The Spy Quartet - Len Deighton

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him at the corner at midnight.’ She pulled up outside the Café Blanc.

      ‘Come and have coffee,’ I suggested.

      ‘No. I must get home,’ she said. I got out of the car and she drove away. Jean-Paul was sitting on the terrace drinking a Coca-Cola. He waved and I walked over to him. ‘Were you in Les Chiens this evening?’ I asked.

      ‘Haven’t been there for a week,’ he said. ‘I was going tonight but I changed my mind.’

      ‘There was a bagarre. Byrd was there.’

      Jean-Paul pulled a face but didn’t seem interested. I ordered a drink and sat down. Jean-Paul stared at me.

      19

      Jean-Paul stared at the Englishman and wondered why he had sought him out. It was more than a coincidence. Jean-Paul didn’t trust him. He thought he had seen Maria’s car in the traffic just before the Englishman sat down. What had they both been plotting? Jean-Paul knew that no woman could be trusted. They consumed one, devoured one, sapped one’s strength and confidence and gave no reassurance in return. The very nature of women made them his … was ‘enemy’ too strong a word? He decided that ‘enemy’ wasn’t too strong a word. They took away his manhood and yet demanded more and more physical love. ‘Insatiable’ was the only word for them. The other conclusion was not worth considering – that his sexual prowess was under par. No. Women were hot and lustful and, if he was truthful with himself, evil. His life was an endless struggle to quench the lustful fires of the women he met. And if he ever failed they would mock him and humiliate him. Women were waiting to humiliate him.

      ‘Have you seen Maria lately?’ Jean-Paul asked.

      ‘A moment ago. She gave me a lift here.’

      Jean-Paul smiled but did not comment. So that was it. At least the Englishman had not dared to lie to him. He must have read his eyes. He was in no mood to be trifled with.

      ‘How’s the painting going?’ I asked. ‘Were the critics kind to your friend’s show the other day?’

      ‘Critics,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘find it quite impossible to separate modern painting from teenage pregnancy, juvenile delinquency and the increase in crimes of violence. They think that by supporting the dull repetitious, representational type of painting that is out of date and unoriginal, they are also supporting loyalty to the flag, discipline, a sense of fair play and responsible use of world supremacy.’

      I grinned. ‘And what about those people that like modern painting?’

      ‘People who buy modern paintings are very often interested only in gaining admittance to the world of the young artists. They are often wealthy vulgarians who, terrified of being thought old and square, prove that they are both by falling prey to quick-witted opportunists who paint modern – very modern – paintings. Provided that they keep on buying pictures they will continue to be invited to bohemian parties.’

      ‘There are no genuine painters?’

      ‘Not many,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Tell me, are English and American exactly the same language, exactly the same?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. Jean-Paul looked at me.

      ‘Maria is very taken with you.’ I said nothing. ‘I despise all women.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because they despise each other. They treat each other with a cruelty that no man would inflict upon another man. They never have a woman friend who they can be sure won’t betray them.’

      ‘That sounds like a good reason for men to be kind to them,’ I said.

      Jean-Paul smiled. He felt sure it was not meant seriously.

      ‘The police have arrested Byrd for murder,’ I said.

      Jean-Paul was not surprised. ‘I have always thought of him as a killer.’

      I was shocked.

      ‘They all are,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘They are all killers for their work. Byrd, Loiseau, Datt, even you, my friend, are killers if work demands.’

      ‘What are you talking about? Whom did Loiseau kill?’

      ‘He killed Maria. Or do you think she was always like she is now – treacherous and confused, and constantly in fear of all of you?’

      ‘But you are not a killer?’

      ‘No,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Whatever faults I have I am not a killer, unless you mean …’ He paused before carefully pronouncing the English word, ‘a “lady-killer”’

      Jean-Paul smiled and put on his dark glasses.

      20

      I got to the Avenue Foch at midnight.

      At the corner of a narrow alley behind the houses were four shiny motor-cycles and four policemen in crash helmets, goggles and short black leather coats. They stood there impassively as only policemen stand, not waiting for anything to happen, not glancing at their watches or talking, just standing looking as though they were the only people with a right to be there. Beyond the policemen there was Loiseau’s dark-green DS 19, and behind that red barriers and floodlights marked the section of the road that was being evacuated. There were more policemen standing near the barriers. I noticed that they were not traffic policemen but young, tough-looking cops with fidgety hands that continually tapped pistol holsters, belts and batons to make sure that everything was ready.

      Inside the barriers twenty thick-shouldered men were bent over road-rippers. The sound was deafening, like machine-guns firing long bursts. The generator trucks played a steady drone. Near to me the ripper operator lifted the handles and prised the point into a sunsoft area of tar. He fired a volley and the metal buried its point deep, and with a sigh a chunk of paving fell back into the excavated area. The operator ordered another man to take over, and turned towards us mopping his sweaty head with a blue handkerchief. Under the overalls he wore a clean shirt and a silk tie. It was Loiseau.

      Hard work,’ he said.

      ‘You are going into the cellars?’

      ‘Not the cellars of Datt’s place,’ Loiseau said to me. ‘We’re punching a hole in these cellars two doors away, then we’ll mousehole through into Datt’s cellars.’

      ‘Why didn’t you ask these people?’ I pointed at the house behind which the roadwork was going on. ‘Why not just ask them to let you through?’

      ‘I don’t work that way. As soon as I ask a favour I show my hand. I hate the idea of you knowing what we are doing. I may want to deny it tomorrow.’ He mopped his brow again. ‘In fact I’m damned sure I will be denying it tomorrow.’ Behind him the road-ripper exploded into action and the chiselled dust shone golden in the beams of the big lights, like illustrations for a fairy story, but from the damp soil came that sour aroma of death and bacteria that clings around a bombarded city.

      ‘Come along,’ said Loiseau. We passed three huge Berliot buses full of policemen. Most were dozing with their képis pulled forward over their eyes; a couple were eating crusty sandwiches and a few were smoking. They didn’t look at us as we passed by. They sat, muscles slack, eyes unseeing and minds unthinking, as experienced combat troops rest between battles.

      Loiseau walked towards a fourth bus; the windows were of dark-blue glass and from its coachwork a thick cable curved towards the ground and snaked away into a manhole cover in the road. He ushered me up the steps past a sentry. Inside the bus was a brightly lit command centre. Two policemen sat operating radio and teleprinter links. At the back of the bus a large rack of MAT 49 sub-machine guns was guarded by a man who kept his silver-braided cap on to prove he was an officer.

      Loiseau sat down behind a desk, produced a bottle of Calvados and two glasses. He poured a generous measure and pushed

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