The French Kiss Page 5

  “Now, Monsieur,” said the commissaire, swinging his spectacles in a heavy hand and creaking his chair, “I want to hear your story again from the beginning.”

  We went through it all again. Through the grimy window I saw some lights go on in offices across the courtyard. Later on they went out again. The normal working Paris slobs were going home. But apparently Dedini wasn’t a normal working Paris slob. Apparently I wasn’t either. For just that once, much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t have minded being one. My nausea had worn off, but in its place was a cold, sore, and empty feeling. I’d had enough, and more than enough of that expression that came into the commissaire’s gaze. You could call it his scum look, but I’d seen it before on functionaries of all sorts. It’s bitter and smug at the same time, and maybe wearing it is the only satisfaction people like that get in their work, but it was pretty clear in Dedini’s case that scum included not only me but himself too probably, and Madame Dedini if there was one, and all the little Dedinis.

  We reached the point in my story where Jonnie Davis sent me down for the long count.

  “Then somebody trussed me,” I said, “and dumped me on the loggia, and maybe they shot me full of puke for good measure.”

  “Who?”

  “How do you expect me to know? Maybe Davis did it himself. Maybe Al Dove did it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out all day. I think probably somebody doesn’t like me. I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s try it your way. Then I untied myself; then I pulled a cannon out of my underwear and shot Davis in the eye; then I loaded him on my shoulder, carried him to the canal, and dumped him in; then I went to Al Dove’s, where the phony police were playing gin rummy, and swiped the phony painting; then I went back to the studio and tied myself up again; in between I emptied out the closets and swallowed the cannon whole; then I went to sleep.”

  The rimless specs were back on his nose. He looked at me over the tops of them. It was in his eyes then, and the sag of his jowls, the droop of his shoulders, the tone of his voice. Loud and clear. Scum, meet scum.

  I dropped the name of Bernard Lascault in his lap.

  It wasn’t that he jumped up and faced the Arc de Triomphe the minute he heard it. From all I could tell, the name meant nothing to him. He wrote it down on a pad of paper. He drew a circle around it. Who was Bernard Lascault? he wanted to know. I told him. And what was my connection to him? I told him that too. But the more I told him, the more the expression went out of his face. Finally he picked up the telephone, dialed an inner office number, and by the way he said it as well as the words, I could tell he was talking up the totem pole all right:

  “Excuse me for interrupting you, Monsieur. I need to see you immediately.”

  He listened a moment, then hung up. He sighed, got up heavily from his desk, and without so much as a glance at me, lumbered out of the office.

  He was gone quite a while. When he came back, his face was gray and his jaw set like a cinder block. He didn’t look at me, and what he had to say was addressed, in two short sentences, to one of the bloodhounds:

  “They’re waiting for him. Get him out of my sight.”

  It was within the same complex of buildings, but you’d never see a street cop in those carpeted corridors or the offices with those spacious paneled ceilings and crystal chandeliers and the flunkies to hold the ashtrays of the powerful even as they stubbed out their Murads. Most of it was dark by then, but the bloodhound led me through a paneled anteroom, and I saw Commissaire Ravier, pale and impassive, waiting just inside a pair of open doors. Behind him stood the tall, dapperly dressed man who’d summoned Dedini out of his office earlier in the day.

  There was a third presence too, though I didn’t make him out at first. He sat in shadow behind a small and ornate desk. We weren’t introduced. I never saw him again after that night, and it wasn’t till I ran across his picture in a magazine that I identified him. Suffice it to say that the ministry he ran had nothing to do with the Law.

  I was ushered to a chair near the desk. The bloodhound stayed outside. Ravier and the dapper man remained standing, and it was the dapper man who did the talking.

  “We’ve been trying, Monsieur,” he began, “to determine your exact role in an affair which has certain rather delicate aspects. According to our first analysis, it was thought that you were simply an innocent participant. This analysis, it now appears, was false. Would you review your role for us please?”

  This I did, including Bernard Lascault. I was getting pretty good at it.

  “Then according to this latest version,” he said when I was done, “you were engaged by a third party to investigate Dove’s activities. Is this version now final and complete?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I take it you’re a … what do your compatriots call it? … a private eye?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, but the distinction didn’t seem to interest him.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?”

  “I didn’t consider it relevant to your investigation. I also felt a certain obligation to my client.”

  His eyebrows went up in a sort of shrug, then dropped back into place.

  “The Police Judiciaire, Monsieur, consider you something of a fool. We on the other hand are inclined to credit you with a certain intelligence.”

  “That’s very flattering,” I said. “But who’s we?”

  “We? Why the police in general. Or if you prefer,” with a glance at Ravier, “le Service de la Répression des Fraudes Artistiques in particular.”

  There was an imperceptible stirring in the shadows to my left. My questioner seemed to take it as a sign of impatience. At some point he’d picked up a cardboard folder, tied shut with a ribbon. He’d tapped it in his palm while he spoke. Now he dropped it back on the desk and squared it with his fingers.

  “The dossier is closed, Monsieur,” he said to me.

