Bed of Nails (26 page)

He had been walking back up the road for about a kilometre when a tractor pulling an empty trailer stopped alongside him. An elderly hippy, with a beard, long hair and a headband, was driving it. Presumably a back-to-the-land survivor from the sixties: his smile as happy as an evening spent smoking weed.

“Going to the village?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re coming from John’s camp? Isn’t he there?”

“Nope.”

“Jump in the back, I’ll drop you off.”

Bunker blinked. This guy’s casual manner disarmed him. He put his foot on the wheel of the trailer to hoist himself up and sat down, his legs dangling from the back. Mesrine started yapping. Bunker thumped the floor of the trailer, the dog crouched and sprang up. This cool dude seemed only too happy to have passengers in his rattletrap. He nodded to Bunker, giving him a thumbs-up, and the tractor started with a snort of its exhaust, suggesting a speedy take-off, then trundled along at all of twenty kilometres an hour. Bunker was bouncing around on his backside. Wisps of hay flew round his head, lodging in his hair.

The dude introduced himself, as he let him off by the sign for Lentillac.

“I’m Bertrand. Me and my wife, we’re in the farm, just a bit down from John’s place. Feel free to drop in if you want. We’re just starting haymaking, but you call round after six, we can always have a drink.”

The hippy looked about sixty. He leaned out of his smoking heap of rust, stretching out his hand, and Bunker shook it.

“Édouard’s the name. Ta for the invite and the lift.”

The Bar des Sports was open and deserted.

The barman had had a go at the red, as could be seen from his eyes. Bunk put his bag on the counter and ordered a glass of the same. Drank it straight off, looked at his watch and asked for another. At 2.00 p.m., the telephone rang. The owner picked up, listened in silence then brought it over to him.

“For you.”

Bunker nodded thanks and turned to face the tables, putting the receiver to his ear.

*

John had slept until late morning in the Luxembourg Gardens. A disturbed sleep, but his bad dreams hadn’t wakened him. His face had almost returned to normal. The black eye hardly showed now. His ribs and stomach were still sore, but he could live with that. After coffee prepared on the hotplate, he lit a cigarette. A feeling that something was missing persisted in spite of the nicotine. It was the time of day he usually practised with his bow. But the park was full of visitors so he abandoned the idea, with a slight feeling of relief. He had taken up archery at the same time as starting his thesis. Maybe it was time to give it up now, even if he was replacing it with cigarettes.

At midday he left the park and walked through the streets: to the Pantheon, the place de la Contrescarpe, the rue Mouffetard, just another American tourist. When he reached the Gobelins, he bought some more cigarettes. He went on down the avenue de Choisy and crossed the gardens at the end. Trees and lawns were hardly sufficient compensation for being here. At Tolbiac, he
went into a telephone kiosk. He got two numbers from directory enquiries. He left no message on Patricia Königsbauer’s answer-phone, but called the Bar des Sports in Lentillac.

Bunker’s voice sounded far away, but it was reassuring.

“It’s me here. You O.K.?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you find everything?”

“Yep, the lot.”

“Got something to write with?”

John heard Bunker asking for a pen and paper from the barman.

“I’m listening.”

“You need to post the thesis to this address: Richard Guérin, 74 boulevard Voltaire, Paris 11.”

“Who’s he?”

“Cop who handles suicides.”

“And you really trust him?”

“Yeah, I do. And something else, Bunk. In the post office, there should be a letter for me from Alan. You’ll have to sweet-talk Mme Labrousse the postmistress to get it. I’ll call you back in half an hour, and you’ll have to read it out to me.”

“That all?”

“Yeah. How do you like the tepee?”

“It’s like my hut. Only better.”

“Half an hour then.”

John went to sit on a bench in the park.

Bunker paid for his drinks and set off across the square.

“Sit, boy! Wait here.”

Mesrine sat down outside the post office.

An old guy with a stick was hanging onto the counter, his nose to the glass and his mouth against the plastic screen. Bunker prepared to wait, but the old man moved aside at once. He wasn’t
there to collect his pension, just to chew the fat with the postmistress, the aforementioned Mme Labrousse. Cast-iron perm, flowery blouse and pebble glasses. The old man developed a sudden interest in an ad for life insurance with his ears flapping two metres behind him.

