Michael Collins - Shadow of a Tiger

“Why did he?”

“I suspect to provide an opposition, to prick our bubbles. Eugene admired Balzac, lost no opportunity to remind us that our hero had been a cynic and critic himself. A gadfly, in a way. Most of us associate outside the club, Eugene never did. I don’t think he ever invited one of us to his home, for example.”

“Any idea why?”

The director removed his rimless glasses, polished them. “He was a psychological hermit, I think. Some past trauma.”

“The war? The Occupation? That far back, maybe?”

“Perhaps, but he wasn’t a man who talked about himself. So little, one had the feeling he had never done anything at all.”

There it was again. As if Eugene Marais somehow made everyone know he had been a man who had done nothing. As if that was important in his mind.

“Is there a Paul Manet in your club, M. De Lange?”

The director almost beamed now. “Indeed. A new member, but not new to us by reputation. How do you know Paul Manet?”

“Eugene Marais mentioned him.”

“So? I am surprised. Then, it was the brother who brought Manet to us from San Francisco. They knew each other there.”

“Who is Manet that you knew him by reputation?”

“A hero of the Occupation, one who saved many people from the Germans. His name is well known to Frenchmen of that time, as most of us here are.”

“What does he do now?”

“A representative of French businesses abroad. A journalist, too, I believe. An imposing man, and a welcome addition here.”

“You said he knows Claude Marais. Is Claude a member?”

“No.” The director’s face clamped shut. He put his glasses back on. “Claude Marais served France well, a hero also, but he is a bitter man turned against all he once fought for. We asked him to join us, of course, but he sneered at us, cursed France to our faces. A misanthrope, unpleasant. Perhaps he has suffered much, is disillusioned, but other men have suffered in defeat and not turned against their country.”

“Were Claude and Eugene close? Eugene agreed with Claude?”

“I am not sure. Eugene apologized for Claude, the only time I ever saw Eugene upset, and yet…?” De Lange shrugged. “Eugene said something rather cryptic, then. He said, ‘It seems there are different roads to the same end.’ And that perhaps there was only one end, life a circle that always came to the same point no matter what road. What he meant, who can say?”

“But Claude Marais rejected your club?”

“And we him. There was an incident. With Paul Manet, in fact. Some of us were discussing Indo-China again, Claude was here, so we asked him to comment, of course. He refused, made remarks about stupidity and cowardice. Manet became angry. There were actual blows, I’m afraid.”

“Who won the fight?”

“It was brief,” De Lange said uncomfortably. “Claude Marais knocked Paul Manet down.”

“Manet’s a lot bigger than Claude, looks in good shape.”

“Paul Manet is older, and a gentleman.”

“Maybe that explains it,” I agreed dryly. “Why are you surprised that Eugene Marais mentioned Paul Manet?”

“I did not know they had met. Somehow, Paul Manet was never introduced to Eugene here. Of course, Claude Marais and Manet knew each other in San Francisco, so Eugene must have met Manet on the outside.”

On the outside, and a long time ago, maybe, and at least once at the pawn shop-with Claude there even after the fight at this club. Paul Manet had known the Marais brothers better than the Balzac Union members realized. As if someone wanted the association to remain private.

“You know a man named Gerd Exner?” I asked.

“No. We know few Germans. Stupid, perhaps, but true.”

“Where do I find Paul Manet?”

“I believe he sublet an apartment from a member, or was loaned it.” De Lange checked a box of file cards. “Here it is: Jules Rosenthal’s apartment, 120 Fifth Avenue.”

I thanked the director, and left. I walked down. As I passed the desk, the old soldier on duty called to me:

“Monsieur Fortune? Telephone. You take it in the booth.”

In the booth I picked up the receiver. “Fortune.”

Viviane Marais’s voice said, “I thought you would go to the club. A Lieutenant Marx has just called me. He has arrested Jimmy Sung for the robbery and my husband’s murder.”

Jimmy Sung sat in a straight chair under an overhead light in the hot, dark, windowless interrogation room.

It was bright daylight outside, but in the interrogation room it was always night. A timeless room that could be anywhere. Colorless, bare, with nothing to give it identity, nothing to place it in space, nothing human. A room without a sense of name, and after a time no one in it had a name. In it, as victim or bystander, I felt reduced, stripped. That was the way it was planned.

Two detectives and Lieutenant Marx stood around Jimmy Sung, taking turns talking to him. Another man stood in the shadows. I went to him, expecting to find Captain Gazzo-Homicide chief, and, most of the time, my friend. It wasn’t Gazzo. It was a big, heavy man with a pale, massive face and small eyes. Captain Olsen, Narcotics downtown.

“A narcotics angle, Captain?” I said.

“Gazzo’s on vacation, I’m filling in on Homicide. You’re a lucky man, Fortune. You can collect for doing nothing.”

“I won’t feel bad,” I said. “You’re sure, Captain?”

“Listen and find out.”

Marx and his two squad men were soft-hammering, casual, putting Jimmy Sung at his ease. It wasn’t working.

Jimmy sat rigid in the chair, his soft hands on his thighs under work pants. His feet were flat on the floor, in sneakers, and his back was stiff and straight. His black eyes were fixed straight ahead. He seemed taller, even younger, and his alcoholic eyes were bright. His puffy face had a thin smile. Not amused-a tigerish smile, almost contemptuous. Like a soldier captured by the enemy, waiting for torture, sure they would get nothing from him. I had the illusion that if Jimmy Sung opened his mouth, all that would come out was name, rank and serial number.

“You went to rob the shop,” Lieutenant Marx said. “For booze money, right? You didn’t know Eugene Marais was there. You had to hit him. You started looting the store, decided to tie Marais up. You found he was dead, panicked, and ran.”

Jimmy Sung said nothing, didn’t move, his shoulders tense like a man about to be beaten. A man who expects to be beaten.

A detective said, “Come on, Jimmy. We don’t think you knew what you were doing. Make it easy.”

“We know about those years in that state hospital,” the second detective said. “You’re not responsible.”

The stocky Oriental moved his eyes; black eyes with anger in them now. “A lie, that hospital. You hear?” His eyes looked straight ahead again. “I’m home all night.”

I heard it in his voice-colorless, flat. He didn’t believe what he had said himself. He didn’t believe it, he didn’t believe that the police would believe it, but it was his statement. A man who would confess nothing.

Lieutenant Marx sighed, held up a small, jade Buddha. “Here it is, Jimmy. On the list of what was taken from the pawn shop. Found in your apartment. You know it, and we know it.”

“Not the same Buddha,” Jimmy said.

“It’s got Marais’s pawn mark on it.”

“I never saw it. Someone put it in my place.”

“It was in your bookcase, your woman saw it the day after Eugene Marais was killed. You told her it was yours.”

“Mr. Marais gave it to me.”

“It was still on the inventory, Jimmy.”

“Mr. Marais forgot to take it off.”

I listened to Jimmy Sung change his claim each time Marx disproved the statement before. Simply, blandly coming up with a totally different claim, and all the time sitting there rigid, his eyes glittering with something peculiarly like pride, waiting for the blows to start. He was denying with his words, changing his claims to meet each charge, but his eyes and body were not denying, not even protesting, simply rejecting. As if he didn’t really care what he said, or what was believed. Resigned to be found guilty.