The Widow (11 page)

‘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.

‘Why?'

‘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.

Arthur, wearing her apron, was cooking; looking pleased with himself.

‘Ho. There you are. Moist and delicious: nothing like a bit of rain to improve a woman. You may talk but not interrupt; this is going to be delectable.' Only a half chicken that she had taken out of the freezer that afternoon, but she'd hoped it would stimulate his imagination.

‘I'm in business,' said Arlette grinning. ‘Three all at once.'

‘So? Tell all.'

‘How fine you manage to chop those onions.' Having got the men into the kitchen, butter them up lavishly.

‘A question of having the knife sharp, which women never do. Now don't stand there with your hands in your pockets: make the salad.'

‘Monsieur Dupont he called himself. It'll do to go on with. I don't have the right to say much about him. As a case marked X…'

‘Lemon juice please, not vinegar.'

‘…so either he's pretty kinky or it's an elaborate trap one can't see the bottom of. Hardly for me; nobody knows me. So for whom? Why all the melodrama? Is your rice ready? – I'm starving.'

‘Your sense of mystery makes it rather elliptical and tiresome. A whole category of scary stories written by women. Shudders and shrieks in the shuttered house. The species was described by Jacques Barzun as “Everything is Rather Frightening”.'

‘What's in this? Tomato and sherry I can recognize. Oh I see; grated orange peel, that's very snazzy. The nervous trick of glancing about doesn't mean he was frightened. I mean it's commonplace. But he was frightened.'

‘A mythomaniac. You'd be well advised to leave it alone.'

‘What, my first day? No, no more rice; I mustn't stuff. A myth for whose benefit? It might be police business; I made rather a fuss of warning him but he didn't blink. I said come to the office and cough it all up. If he doesn't then it's myth. Now these other two girls I'd like your opinion on.'

‘Norma's the classic lame dog and as I told you this morning, helping over stiles is one thing, collecting lame dogs and getting saddled with them – that's rather an unhappy metaphor.' But he was pleased with Marie-Line.

‘If you have a tame doctor, and of course he has plenty, nothing's easier. It wasn't the Russians who invented using the psychiatric clinic as a means of repression. I rather think we owe that one to Napoleon's fertile invention.'

‘Can you think of anything more wicked? You need no brainwashing. You're refusing a young girl control over her own body. It's a rape.'

‘There I'm with you –' Arthur pulled up crossly. ‘Manipulating young girls is indeed wicked.'

‘We'll do the washing-up first,' said Arlette firmly.

‘Exactly like porn photos: now open your legs dear, so Joe can get a good shot at your pussy. They do it, silly little things. But it's a rape. They are profoundly humiliated and wounded even while telling themselves it's of no consequence. And some shrinks sit there canting that porn is good for you.'

‘Male shrinks,' bored at this labouring of the obvious.

‘You've only her word for it all though, Beware of these young girls – fearful little actresses.'

‘Of course. I have to make some contact with the parents. If I go to Hautepierre tomorrow I'll make a detour, spy out the land a bit.'

‘Ah yes,' said Arthur sentimentally. ‘Phil Marlowe the shopsoiled Galahad goes out tomorrow calling on General Sternwood. That marvellous house with the stained-glass window: the lady with no clothes on bound to the tree.'

‘In Hautepierre?'.

‘Yes, well who knows? Norma, I agree, bears no great resemblance to General Sternwood, but the Meinau is sinister. You might well find yourself among the pornographers on Laurel Canyon Drive. As long as Marie-Line doesn't start behaving like Carmen Sternwood, biting her thumb and looking coy.'

‘Intensely funny,' she said, getting cross. ‘Stop it.'

I'm at a crossroads, thought Arlette sleepily. She hitched her quilt to make herself comfortable.

‘You're creating a draught,' muttered Arthur. Men … turning round and round, like a dog …

If I can make some sense out of these three people, then I shall be able to … what? I don't quite know yet: not just sociology. Be fair to Arthur. He's trying to make sense of it all too. The whole structure of our civilization is on its last
legs. Law, ethics; meaningless phrases. Professionals, clacking away about methodology. Helpless, and too stupid to know it. More and more techniques, complications, sophisticated tools. Simplify, simplify …

She was asleep.

Arthur brought her a cup of coffee in bed. Ignominiously, she fell asleep again over it, woke, rushed out in a panic. Arthur was gone to work. The cassette ‘pocket memo' lay on the kitchen table.