Scott Mariani - The Sacred Sword

Ben led the way inside the bar. In contrast to the sleepy street the place was lively, noisy and crowded. He saw right away how it had got its name. The barman was a broad, bear-like character sporting a formidable set of grizzled whiskers that he must have spent the last thirty years pampering.

‘Bonsoir, messieurs. Je suis Moustache,’ he welcomed them proudly, the bush parting in a toothy grin. There was a door open behind him leading through to a busy kitchen, two women scurrying here and there amid a lot of steam and smoke, leaping flambee flames and some wonderful odours of frying meat, garlic and shallots.

Ben asked Moustache if they could cook up a couple of steak-frites for him and his friend. No problem, Monsieur. Ben ordered a whisky aperitif. ‘You want a drink?’ he asked Jude.

Jude wrinkled his nose. ‘Not one like that. Whisky tastes like shit.’

‘Says the connoisseur. I’m sorry they don’t serve Guinness, red wine and vodka cocktails in this place.’

‘Ha, ha. I’ll have a beer,’ Jude said.

‘Un demi pour le gosse,’ Ben said to Moustache, jerking his thumb at Jude.

‘What’s a gosse?’ Jude wanted to know.

‘It means a snotty-nosed brat.’

‘Oh, thanks. Keep them coming, why don’t you?’

Some guys at the other end of the bar had picked up on their English conversation and were looking over. One of them was bony and acne-scarred with greased-back hair, slumped on a high stool with his elbows on the counter. Leaning against the bar next to him was a thick-chested, bearded man of about fifty, who wore a heavy chequered work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. They were all knocking back shots of some kind of clear liquor. Whatever bottle it had come from was out of sight under the bar. ‘Eh, les rosbifs,’ Ben heard the bony one call out. The bearded one grinned. Someone else let out a cackle.

‘Did that guy just call us something?’ Jude asked, staring back at them.

‘He called us rosbifs. Like roast beef,’ Ben explained. ‘It’s one of the kinder terms the French use to describe the Brits.’

‘I don’t even like roast beef,’ Jude muttered, maintaining eye contact with the guys at the bar. ‘Hey. You got a problem?’ he said more loudly.

‘Take it easy,’ Ben told him. ‘We didn’t come here for a bar brawl.’

‘Oh, I bet you never got in a fight in your life.’

‘Never once,’ Ben said.

Moustache had taken in the situation. ‘They’re not bad lads,’ he said in French as he finished pouring Jude’s beer. ‘Just having some fun.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ Ben said. Jude picked up his beer and took a gulp. The guys at the bar had lost interest and started chatting among themselves, laughing as they drank their colourless drinks.

‘You’re not a tourist,’ Moustache said to Ben with a half-smile.

‘No, I live in France,’ Ben told him. ‘I’m here because of Fabrice Lalique.’ Might as well throw it out and see what comes back, he thought.

Moustache narrowed his eyes and clunked the brimming beer glass down on the bar. ‘You mean Father Lalique?’

Ben nodded.

‘He’s dead.’

‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘I read all about it.’

‘Your steaks’ll be ready soon,’ Moustache rumbled, suddenly less than friendly. ‘You want to take a seat over there? Corinne will bring the food over to you.’

‘I was just wondering what local people might have thought about what happened to him,’ Ben said.

‘He killed himself. He was sick. That’s it. Fini.’

Moustache seemed about to turn away, so Ben pressed on while he still could. ‘He must have known a lot of people, made a lot of friends around here over the years. Does everyone feel that way? Doesn’t anybody find what happened a little odd, a little out of character?’

‘People here have had enough of talking about Fabrice Lalique, okay? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.’

‘You know what I think?’

‘Monsieur, nobody is interested in what you think.’

‘I think a lot of people around here don’t buy the stories about Father Lalique. That’s why I’m here, because I’m looking for the truth about what happened to him.’

‘You are from the police? A detective?’

‘I’m just a concerned member of the public,’ Ben said. He laid a business card on the bar. ‘This is my number if anyone wants to talk to me.’

The guys along the other end of the bar had stopped chatting among themselves and were all silent. The bearded one in the work shirt was looking at Ben intently. The expression in his dark eyes wasn’t easy to read.

The kitchen door swung open and a harried-looking young blonde emerged carrying two steaming plates, calling out shrilly, ‘Deux steak-frites!’ Moustache pointed at Ben and Jude, and then the bar conversation was over as their evening meal was served to them at a corner table.

‘What was all that about?’ Jude said through a mouthful of fries.

‘Just some basic reconnaissance,’ Ben said.

‘You think people round here are going to talk to us? You see their faces whenever you mention his name.’

Ben glanced at his watch. It was just after ten. He wanted to wait a few more hours before paying another visit to Lalique’s house, in case his defensive housekeeper was in the habit of staying up late.

While they were eating, Ben noticed the group of men at the bar break up. The bearded guy and Moustache disappeared into a back room together for a moment. When the bearded man emerged, he was counting through a roll of notes with a wetted fingertip. He stuffed the cash in his back pocket, threw a last curious look at Ben, bade goodnight to his pal Moustache and then batted through the door and out into the snow. A few moments later, Ben glanced through the window and saw the taillights of the Peugeot pickup disappear up the alleyway.

After their meal, Ben and Jude headed back to the Auberge and climbed the stairs to the twin room. It was small and basic, but everything worked and it was warm. The twin beds were neatly made and each covered with a hand-knitted woollen spread. Jude flattened himself on the bed nearest the door, let out a loud sigh and closed his eyes. For all his bravado, Ben could tell he was still completely overwhelmed by the events of the last couple of days.

Ben dumped his jacket on the other bed next to where he’d left his bag earlier, settled himself in an armchair and cast his eye around the room. He liked its simplicity. No television, no radio, no internet connection. No smoke alarm. He liked that too. Civilised. He took out his Gauloises and Zippo. Thumbed the lighter’s flint striker wheel and relished the smell of burning petroleum-based fluid from the flickering orange flame.

There was nothing quite like a Zippo. Made in Bradford, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. since 1933. Simple, rugged, battle-tested, as timeless and dependable as a Browning Hi-Power automatic pistol. Ben touched the flame to the tip of the Gauloise and tasted the welcome sting of the strong smoke at the back of his throat.

‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ Jude’s voice came from across the room.

Ben clanged the lighter shut and took another draw on the cigarette. ‘Why?’ he said.

Jude shrugged his shoulders against the bedspread, still lying flat on his back with his eyes shut. ‘You’ll die,’ he said simply.

‘I’m truly touched by your concern.’

‘Who said I was concerned? I just said that people who smoke will die.’

Ben looked at him. ‘So if I stop smoking, I won’t die?’

Jude gave another shrug. ‘No, obviously you’ll still die,’ he said after a beat.

‘So I can either die doing something that gives me pleasure,’ Ben said, ‘or I can die avoiding it out of fear. I think I know which way I’d rather live my life, thanks.’