Arlette stood outside the church of Saint Maurice, in silent converse with a bad statue of Jeanne d’Arc on a horse. Not a bad patron saint for liberated women. It was rush hour: the Avenue de la Forêt Noire was full of noise and a bad smell. Even if seven months’ pregnant in an orange raincoat and pushing a large shocking-pink pram, do not attempt crossing the road. In fact especially not then, and especially not at a pedestrian crossing. Even under the particular protection of Jeanne d’Arc. A Strasbourgeois in a car is a Hun: rather fond of raw meat under his saddle.
Just then a woman with a pram did cross the road, sailing head high, indifferent to stalled fuming automobiles and a chorus of klaxons. She even made an overweight pig of a Mercedes back up. Ah well, she was young and pretty. No gesture of thanks to the driver, grinning all galant’uomo out of his prison window at her. Arlette, entertained, missed M. Dupont’s arrival.
‘Madame is it, or Mademoiselle?’
‘Madame if it’s of importance.’ Efforts have been made to struggle with Mzz in French. Little velours hat: he noticed her staring at it and lifted it.
‘Err, my car is parked. You’ve no objection to err, some café?’ There was a tolerably dismal specimen of bistrot down the side street. Aux Merlets de Lorraine.
‘What will you drink? Waiter, a quarter Perrier and err, I’ll have a whisky.’ Not a beer man or a pastis man. Petty bourgeois-man drinks whisky even if he loathes the taste: a Correct drink.
‘You smoke?’ Packet of Camels, another affectation. Well-built enough. Shoulders a bit round, when he took his coat off. Tallish, quite a good head, brown hair, nice blue eyes when he made his mind up to take off the sunglasses. He rummaged in the pockets of a business suit for a lighter. Completely normal looking. A small tic puckered the bridge of his nose and between the eyes, giving him a moment’s puzzled glare every few seconds, but it was nothing disturbing.
‘D’you mind telling me your real name?’
‘Demazis, Albert Demazis, it doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll give you a card; I take you into my confidence, but disregard these addresses and numbers will you? I’d rather you didn’t contact me at home either.’ He had to recover male superiority. ‘This must remain confidential.’
‘You have my word. If that wasn’t good I wouldn’t be in business.’
‘And how long have you been in this uh, business?’
‘I was a police officer’s wife, Monsieur Demazis, for twenty years.’
‘Oh. Um – that’s no longer so?’
‘He died. I settled here. I remarried. Liberal profession.’ Always let them know you’ve a man, as Corinne recommended. And as Arthur said dryly, always say liberal profession, there’s nothing the French respect more. Top of the earnings’ ladder. Say a professor, and sociology at that, they start looking for the holes in your socks.
‘I see. I beg your pardon.’ She seemed established as bona fide, though even if reassured Monsieur Demazis was not at ease. Smoking in a greedy way, putting the cigarette in the centre of a fleshy mouth and sucking hard, getting the most out of each puff; fidgeting with his glass. And the eyes roamed. What was this idiot Dupont act anyhow? What harm could it do to say your name?
The café was peaceful enough. A couple of groups of students guffawing round cups of cold coffee; two or three old men ritually enjoying their usuals: a workman or two having a quick one at the bar and prolonging it with gossip. The patronne languidly rubbing at chrome on the coffee machine and the boy, probably her son, gazing vacantly. All present looked innocent: any KGB men were well under cover.
‘Now what about fees?’ businesslike. A piece of patter she had not yet practised.
‘You haven’t told me what you want. I made it clear, I think, that this costs you nothing. Thereafter the same rate as any specialist consultation. I do nothing financial, so no percentage. If it’s something needing research or enquiry we can agree a daily rate. The usual expenses, travel or whatever.’
‘That’s um, reasonable,’ stubbing his cigarette and taking at once a fresh one. ‘Waiter – same again. This … is difficult, very delicate. Concerns too my wife …’
‘You realize I’m not a lawyer? If you want to stop a divorce I might be able to help. If you’re looking for one, I’d suggest the usual enquiry bureau.’
‘No, no – nothing like that.’
‘You must give me something to go on, you know.’ The waiter brought his drink and looked at Arlette, who shook her head.
‘I’m being menaced,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve reason to believe my life’s in danger.’ Oh dear. One of those. She felt let down. Wasting her time, here. Still, one must play fair.
‘I’ve had messages,’ unwillingly. ‘Nothing written that would leave a trace. Peculiar telephone calls.’
‘Anybody you know?’
‘Perfect strangers. I don’t like it at all.’
‘You mentioned your wife – how is she concerned?’
‘She’s been acting oddly – saying funny things.’
‘Are you on a course of treatment for any illness?’
‘What? You mean pills or something?’
‘Some chemicals set up funny reactions.’
‘You mean I’m having hallucinations? Ridiculous. You’re no help to me if you don’t believe me.’
‘One must eliminate the obvious. No health problems?’
‘Like anybody else. I’ve a sensitive throat liable to infection.’ The implication hit him. ‘You’re not suggesting I’ve some psychiatric trouble?’ not pleased at all.
‘How should I know? It could be a commonplace thing. Depression symptom; too much work – over-fatigue.’
