know what happened the night of Martine’s murder?’
‘I swear it.’
Cassie’s green eyes, which were beautiful but rarely inviting, searched my face.
‘Do you feel any guilt at all about Martine’s killing?’ I took a breath.
‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly, ‘because I don’t damn well know what happened that night.’
‘Have you ever had hypnosis?’
‘Never.’
‘I use it for therapy with my patients. It’s always helpful.’
‘Can it be used to recall things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
I was so keen to get on with it that I insisted on taking a taxi back to Lutetia. We went straight to her hotel room, where she asked me to lie on the bed and relax. This wasn’t easy. It crossed my mind that she could pick up the phone to Interpol the moment I was under.
‘Are you worried I might turn you in?’ she said, sitting by the bed. She was a mind-reader too.
‘A little.’
‘You can’t be a little bit pregnant. Either you trust me or you don’t.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? I must trust you. There’s not much choice, when you think about it.’
‘You’re thinking too much about it. Evacuate your mind. Cogitate on a place that really relaxes you. The place that relaxes you more than any other.’
I thought of the Melbourne’s Botanical Gardens where I liked to run, and when there was no one about at six a.m., do just a little yoga.
‘Well?’ Cassie said.
‘I’m cogitating.’
‘Where’s this peaceful place?’
‘Am I supposed to tell?’
‘You’re not making a wish on your birthday, Duncan. You can tell Aunty Cassie.’
I smiled at that, without opening my eyes. I told her about the Gardens.
‘Didn’t I read somewhere about you being a yoga freak?’ she said.
‘Enthusiast, please. “Freak” has other connotations.’
‘My, we are pedantic! Why use an emotive word when a little euphemism will do. How are you feeling?’
‘Relaxed.’
‘Good. And for the record. I believe in yoga. I get all my patients to use it. Peter thinks it’s a waste of time.’
I could feel myself drifting, floating a little. I didn’t realise it right then, but Cassie had me.
Next thing I knew Cassie was demonstrating her numeracy. I opened my eyes and shook my head. I apologised for dozing off. Cassie was re-winding a tape recorder she had pulled out when I was hypnotised. She sat it on a table and played it back.
I sat transfixed and listened. Cassie took me back to the old school reunion and dwelt on it for some time. Next came the meeting with Martine right up until I blacked out on her sofa.
‘You woke up again,’ Cassie prompted, her voice anodyne.
‘At my place?’
‘No, earlier. You didn’t sleep-walk home.’
‘Martine woke me when she threw up in the kitchen. I got off the sofa. Christ! My head aches! I follow Martine into the bathroom. She’s on her knees throwing up into the toilet bowl. I want to heave ho myself, but I must help her first.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She has a terrific migraine. We compare headaches. Mine is an anthill compared to her volcano. Martine tells me that Freddie slipped something into my drink to knock me out.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what I ask Martine. She says he was jealous. He thought we were getting too amorous.’
‘Did you help her?’
‘I find two empty Serophrine bottles in the medicine cabinet. They were both dispensed from a Benepharmacy in Bourke Street. I know the manager-chemist. I phone him and persuade him to courier over a fresh bottle pronto. He argues a bit, because Serophrine is a prescribed drug and I can’t present a doctor’s prescription. Ludicrous really. I created that drug on the market! I have access to several pharmacies I don’t legally own, but nevertheless unofficially control, and I can’t get thirty little capsules from one of them!’
‘How do you talk him into it?’
‘In the end I cajole him into it by telling him not to mark the bottle in any way. It’s unethical, but the capsules can’t be traced back to him, so he feels better. He makes an excuse about getting a courier on such a fearful night, but that’s solved by me offering to pay triple. The courier gets there inside fifteen minutes.’
‘What’s the pharmacist’s name?’
‘Don Cossar.’
‘Can you recall the courier company?’
‘Yes. “Yesterday Couriers.” I remember giving him the bonus and explaining it was danger money. He goes away happy. Hope he didn’t drown. He’ll be a good witness. It’s still pissing down when he leaves.’
‘So you give them to Martine.’
‘Not “them”. Just one. She wants two and says she always took a couple at a time. I admonish her for that. One is the dose every twelve hours. One and a half is OK for a big young healthy man. But two is bordering on the dangerous. Anyway, she takes one and feels better in a few minutes. They work very quickly.’
‘It’s close to four a.m. Martine calls me a taxi. The rain is easing.’
‘That’s all? You go home?’
‘I go into the bedroom to tell Freddie off for bombing me out. But he’s dead to the world. He’s taken a sleeping pill. Martine says she is going to have a bath and go to bed. I say goodbye.’
‘How?’
‘What do you mean “how”?’
‘Do you leap on her, kiss her, what?’
‘She kisses me. A little too passionately. Bit bizarre really.’
‘Why?’
‘Well her bathrobe falls open and she presses herself into me.’
