Frederick Forsyth - The Day of the Jackal

For the first time in ten days Commissaire Claude Lebel went home to bed. As he turned the key in the lock and caught the first shrill rebuke of his wife, the clock chimed midnight and it was August 23rd.

THE Jackal entered the bar an hour before midnight. It was dark and for several seconds he could hardly make out the shape of the room. There was a long bar running down the left-hand wall, with an illuminated row of mirrors and bottles behind it. The barman stared at him as the door swung closed with unveiled curiosity.

The shape of the room was long and narrow down the length of the bar, with small tables set on the right-hand wall. At the far end the room broadened into a salon, and here there were larger tables where four or six could sit together. A row of bar stools were against the bar counter. Most of the chairs and stools were occupied by the night's habitual clientele.

The conversation had stopped at the tables nearest the door while the customers examined him, and the hush spread down the room as others further away caught the glances of their companions and turned to study the tall athletic figure by the door. A few whispers were exchanged, and a giggle or two. He spotted a spare bar-stool at the far end and walked between the tables on the right and the bar on the left to reach it. He swung himself on to the bar-stool. Behind him he caught a quick whisper.

«Oh, regarde-moi gal Those muscles, darling I'm going out of my mind.»

The barman slipped down the length of the bar to stand opposite him and get a better look. The carmined lips widened in a coquettish smile.

«Bonsoir… monsieur.»

There was a chorus of giggles from behind, most of them malicious.

«Donnez-moi un Scotch.»

The barman waltzed away delighted. A man, a man, a man. Oh there was going to be such a row tonight. He could see the «petites folles' on the far side of the corridor sharpening their claws. Most were waiting for their regular «butches', but some were without a date and had turned up on spec. This new boy, he thought, was going to create an absolute sensation.

The client next to the jackal turned towards him and gazed with unconcealed curiosity. The hair was a metallic gold, meticulously groomed down on to the forehead in a series of pointed spikes like a young Greek god on an ancient frieze. There the likeness ended. The eyes were mascara'ed, the lips a delicate coral, the cheeks dusted with powder. But the makeup could not conceal the tired lines of an ageing degenerate, nor the mascara the arid hungry eyes.

«Tu m'invites?»

The voice was a girlish lisp.

The Jackal slowly shook his head. The drag shrugged and turned back to his companion. They went on with their conversation in whispers and squeaks of mock dismay. The jackal had taken off his windcheater; and as he reached for his drink proffered by the barman, the muscles down the shoulders and back rippled under the T-Shirt.

The barman was delighted. A «straight'? No, he couldn't be, he wouldn't be here. And not a butch looking for a nance, or why had he snubbed poor little Corinne when she asked for a drink. He must be… how marvellous! A handsome young butch looking for an old queen to take him home. What fun there was going to be tonight.

The butches started homing in just before midnight, sitting at the back, surveying the crowd, occasionally beckoning the barman for a whispered conversation. The barman would return to the bar and signal to one of the «girls'.

«Monsieur Pierre wants to have a word with you, darling. Try and look your best, and for God's sake don't cry like you did last time.»

The jackal made his mark shortly after midnight. Two of the men at the back had been eyeing him for several minutes. They were at different tables and occasionally shot each other venomous glances. Both were in late middle age; one was fat, with tiny eyes buried in obese lids and rolls on the back of his neck that flowed over his collar. He looked gross and piggish. The other was slim, elegant, with a vulture's neck and balding pate across which the few strands of hair were elaborately plastered. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with narrow trousers and a jacket whose sleeves showed a hint of lace at the cuffs. There was a flowing silk foulard artfully knotted at the throat. Something to do with the world of the arts, fashion or hair-styling, the Jackal thought.

The fat one beckoned to the barman and whispered in his ear. A large note slipped into the barman's tight trousers. He returned across the bar floor.

«The monsieur wonders if you would care to join him for a glass of champagne,» whispered the barman, and regarded him archly.

The Jackal put down his whisky.

«Tell the monsieur,» he said clearly, so the pansies round the bar could hear, «that he does not attract me.»

There were gasps of horror, and several of the flick-knife-thin young men slipped off their bar-stools to come nearer so that they would not miss a word. The barman's eyes opened wide with horror.

«He's offering you champagne, darling. We know him, he's absolutely loaded. You've made a hit.»

For reply the Jackal slid off his bar-stool, took his glass of whisky and sauntered over to the other old queen.

«Would you permit that I sit here?» he asked. «One is embarrassing me.»

The arty one almost fainted with pleasure. A few minutes later the fat man, still glowering from the insult, left the bar, while his rival, his bony old hand indolently placed across that of the young American at his table, told his new-found friend what absolutely absolutely shocking manners some people had.

The Jackal and his escort left the bar after one o'clock. Several minutes before, the queer, whose name was Jules Bernard, had asked the jackal where he was staying. With a show of shame facedness the Jackal admitted that he had nowhere to stay, and that he was flat broke, a student down on his luck. As for Bernard, he could hardly believe his good fortune. As chance would have it, he told his young friend, he had a beautiful flat, very nicely decorated, and quite quiet. He lived alone, no one ever disturbed him and he never had anything to do with the neighbours in the block, because in the past they had been terribly, terribly rude. He would be delighted if young Martin would stay with him while he was in Paris. With another show, this time of intense gratitude, the jackal had accepted. Just before they left the bar he had slipped into the lavatory (there was only one) and had emerged a few minutes later with his eyes heavily mascara'ed, powder on his cheeks, and lipstick on his mouth. Bernard looked very put out, but concealed it while they were still in the bar.

Outside on the pavement he protested, «I don't like you in that stuff. It makes you look like all those nasty pansies back in there. You're a very good-looking young boy. You don't need all that stuff.»

«Sorry, Jules, I thought it would improve things for you. I'll wipe it all off when we get home.»

Slightly mollified, Bernard led the way to his car. He agreed to drive his new friend first to the Gare d'Austerlitz to pick up his bags, before going home. At the first cross-roads a policeman stepped into the road and flagged them down. As the policeman's head came down to the driver's side window, the jackal flicked the inside light on. The policeman stared for a minute, then his face drew back with an expression of revulsion.

«Allez,» he commanded without further ado. As the car rolled away he muttered, «Sales pedes.»

There was one more stop, just before the station, and the policeman asked for papers. The jackal giggled seductively.

«Is that all you want?» he asked archly.

«Sod off,» said the policeman and withdrew.

«Don't annoy them like that,» protested Bernard sotto voce. «You'll get us arrested.»