‘I’m well on top of my work. I’d go to a doctor if it was as you suggest.’ Irritably. ‘Don’t let’s be absurd.’
‘With that out of the way, how long have you had this sensation?’
‘A week or two – three. I didn’t take it seriously at first: someone with ideas of being funny. Or with a grudge, and neurotic about that. Disgruntled employee.’
‘But you can’t ascribe it to anything definite?’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘If you become irritated each time, Monsieur Demazis, we can’t make progress. I’m in the dark; I seek light where I can find it. You’ve nothing on your conscience? – knowledge of or even involvement in something you’d rather stayed concealed? Just to take an instance, that you’d rather not take to the police?’
‘Of course not. What good would the police be? They’d just laugh. Who trusts them anyhow? Come bursting into the office, asking when my books were last audited. No discretion. Why d’you think I come to you? After, be it said, much hesitation. You’re an enquiry agent aren’t you?’
‘Not in the ordinary sense. Would that be more use?’
‘No. Extortionists: every pretext for wanting more money. Like lawyers; wring a thousand francs out of you and then sit on their hands. Nosy too. Credit status – every sort of backstairs manoeuvre.’
‘You’re not being asked for money?’
‘No,’ with a snap.
‘Some nosiness is inevitable,’ she said mildly. ‘I’ve experience enough of police work,’ boldly mendacious, ‘and whoever you ask for help has to ask some personal questions. Is it going to be me?’
‘I have to confide in somebody,’ staring down into his glass and remembering it, drinking it off, wanting a third but deciding it might make him too loose of tongue besides not looking well. ‘I can’t see clearly around this. It’s worrying me; it upsets my life all round. Even my wife…’
‘You don’t trust her?’
‘A fortnight ago I’d have said yes. That’s just the point.’
‘Do you gamble at all?’ He smiled bleakly. Still, it was a smile.
‘With my employers’ funds you mean? No. A lotto ticket now and again just for amusement.’
‘Extra-marital entanglement?’
‘No,’ flushing.
‘Forget I’m a woman. Political activities? Membership of a group perhaps with some political motivation.’
‘No.’
‘Well … lastly then for now. Do you possess confidential information – like at work? Something that could interest a commercial rival?’
‘I’m an accountant. Figures are confidential of course. But nothing there could justify a threat of some sort.’
‘Yes. I’ll want to know more about the threats, and their nature. But not here. Well then, Monsieur Demazis, as far as we’ve gone, do you want me to go further? I’d have to ask a lot of things, and do I inspire your confidence?’
‘As far as I’ve gone … Seems to me I’ve small choice in the matter.’
‘I’d give you what advice I could. And tell you frankly whether I saw any chance of helping.’
‘Yes. That’s quite fair, I suppose. I suppose I’m a secretive person, by training and inclination, and this isn’t easy.’
‘Would you like to come to my office? Now, even? Or would you prefer to think things over?’
He frowned and looked at his watch.
‘I’ve thought things over. But no, that’s impossible now. Euh, I don’t want to arouse curiosity about my movements. Tomorrow it could be arranged. Five-thirty say, or a little after. I know where you live. That all right?’
‘I’d ask you to sign a simple form of agreement, stating that I’m working on your behalf. You’d pay me a sum – nothing like a thousand. Three hundred say, covering a few hours of work. You’d get a detailed note of my activities: my agreement is that I respect your confidences entirely, divulging nothing to anyone without your express permission, saving discovery of a legal obligation.’
‘What’s that mean?’ with the angry, puzzled twitch.
‘Look, if I see someone with appendicitis I might recommend more or less urgently that he have his stomach looked at. But if I acquire knowledge of say a criminal act I can’t conceal that without sharing in the guilt. Suppose you have knowledge of such, maybe something that hasn’t taken place but might. I’m not suggesting that. But either you’d have to conceal it from me or accept that I’d take it further.’
‘I want to think this over,’ said Demazis. ‘But it’s all right; I mean the money side and the form.’
‘I have to have an authorization,’ she said, wondering whether she was being melodramatic and making a silly fuss. But Arthur had told her to be careful. ‘Outside the police there’s no proper code for enquiries. Anybody can call himself a detective. I don’t. Those who do, you’ll find, ask for all sorts of safeguards.’
‘I suppose so. I’ve no real experience of the situation.’
‘I have,’ firmly. ‘Till tomorrow then?’
‘It’s agreed,’ said Demazis making up his mind, getting up heavily and putting his jaunty little hat on. ‘I’ll settle up. I’ll see you then. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
Arlette stayed a moment. Nobody was taking interest in her and her activities. Their voices had been low, and thoroughly covered by background music playing from a jukebox: the students were laughing loudly. She had a notebook in her bag.
“Monsieur Demazis is in a nervous state of high tension, and certainly seems uneasy or frightened about something he’d like to shuffle off – a need to confide in somebody. He’s not quite sure himself, perhaps, whether this is something criminal or not? He doesn’t trust his wife: feels obliged to account to her for his time?
“What’s he trying to rope me into?”
She went home. It had begun to rain outside, but she had not far to go.