‘But you resist?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should get a medal.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m not in the mood for that. My head’s still throbbing. I’m still groggy from whatever was slipped into my drink.’
‘So the taxi comes and you go home?’
‘I don’t know much about the driver. I think he’s Chinese. He seems a little worried about my demeanour. You know, I’m tired, probably wobbly.’
There was a long silence.
‘I think that about covers it, Duncan,’ Cassie said, ‘I’m going to count to ten and then you’ll wake up. You won’t recall any of this.’
The tape was finished. I punched the air and kissed her full on the mouth. She was pleased too that she wasn’t dealing with a killer.
That embrace of joy transformed into desire. I kissed her again and she responded. I guess I was testing a few things, particularly how she felt about me and how close she really was to Walters.
Predictably, he wasn’t out of the conversation long.
‘I think we should stop,’ she said as we sat on the bed. I kicked off my shoes.
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘Peter might get an early flight back.’
I removed her shoes. I had found that this often helped an undecided woman to decide. Foot fetishes are non-threatening.
‘You’ve got nice feet,’ I said.
‘I bet you say that to all the quadrapeds.’
I caressed her feet. Her toes didn’t curl. Starting from this end had its limitations.
‘You remind me of a chiropodist I once went to,’ Cassie said. ‘He put me in a seat, with my feet resting on platforms. He wound something that lifted the seat and my feet. I was wearing a dress. I kept moving my knees together. I was sure he was trying to get a better view.’
I leant back and laughed.
‘Two things are sure to put me off sex,’ I said, ‘humour and politics.’
‘Thatcher, Bush, Gorbachev, Gandhi, Suharto . . .’
We both laughed. I kissed her again and began to undo her blouse. She didn’t resist.
‘If Peter comes back early,’ she said, ‘it won’t be nice.’
‘And if you were certain he wasn’t coming back?’
Cassie looked into my eyes.
‘Is this all part of the game plan to win me to Benepharm?’ she whispered.
‘My desire for Cassie,’ I said, ‘is absolutely exclusive of my corporation’s needs for Dr Morris.’
She examined every line in my countenance for a hint of duplicity.
‘Why have you come to Paris?’ she said.
I eased away a fraction. She seemed undecided about me. I liked her too much to be pushy.
‘I had little choice,’ I said. ‘There was only one place left on an international carrier the morning I had to leave. It happened to be going to Paris.’
‘You could have got off in Bangkok.’
‘Didn’t have a visa.’
‘You surely can’t risk staying in Paris too long.’
‘I know. But Freddie May is here. I also know where a suspect in the Martine killing is staying.’
‘Who?’
‘Richard Cochard.’
I explained his connection.
‘Claude Michel may be in Paris too for all I know,’ I said.
‘Perhaps they are linked.’
‘I’ve thought about that,’ I said, ‘I’ve thought about a lot of things. I have a suspect list as long as your arm. Each one’s motives and circumstance make them possible candidates.’ I ticked them off with my fingers. ‘There are the Libyans, Richard Cochard and his friend Maniguet, not to mention my deputy, Lloyd Vickers. And Freddie May or Danielle Mernet can’t be ruled out.’
‘Danielle?’
‘Yes. What did you think of her?’
‘Different from Martine. Kept herself to herself. Not a very open person. Polite, yes. But I couldn’t understand her flogging dresses in Toorak Village.’
‘Did you know she’s a doctor?’
‘You’re joking!’
‘True.’
Cassie frowned.
‘Come to think of it,’ she said, ‘she did ask a hell of a lot of questions about the Institute. And she knew what she was talking about too. Drove me and Peter nuts. He didn’t like her.’
‘Has Peter any ideas about Martine’s killing?’
‘I spoke to him about Claude Michel a couple of times.’
‘What did you say?’
‘It came up when Martine made the papers the day after her murder. He had treated her too. Peter was shocked by it all.’
Cassie checked a window overlooking Boulevard Raspail.
‘He thinks Michel is probably dead,’ she said. ‘He says French security would have quietly assassinated him.’
‘Why?’
‘Bringing him back to France and trying him would have been a huge embarrassment for the French Government, even though it had nothing to do with the experimentation Michel carried out on Polynesian victims of bomb radiation. A trial would have highlighted problems with the French nuclear weapons programs and the fact that underground tests have not proved fool-proof. Radiation leaks have occurred, for example, when a bomb got jammed in a shaft. That has happened more than once.’
Cassie was interrupted by the phone. It was Peter Walters. He would be delayed until the next morning. When she put down the receiver, I moved close.
‘I’m not sorry to hear it,’ I said, holding her.
‘I’m not either,’ she said. ‘I just feel a fool for coming to Paris with him.’
I kissed her, and she responded with passion for the first time.
‘I want to end it properly with Peter,’ she said, ‘before any other involvement.’
‘I hope I’m in the “any other involvement” category.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, showing me the door.