An Expensive Place to Die. Len Deighton
your wonderful food. What a perfect life.’
‘That’s self-indulgent,’ said Tastevin.
‘Perhaps it is – so what? Isn’t your life self-indulgent? You could make far more money working in one of the three-star restaurants but you spend your life running this small one – one might almost say for your friends.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Tastevin. ‘I enjoy cooking, and my customers appreciate my work I think.’
‘Quite so. You are a sensible man. It’s madness to go every day to work at something you do not enjoy.’
‘But suppose,’ asked Madame Tastevin, ‘that such a job brought us a lot of money that would enable him to retire and then do as he wishes?’
‘Madame,’ said Datt. His voice took on that portentous, melodious quality that narrators on arty French films employ. ‘Madame Tastevin,’ he said again, ‘there is a cave in Kashmir – Amarnath cave – the most sacred spot on earth to a worshipper of the Hindu god Siva. The pilgrims who journey there are old; sometimes sick too. Many of them die on the high passes, their tiny tents swept away by the sudden rainstorms. Their relatives do not weep. To them this does not matter; even the arrival – which must always be on a night of full moon – is not more vital than the journey. Many know they will never arrive. It is the journey that is holy, and so it is to Existentialists: life is more important than death. Whatever they do, men are too anxious to get to the end. The sex act, eating a fine meal, playing golf, there is a temptation to rush, gobble or run. That is foolish, for one should move at a relaxed pace through life doing the work one enjoys instead of chasing ambition helter-skelter, pursuing one’s ultimate death.’
Tastevin nodded sagely and I stopped gobbling the cold chicken. Datt tucked a napkin in his collar and savoured a little terrine, pursing his lips and remarking on the salt content. When he had finished he turned to me. ‘You have a telephone, I believe,’ he said, and without waiting for my reply was already on his feet and moving towards the door.
‘By all means use it,’ I told him and by a burst of speed was able to get upstairs before him. Joe blinked in the sudden electric light. Datt dialled a number and said ‘Hello, I am at the Petit Légionnaire and I am ready for the car in about five minutes.’ He hung up. Datt came over to where I was standing with Joe. ‘It’s my belief,’ said Datt, ‘that you are making inquiries about me.’
I didn’t answer.
‘It would be a fruitless task.’
‘Why?’
‘Because no matter what you discover it will not harm me.’
‘The art of Zen in clandestine behaviour?’
Datt smiled. ‘The art of Zen in having influential friends,’ he said.
I didn’t answer him. I pushed open the shutters and there was Paris. Warm streets, a policeman, two lovers, four cats, fifty dented deux-chevaux cars and a pavement full of garbage bins. The life of Paris centres on its streets; its inhabitants sit at the windows gazing down upon people as they buy, sell, thieve, drive, fight, eat, chat, posture, cheat or merely stand looking, upon the streets of Paris. Its violence too centres upon the streets and outside the public baths the previous night M. Picard, who owned the laundry, was robbed and knifed. He died twitching his own blood into ugly splashes that could still be seen upon the torn election posters flapping from the ancient shutters.
A black Daimler came down the road and stopped with a tiny squeak.
‘Thank you for the use of your telephone,’ said Datt. At the door he turned. ‘Next week I should like to talk with you again,’ he said. ‘You must tell me what you are curious about.’
‘Any time,’ I agreed. ‘Tomorrow if you wish.’
Datt shook his head. ‘Next week will be soon enough.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Yes,’ said Datt. He walked out without saying good night.
After Datt left Joe took a brief swing. I checked that the documents were still in their hiding-place. Perhaps I should have given them to Datt a few minutes before, but I looked forward to seeing him again next week. ‘It seems to me, Joe,’ I said, ‘that we are the only people in town who don’t have powerful friends.’ I put the cover on him before he could answer.
5
Faubourg St Honoré, seven thirty P.M. Friday. The tiny art gallery was bursting at the seams. Champagne, free champagne, was spilling over high suede boots and broken sandals. I had spent twenty-five minutes prising triangular pieces of smoked salmon away from circular pieces of toast, which is not a rewarding experience for a fully grown human male. Byrd was talking to Jean-Paul and rapping at one of the abstract panels. I edged towards them, but a young woman with green eye-shadow grabbed my arm. ‘Where’s the artist?’ she asked. ‘Someone’s interested in “Creature who fears the machine” and I don’t know if it’s one hundred thousand francs or fifty.’ I turned to her but she had grabbed someone else already. Most of my champagne was lost by the time I got to Byrd and Jean-Paul.
‘There’s some terrible people here,’ said Jean-Paul.
‘As long as they don’t start playing that dashed rock-and-roll music again,’ said Byrd.
‘Were they doing that?’ I asked.
Byrd nodded. ‘Can’t stand it. Sorry and all that, but can’t stand it.’
The woman with green eye-shadow waved across a sea of shoulders, then cupped her mouth and yelled to me. ‘They have broken one of the gold chairs,’ she said. ‘Does it matter?’
I couldn’t stand her being so worried. ‘Don’t worry,’ I called. She nodded and smiled in relief.
‘What’s going on?’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Do you own this gallery?’
‘Give me time,’ I said, ‘and maybe I’ll give you a one-man show.’
Jean-Paul smiled to show that he knew it was a joke, but Byrd looked up suddenly. ‘Look here, Jean-Paul,’ he said severely, ‘a one-man show would be fatal for you right now. You are in no way prepared. You need time, my boy, time. Walk before you run.’ Byrd turned to me. ‘Walk before you run, that’s right, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Any mother will tell you that most kids can run before they can walk; it’s walking that’s difficult.’
Jean-Paul winked at me and said, ‘I must decline, but thank you anyway.’
Byrd said, ‘He’s not ready. You gallery chappies will just have to wait. Don’t rush these young artists. It’s not fair. Not fair to them.’
I was just going to straighten things out when a short thickset Frenchman with a Légion d’Honneur in his buttonhole came up and began to talk to Byrd.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Byrd. He wouldn’t tolerate informality. ‘This is Chief Inspector Loiseau. Policeman. I went through a lot of the war with his brother.’
We shook hands, and then Loiseau shook hands with Jean-Paul, although neither of them showed a great deal of enthusiasm for the ritual.
The French, more particularly the men, have developed a characteristic mouth that enables them to deal with their language. The English use their pointed and dexterous tongues, and their mouths become pinched and close. The French use their lips and a Frenchman’s mouth becomes loose and his lips jut forward. The cheeks sink a little to help this and a French face takes on a lean look, back-sloping like an old-fashioned coal-scuttle. Loiseau had just such a face.
‘What’s a policeman doing at an art show?’ asked Byrd.
‘We policemen are not uncultured oafs,’ said Loiseau with a smile. ‘In our off-duty hours we have even been