“I need to send this packet.”

He put the American’s thesis on the counter.

Mme Labrousse weighed it and gave him a bubble-wrap envelope.

“Regular or special delivery?”

“Express.”

Bunker wrote Guérin’s address in the space provided.

“Mr Nichols asked me to post this for him. What do I write where it says sender?”

“Mr Nichols, the American?”

“That’s the one.”

“You put his name, then Le Bourg, Lentillac, 46200 Saint Céré. His mail comes in here. The postman doesn’t go down to his camp.”

“Oh, er, by the way, he asked me to pick up his post too.”

“I shouldn’t really.”

“He’s expecting something, news from a friend in Paris.”

“He hasn’t given you anything, a note or something?”

Bunker flashed her a racing-driver smile, revealing his gappy teeth.

“He just said, ‘Ask Mme Labrousse, she’s really nice, you’ll see.’”

The woman blushed behind her thick spectacles.

“Well, as it’s just for you. Yes, there is a letter from Paris for him.”

Mme Labrousse rummaged in a plastic crate and pulled out an envelope, patting down her perm.

“That’ll be eight euros twenty for the express post. It’ll get there tomorrow morning.”

Bunker laid on the charm again, directing a final devastating wink at his bespectacled friend.

“If you want, I can put a table outside for you, then you can smoke in peace. Bloody anti-smoking laws, what a waste of time.”

Bunker was rolling himself a cigarette as he leaned on the counter.

“Don’t bother, I’ll do it.”

He dragged a table and chair outside and sat on the pavement at the edge of the main road. Across from him, on the steps of the church, the ancient mariner from the post office and another old chap were pretending to be busy with something. Bunker raised his glass in their direction, and the ancestors looked at him without reacting.

He was half-way through his third glass when the telephone rang.

“It’s for you again,” the barman called.

“Right, I’ve posted your book, and I’ve got the letter.”

“Can you open it and read it to me?”

Bunker pulled the envelope open with his thick fingers.

“There’s a cloakroom ticket and a note. But it’s all in English. I can’t translate it, kid, no idea what it says.”

“Try and read it all the same.”

“Shit, are you kidding or what?”

“Go on.”

“
Bigue John, I am sorree I did … didenet
, with apostrophe t,
inveete iou for mai laste shô
. I can’t make head or tail of this, can you understand it?”

“Carry on.”

“Shit, kid what are you making me do? “
Tank iou for evereetingue iou deed. I doh eet vit no regrett and eet ees betteur zate iou are not eer: in ze public terre (
with h
) vill bee onlee peeple zate are not mai
frend. Iou dont (
apostrophe t
) beeulongue terre (
with h
). Ai love iou, mai best frende. Taque carre ande for-give iou … iourselfe. Alan Must-e-grave. Alan must go ome
. Fuck, this is driving me nuts. You getting this?”

“Yep. That all?”

“Just one more line, wait a bit.”

“
Iou vill find ate tisse (
with h
) place, a bague vit a little present frome mee. Notingue (
with h
) important compare vit vat iou dide butte somtingue tou mak iour life easee. Go travelle, John, doo eet for mee
. That’s it. The end. And don’t ask me to read it again.”

“…”

“Kid, you still there?”

“What’s the cloakroom ticket?”

“Wait, it’s kind of a receipt. There’s a date, 10 April, 4.30 p.m. There’s a stamp on it, shit, I can’t read this. The Encas- something … 43 avenue Gabriel, 8th arrondissement in Paris. Mean anything to you?”

*

John recognised the waiter and the waiter remembered him: the big backwoodsman with his bow and his Indian blanket. He explained. He’d lost his ticket, but he had forgotten one bag in the cupboard. He’d had a problem, and couldn’t get back here before.

“It’s against the rules.”

“Look, I’m not going to make a big deal out of this, but your racket here doesn’t tick all the boxes either. That doesn’t bother me. I just want my bag, and I’ll leave you a tip you won’t forget.”

The waiter thought for a bit, without making much of an effort. “O.K., go ahead, the boss isn’t here. But be quick about it.”