  It came out very flat, neat, and that was all there was.

  A pause.

  “You mean that was a dummy you found in the canal?” I asked. “And the stolen painting’s been returned?”

  He shrugged again with his eyebrows.

  “The police will continue to investigate these matters in their own way. They need no longer concern you. You are free to go. As far as you are concerned, you went to the Dove reception, and when the turbulence broke out, you left and went home.”

  I was home all right, on familiar turf. Commonly known as the cover-up. Only it felt passing strange to be on the receiving end.

  “And what happened after that?” I asked. “Suppose somebody asks me what I did all day?”

  “We think you are resourceful enough to handle such an eventuality.”

  “But suppose I decide to tell the truth?”

  He looked as though this hadn’t occurred to him. One eyebrow went up all by itself. He held it there a moment. I admired his control. Then it dropped.

  “Perhaps you are forgetting something, Monsieur. France is extremely … flexible as far as foreign guests are concerned. Despite a long tradition of hospitality, there have been moments in our history when undesirable foreigners have been given twenty-four hours to leave the country. I see no reason why this couldn’t be arranged in your case.”

  “As an undesirable guest?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would arrange it yourself if need be?”

  “Personally,” he affirmed.

  Neat, like I said. So neat that it irritated me. As it happened I liked Paris, liked it very much.

  “I’d feel a certain obligation to consult my client first,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Of course I’m sure I don’t need to explain …” he began.

  But at this point the minister cut him off with a wave. He leaned forward impatiently out of the shadows, the light sh
ining on his sharp Gallic features.

  “You are referring to Bernard Lascault,” he said, making a statement out of the question.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’ll have you know I talked to him, just a few minutes ago.”

  I didn’t say anything. He stared at me, his eyes black and quick. Then he added, in a definitive tone:

  “Bernard Lascault has informed me categorically that he has never seen nor heard of you, nor engaged you to work for him in any capacity whatsoever.”

  FIVE

  The paris gallery of Arts Mondiaux, S.A., was in a homey vault in one of the arcades off the Faubourg St. Honoré. It was all glass and high ceilings and tony recessed lighting, and though you couldn’t see a sign of security, you got the feeling that if you so much as blew your nose in front of one of the paintings it would set off an alarm in the Elysée down the street and bring the President of the Republic on the double. As it was, no sooner did I set foot inside than one of those high-shouldered, power-driven manikins came pirouetting out between the partitions.

  “Monsieur?”

  “I’d like to see something about this big by this,” I said in my best French. “It has to be green and blue predominantly. It’s to go with a rug.”

  This broke his stride momentarily.

  “Would you just care to look around?” he recovered in English. “If you have any questions, I’d be more than happy to answer them.”

  “Some other time,” I said. “In fact I’d like to see Mr. Lascault.”

  “Mr. Lascault?” One eyebrow went up. Eyebrows must have been in that season. “Mr. Bernard Lascault?”

  “That’s right. Are there any others?”

  The second eyebrow joined the first, followed by the shoulder pads. There seemed to be some connection, though you couldn’t see the wires.

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that would be quite imposs …”

  “Look,” I broke in. “Suppose I came in here with a certified check for a million dollars and said I was ready to buy, say, Blumenstocks, what would you do?”

  The shoulder pads dropped, followed by the eyebrows, followed by that bored expression he must have used on tourists from Dallas.

  “I’m afraid Bernard’s not here. He’s very seldom …”

  “But this is Arts Mondiaux, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid we’re only the gallery. The offices aren’t here.”

  “Where are they?”

  “It’s in the Bottin.”

  “The Bottin?”

  “The directory.”

  “I don’t happen to be carrying one around.”

  “Then you could ask for directory assistance,” he said, topping me.

  I smiled at him, most winningly. I was from out of town, I said, and an old friend of Bernard’s, and what with my ineffable charm, I wormed it out of him. He wrote out the address on a gallery card, and I even got my palm tickled in the bargain.

  I’d had a long night’s sleep, a long bath, and a longer trans-world conversation with an old soak called Freddy Schwartz, who, drunk or sober, is the best source of information I know west of the Rockies. After that I’d had breakfast in the hotel garden, and then I’d picked up the Giulia by the Canal St. Martin. The sun was out, so were the fishermen, and I was off to discover why someone who headed such a farflung organ-eye-zation had hired me to find out what Freddy Schwartz had dug up on the spot in a single afternoon. And then why he’d fired me before I’d had a chance to show him half my stuff.

  Call it curiosity if you like. But I had some other things in mind too.

