Ted Allbeury - The Twentieth Day of January

It was almost eleven o’clock when he walked up the rue Mouffetard. They were putting fresh trays in the windows of the pâtisserie . Eclairs, mille-feuilles , meringues, and strawberry tarts with smooth, glazed surfaces.

As he crossed the road he glanced up at the house. It still looked much the same. Even the shutters were the same blue. He pressed the bell and stood waiting, with one foot on the bottom step, looking down the hill. It was a stinking, sleazy street but he hadn’t noticed that in the old days, and even now it had a raffish, attractive air in the pale winter light.

Then the door opened and the same brown eyes looked at him, one fragile hand pushing the dark hair from the side of her face. A moment’s perplexity, and then she recognized him.

“Jimmy. My God, what’s the matter?”

“Adèle. Nothing. Why should there be?” He smiled.

Her long slender fingers touched her cheek as she laughed.

“It’s so long ago. I must have been back in those times.” She stood aside. “Come in, chéri . Have you eaten?”

He closed the door behind him and followed her up the stairs. At the landing he could see the room beyond the open door. Still clinically white and antiseptic. Canvases leaning against the wall and the smell of turpentine and linseed. The massive mahogany easel still dominating the light from the big window. She was wearing an orange towelling bath-robe and she stood smiling in the centre of the room, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I didn’t know until late last night and I’ve been flying through the night.”

“Coffee?”

“That’d be great.”

He walked with her into the small kitchen and pulled out one of the tall stools. She looked much the same. There were some wrinkles, but only at her eyes and mouth, where she smiled. When the coffee had percolated she poured out two cups and sat looking at him. “How long ago was it, Jimmy? Ten years?”

“About that. And how are things with you?”

“I heard that you were a policeman or some such thing now.”

“Not me, my love.”

She sipped her coffee, her brown eyes studying his face.

“You look more of a loner than you used to.”

“Older, maybe.”

“Yes. But surer…” She put down her cup and sat with her hands on her knees. “Tell me why you came, chéri .”

“I wanted to talk to you about two people we knew in the old days.”

“Who?”

“Andrew Dempsey is one.”

She laughed. “He was just like you, Jimmy. Handsome, charming, some talent, kind, and amused at us foreigners with our funny ways.”

“What else?”

“Rich daddy, money no problem, girl-struck. What else can there be for a young man?”

“Do you remember when he was arrested?”

“Oh, God, yes. I was standing quite near him. They’d smashed his nose, and his clothes were covered with blood. He was unconscious when they threw him in the van. You were there. You were with me. Have you seen him again?”

“No. How long was he inside?”

“He was in Fresnes. It was a long time for something so little. Two months maybe. They let them both out at the same time. Him and Halenka.”

“Who got them out?”

“An American. I don’t remember his name.”

“What happened to Halenka?”

“She went back to Moscow. She’s done terribly well, you know.”

“At what?”

“Painting. She had shows in Leningrad, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw. All over. She’s very good.”

“I can remember that she was very pretty. What was she like?”

“A sweetie. Very gentle and sensitive. I think she and Andy would have married if they hadn’t sent her back to Moscow.”

“Was Andy a Party member?”

She looked at him carefully and then averted her eyes.

“You are a policeman, aren’t you?”

“Kind of.” He half smiled and shrugged.

She stood up, folding her arms in that defensive move that all interrogators recognize.

“What happened to Andy?”

“He’s a politician. A leading man in Powell’s election team.”

“Powell’s the man they say is going to win, isn’t he?”

“They say so.”

“And somebody wants to stab Andy in the back with his membership card. I thought that had all finished with McCarthy.”

“It did.”

“So why the questions now?”

“So why no answer?”

She smiled and shrugged. “I expect you know the answer anyway. Yes, he was a member. So was I. So was Halenka, and she was the only reason he joined. He loved her desperately.”

“Did she love him?”

“Oh yes, she adored him. They were like lovers from a book.”

“I can’t remember, did they live together?”

“Yes. They had a place by the Musée de Cluny.”

“Now tell me about you.”

She shrugged amiably. “I do quite well. Two one-man shows. One here in Paris and one in Düsseldorf. I’ve got a cottage near Honfleur. I get by nicely.”

“No grand passion?”

“Why so sure?”

“Because you look contented and level.”

“ Touché .” She laughed. “And you?”

“Much the same as I used to be.”

“You haven’t lost your French, anyway.”

“How about we have lunch together?”

“OK. I’ll get dressed. Help yourself to a drink while you’re waiting.”

He sorted through the pile of old 78s and it was still there. He put it on the player and sat in the wicker chair listening. It was Charles Trenet singing “ Il pleut dans ma chambre .” He wondered if she might come back into the room when she heard it. She didn’t.

They held hands as they walked down the hill to find a taxi, and lunched at le Petit Bedou in the rue Pergolese. There had been a tension at first, but slowly she relaxed so that he was encouraged to ask her to dinner that evening. When she left she blew him a kiss from the taxi as it turned to cross the bridge.

He phoned the embassy and waited in the Ritz bar for his SIS contact. He came in twenty minutes later.

“Hayles. What can I do for you?”

“MacKay. I need a check on the records of Fresnes, May, June, July 1968.”

“What’s the prisoner’s name?”

“There’s two. One’s an American named Andrew Dempsey, the other’s a girl; Halenka Tcharkova.”

“What were they in for?”

“The student demonstrations.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Most students were released after a couple of days. These two were held for nearly two months. I’d like to know why. And I’d like to know if anyone used influence to keep them in or get them out.”

“Was the girl Russian?”

“Yes.”

“How long have I got?”

“As soon as you can. Two days at most.”

“Where can I contact you?”

“Hotel du Nord. Boulevard des Capucines.”

“See you.”

“Thanks.”

MacKay was impressed. He liked men who didn’t need the social flim-flam but just got on with the job.

The hotel lobby called him in his room to announce that a Mr. Hayles was in attendance. He asked them to send him up.

Hayles was opening his notebook as he sat down. He glanced quickly at MacKay and then started reading from his notes.

“Andrew Joseph Dempsey. American citizen, born 1947. Arrested 9 May 1968 on charge of causing affray. Charge later altered to conspiracy with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 with surety from Viktor Kleppe United States passport number 917432, point of issue New York.

“Halenka Alexandrova Tcharkova, Soviet citizen, born 1949, passport issued Smolensk. Two-year French visa starting date August 1967. Arrested 9 May 1968 for conspiring with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 on medical grounds. Three months’ pregnant. Handed over to Soviet embassy officials 14 July and taken direct to Orly where she was put on Aeroflot flight 409 to Moscow at 18.30 hours local time.”