John pushed open the door of the luggage room. Still the same collection of rucksacks, suitcases, wine-crates and cleaning materials. It was only dimly lit. He shook the bags, moved the cases
round. Between a pile of Coca-Cola bottles and a bucket of floor-cloths, he found a black canvas bag. The zip opened easily. A couple of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out at random, shut the waiter up. John went out fast. He passed the embassy without turning round and walked as quickly as he could without running. In the Tuileries Gardens, he sat down and opened the bag. Bundles of dollar bills, some in fifties and some in hundreds. He counted out one bundle of each. Ten thousand in the hundred-note packs, five thousand in each fifty-note pack. At least sixty packs in all, just chucked in the bag, with rubber bands round them. Between four and five hundred thousand dollars. Half a million bucks.

He stared at the pond in front of him, where kids were launching model boats. He smiled, thinking of Alan throwing this heap of cash into the scruffy cupboard, a few yards from the embassy. Even at two euros an hour, he could have let the interest pile up a bit.

Guérin replied at the third ring, and a screech drilled into John’s eardrum: “Telephooooone! Telephoooone!” Then he heard Guérin asking who it was.

“Nichols. I need to see you.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve found something important.

“You’ve got my address. Saint-Ambroise Metro station.”

In the metro, he clutched the bag close to his body. The train was full of people, all probably dreaming of a fortune like this. John felt like dumping the dollars down the nearest drain.

He rang the bell at Guérin’s address.

The décor of the flat was as minimalist as its furnishings. Everything was clean, despite a suffocating smell like the inside of an aviary. In the living room, on a perch covered with crap,
a repulsive parrot was screaming: “Haaarder, come on, sweetie! Haaaarder!”

“Shut up!”

The creature had hardly any feathers left except on its head, and its flaccid flesh was gashed in many places. Once it had stopped shrieking, it began pecking at what remained of the skin on its claws.

“His name’s Churchill. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

John looked first at the bird then at Guérin, with his scabs on his head and his long scar. The lieutenant wasn’t wearing his coat, and John was taken aback by the fragile misshappen figure.

“Not at work today then?”

“No. But you seem to be busy.”

John passed him the bag. Guérin opened it. The money had as little effect on him as on the American.

“Lot of cash.”

“Alan died for this. Doesn’t seem much to me.”

“No, obviously.”

“Say, your bird doesn’t look too good.”

“He’s depressed.” Guérin lowered his voice. “Since my mother died.” John ran a hand through his hair, puzzled.

“But he’s on the way to killing himself. Can’t you do anything?”

“I can’t bring her back.”

“Find him a mate?”

“I think he’s too old.”

“It’s never too late.”

Guérin rubbed his head.

“It would take someone special.”

“Could be found.”

Each of them, one hand scratching their heads, looked at the parrot, which offered itself up as a martyr to these two human wrecks. John turned to Guérin.

“That yellow raincoat, it belonged to your mother, right?”

Guérin leaned his head to one side.

“No, not at all. What gave you that idea?”

“Nothing, I just thought. You haven’t slept? You look tired. I dreamed about those photos last night, this morning I mean. So what’s happening about that Kowalski guy?”

Guérin looked at Churchill.

“The news will filter through. I left Lambert by the phone. He’ll keep me up to date if anything happens. I don’t think it’ll be long.”

“What?”

“The end, John, the end, of course.”

“You’ve got them?”

“By the balls, if you’ll pardon the expression. But it doesn’t make me particularly happy. I only did this for Savane.”

John rubbed his two-day stubble, with a rasping sound.

“O.K. And the suicides, your theory?”

“That’s different. One mustn’t hope too much for an end to that. Do you want something to drink?”

Guérin took him into the kitchen, a pretext for getting away from the parrot who was eyeing them evilly.

John explained his idea, sitting on the work surface. Guérin had his back to him, staring out of a window overlooking the courtyard. He moved his round head at regular intervals, a rotational movement, neither approving nor disapproving. Guérin was taking mental notes or perhaps thinking of something completely different. He said nothing for a minute after John had finished.

“So where do you want to arrange this meeting?

“Not a lot of choice. In the Caveau de la Bolée. You think that perhaps … too theatrical?”

“Noooo.”

But Guérin was uneasy.

“I’ll call Lambert. He might be needed, if this man is as dangerous as you say.”