A FLY IN THE EYE
"Who’s got Bouvet under observation?"
"Orthez," said the switchboard.
"Raise him on the blower for me."
"Here you are – you’re through on the link."
"Castang – whereabouts are you, old son? I’m coming to pick you up: we’re going to pinch this phenomenon."
"He left work a bit early. Mostly he walks home, and goes through the park. Pick you up at his home?"
"No; by the park – I want to see whether he knows anything. Might have got tipped off. I’ll be at the corner of the boulevard by that big flowerbed, the one that’s a clock. Waste no time or you’ll miss him."
"No need to bust yourself; he stopped for a drink. Bit agitated but he’s often like that: you know, talks to himself. There he goes – over the far side; see?" said Orthez.
"We’ll leave the cars here."
Nobody would ever see the librarian as anything but a pathetic type, watching him. A Walter Mitty; the passion for souped-up cars and four-wheel-drift told one all. Not that he was particularly weedy or given to twitches, being indeed a colourless person with dusty hair, neither tall nor short, looking simply what he was; a junior functionary in one of the dustier of state or municipal backwaters; the Ethnographic Museum or, as here, the Bibliothèque Nationale. He was dressed conventionally, and taking a breath of fresh air and hygienic exercise on his way home. Lots like this can be seen jogging on the perimeter paths of any park. Perhaps, following him on foot at the same pace, as Castang was, one might find something odd in his walk, a queer way of balancing his shoulders, of tossing his head. He walked in a rapid broken rhythm, stopping to stare about him, at trees, or ducks or whatever.
"You think he’s on to us?"
"He’s always like this," said Orthez indifferently. "Might be on to me or Davignon: we’ve had to get too close this last time or two."
"We’ll separate. He can’t be on to me; he’s never seen me. I’ll get a bit closer and see what he does. You skirt off towards the middle."
Bouvet turned once, and stared at him, but showed no sign of suspicion. Even if he has been tipped off, and four or five people saw us walking Lallemand back to the car, a phone call says ‘Cops picked Jojo up’ not ‘a cop with a bluish jacket and dark trousers pinched Jojo’.
The Municipal Gardens are long and narrow, with a central path featuring Floral Display, grass, and paths near the edges lined with speckled laurels and conifers and suchlike economical, pollution-resistant cover. The path is sandy, mixed with pine-needles, pleasant to walk upon. Castang got to within ten metres, but Bouvet was in no way disquieted. I’ll walk him home, thought Castang, pinch him there, send Orthez back for the car. No, that’s too far. The Gardens stretch out to near suburb, where two main roads diverge and lead to middling-near suburb. Near the end there is a public lavatory in a chaste grove of yew trees; that’ll do nicely. Helpful towards this project, Bouvet turned into the lavatory. A very nice one, with elegant yellow tiling, kept extremely smart by a zealous Dame Pipi, who had now gone home. The gates here were closed at sunset, to discourage delinquency. Castang followed into the lavatory – deserted save for his chap buttoning his trousers. Nice and discreet: he felt he’d had enough publicity.
"Monsieur Bouvet?" The man finished tidying – please adjust your dress, as the neat notice has it – and turned to face him with a puzzled look, taking hold of his jacket lapels.
"Yes?" in a normally startled voice.
"I am a police officer. I have to ask you to accompany me to the commissariat, for verification of identity."
"Oh," he said. He stood, doing nothing, just looking startled.
"There’s nothing to fear. Walk back, shall we? I’ve a car at the top end." This wasn’t a violent man.
Imprudence? Guard a bit down, after the peaceful stroll? Simple stupidity? Or reaction, from the tension and watchfulness of the moment with Lallemand.
As the man walked quietly towards Castang he drew some sort of flexible club from his inner pocket, and as Castang sidestepped he swished with it, left-handed, in a quick backhand flip. An instinctive jerk of the head, backwards, in tune with the sidestep. Ward with your left hand, as your right goes back in a gesture practised already today, to the belt holster back of the right hip.
But all this too little and too late. Enough to make it what is politely named a Glancing Blow. Wouldn’t like to have one that did more than glance: take my whole flaming head off instead of getting a black eye that can go in the Guinness Book of Records.
More eye socket than eye – for which thanks – and it was not a cutting blow – more thanks and believe me, sincere.
Castang went down on one knee, blind in his left eye bar catherine wheels, roman candles, a lot of things all wrong against this egg-yolk-yellow background. Come to that, the right eye felt like a strenuously shaken kaleidoscope. Lot of good a gun would do him: fill a few yew trees with copper-jacketed lead. He lurched out holding his eye. Fellow was running there like the March Hare, and so were the yew trees and so was Orthez and as the kaleidoscope changed they all came together in an untidy collision, but who hit what, in what order, he felt unable to say.
"Corblimey." Better not say that either: He nearly did.
"Come on jocko, upsydaisy," said Orthez’ voice. Speaking to him? He approached with measured steps, something between a rumba and a slow waltz. In this part of the world was a cast-iron drinking fountain. Push very hard you get a trickle. Push very hard indeed, as he was doing, and you get it in the eye, which for once is exactly what we want.
"You sit here," said Orthez sensibly, putting him on a bench. "And jocko here I cuff to the bench, like this. And I go get the car. Right? You okay?"
"I’m okay." The yew trees had stopped being orange and vermilion like canna lilies, and started being yew trees again.
"Naughty, naughty, naughty," said Orthez, exactly the way one would to a dog that pissed in the corner. He was holding a thirty centimetre length of heavy-duty electricity cable. Creamy shiny skin: complicated core. Not altogether unlike a stick of Brighton Rock. Among my souvenirs. A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces, an airline ticket to romantic places; these Foolish Things remind me of you.
"Raw beef steak," said Richard, sounding unfairly entertained. "Make that two raw steaks, one tartare, with olives, and capers, and gherkins, for ol’ Moshe FitzCastang here." He had a black patch, supplied by Maryvonne from the Aid Box, following ice cubes and a stiff whisky from the other aidbox. "You want to go home?"
"No no, my wife would have a fit. And I’m quite eager to learn what happens next."