  After I left the gallery I pointed the Giulia up the Champs Élysées and sat back and admired the view. It’s something to admire too on a day like that: the façades sunning themselves in even gray lines, and the clouds chasing each other eastward across that wide and horizontal sky, and the Arc de Triomphe presiding over it all. Not that it’s the Paris Hemingway saw. When you look up toward the Arc now from that angle, a trick of perspective makes the towers seem to be rising right behind it, and you get one of those weird shrinking-world sensations, like they’d dried up the ocean to save space and that’s New York City just over there, folks, where Paris ends. Only once you get up to the Etoile, which has been renamed Place Charles de Gaulle, you’ve still a chunk of the city to cross, followed by Neuilly, followed by the river, all on a broad straight avenue, which has been renamed Avenue Charles de Gaulle, and by this time you’re thinking: that’s not New York over there, that’s Moon City, and that they could have fit Manhattan in between the skyscrapers if they’d wanted to. Maybe taken by themselves the new towers are only dime-a-dozen modern, but the ensemble is worthy of the mad old Caesar who thought it up, and I still haven’t figured out why they haven’t changed that name too.

  As it is, it’s called La Défense, and there are only two troubles with it. One is that it’s still not finished, the other, that whoever laid it out forgot that mere humanoids like you and me were going to use it. Following the signs, I ended up parking the Giulia in some sixth sub-basement down below the sewer line and picking my way through a couple of miles of construction sites, all this without a miner’s helmet. The moles who were doing the digging didn’t speak any language known to mankind, and it was sheer luck that I found the tower I was looking for. But then an elevator zoomed me up like a Minuteman missile shooting out of a silo, and in no time at all I was back in the real world of soft carpets, Mantovani, and pushbutton phones, and doing my million-dollar certified-check bit for a frosted blond robot seated behind a kidney-shaped reception desk with nothing on it but her fingernails.

  Not that it worked any better on her. No, I didn’t have an appointment, but wouldn’t she tell Monsieur Lascault I was there? Monsieur Lascault wasn’t in his office. Was Monsieur Lascault simply having an early lunch and would he be back later? Monsieur Lascault wasn’t expected in at all. Then what about tomorrow? She didn’t know about tomorrow. Then what about next week? month? year?

  At each of these questions the frosted blond thought a minute, then tapped out a combination on her console and checked at the other end. I kept at it until the computer itself came out to see who was crossing all the wires.

  The computer’s name was Madame Ducrot, and she had steely gray hair. She was Bernard Lascault’s private secretary. She even had an office with a window in it and a view of another tower, although I didn’t get to see it right off. First we parleyed back and forth a while in the reception area, until I pulled his check out of my pocket, a little frayed around the edges but none the worse for wear.

  It wasn’t made out for a million dollars, much less certified, but Bernard Lascault had signed it and it was drawn on an Arts Mondiaux account.

  “This is highly irregular,” said Madame Ducrot.

  “On the contrary, it looks very regular to me.”

  “But I know nothing about it.”

  “Even so,” I said, “you ought to be able to claim it as a business expense.”

  “But you haven’t deposited it. Why haven’t you deposited it?”

  “Well if I’d deposited it, I wouldn’t be having the pleasure of chatting with you now, would I?”

  This seemed to melt a terminal or two. She flustered and simpered and patted her hair and glanced at the blond receptionist, and she didn’t recover till she was safely in her office, with her desk between us and the check and my card spread out in front of her.

  “Now Monsieur Cage, what exactly is it you want?”

  “I want to talk to your boss.”

  “I’ve already told you: that’s impossible. He’s not in.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know. He left no instructions.”

  “I think you should call him then.”

  “Impossible. Quite impossible.”

  “Really?” It was my turn to try the eyebrow bit. I guess it was contagious, and to judge from La Ducrot’s reaction, I wasn’t half-bad at it for a beginner. “An
executive secretary who doesn’t know where her boss is? Come come, Madame.”

  “But why is it so imperative that you see him?” she persisted. “Isn’t it something we could help you with?”

  “Normally I’d be delighted by that. But you see, Bernard Lascault retained me to get some information for him. I gather he didn’t see fit to tell you about it, but by his own admission, he went to some considerable trouble to hire me. Not to say expense.”

  “Are you a private investigator, Monsieur?”

  “Something like that.”

  Involuntarily her hand started up toward her hair.

  “Well why don’t you just make a written report then? I’ll be glad to bring it to his attention.”

  I shook my head. “It occurs to me he might not want it in writing,” I said, leaning forward. “Lest it fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Oh?”

  God knows what seamy area of Bernard Lascault’s life, public or private, she thought I’d been digging into. I didn’t elucidate. I simply narrowed my eyes a little the way you’re supposed to, and let her imagination do the rest.

  She hesitated.

  “I think you should call him, Madame,” I said quietly. “Now. I’ll take full responsibility for it.”

  By this time I had worked my way around to her side of the desk.

  “It’s not that …” she began nervously. But then, changing her mind, she took her receiver off the hook and quickly punched out a combination of her own.

  “Please!” she said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “Please be seated!”

  Even computers, it seems, have lurid imaginations.

  I retreated and sat down.

  There was no answer at the first number she tried, and whoever answered the second time wasn’t on for long. La Ducrot announced herself, and then another voice broke in, and it wasn’t Bernard Lascault’s either in pitch or decibels. I couldn’t make out the words, but it was one of those voices that don’t need the telephone system to be heard. I caught it across the desk—loud, shrill, and angry—and lest there be any doubt in my mind, the secretary’s expression did the rest.