Philip Kerr - The Other Side of Silence

“I suppose you heard about poor Spinola?” he said.

“Yes. The cops came to see me at the Grand, asking about our game tomorrow night.”

“He was a nice man and a good customer. I’ll miss him.”

“Me, too. How did you hear?”

“I have a friend in Marechal Foch.”

The Avenue Marechal Foch was where the Nice Commissariat of Police was headquartered.

“He’s an inspector in the Police Judiciaire. He seems to think there was a woman involved.”

“According to all your best writers, there usually is. But did he say why?”

“No. Only this and the fact that he was shot. With a small-caliber pistol.”

“Maybe that’s what makes them think it was a woman. The small-caliber pistol, I suppose.”

“Monsieur, small or large, it makes little difference when the bullet goes straight through your heart. There was almost five liters of blood on the floor where they found him.” Henri shrugged in that Gallic way, which is as eloquent as anything ever written by Voltaire or Montaigne. “I suppose that this is the end of your weekly bridge games with Mr. and Mrs. Rose. Pity. I shall miss you all.”

I shrugged. “You know, Henri, there’s an unwritten rule in bridge that when your partner gets killed you’re supposed to try and find out who did it.”

“Sounds more like the Mafia.”

“It just makes it easier to replace a partner if you can find out why the previous one was killed. No one likes to take the seat of someone who’s been shot.”

“I can imagine.”

“What I’m saying is that if your friend in the PJ finds out any more about what happened to Spinola, then I’d like to know about it. You know? For old times’ sake. Italy and Germany. The Axis.”

“And perhaps to even the score?”

“That was yesterday. Today, I’d just like to help, if I can. But to help, I need more information.”

He nodded. “This I can understand. Sure. I’ll ask him.”

“Discreetly. I wouldn’t like his answers to turn into awkward questions for you or me, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Of course. And you can trust me. During the war we used to say that deliberation is the work of many, but action of one man alone.”

“It’s been a while since I saw myself in that light. But I am qualified in one respect. I am a man alone.”

I took the stairs and walked along the thickly carpeted hall to room 28, where I knocked and waited patiently, although anyone observing the scene might have thought differently because of the gun I was holding in my hand-Hebel’s gun. It was pointed straight at the door handle, a last-minute decision that was calculated to try and put an end to the blackmail right then and there.

The smile he was wearing as he opened up flickered for a moment as he backed away with his hands rising slowly behind his neatly combed head.

“No need for guns. What is this?”

“It’s your gun. That’s what this is.” I kicked the room door shut behind me and tossed the Pan Am flight bag on the bed. “I thought you might recognize it.”

“My gun?”

“Yes. It was in your drawer next to the note for me.”

“Did you read it?”

“No. There’s nothing you have to say that’s of any interest to me.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. This is not what you think, at all. I intend to search your room and make sure that I get the negative and all the prints-not to mention any other items you might be saving so you can squeeze the lemon again. That’s just good business.” I pointed the hole in the end of the gun at the carpet. “On your knees. It’s been a while since I shot anyone just to wound them and I certainly wouldn’t like to answer for the present state of my marksmanship, so you’d better not try anything.”

Hebel knelt down at the edge of the bed and started to relax a little.

“Look, Gunther, I’m not armed. In spite of any evidence to the contrary, guns are always a mistake in this business. They’re generally a sign that negotiations have failed.”

“Is that what you call it? They’ll be asking you to address the UN General Assembly next.”

“There’s very little here but do go ahead and search. You’ll find the envelope with the prints and the neg on top of the chest of drawers. As I agreed with Herr Maugham. And I really don’t have anything else for sale. Fifty thousand dollars-I assume it’s in the flight bag-is a big score for me. Enough to retire on.”

I found the envelope, and having established the promised contents were indeed there, I opened the drawers and generally had a good look around his room. It was a nice room, with a fine view of the harbor. Nothing as grand as the Grand, but nice and comfortable and tastefully decorated. I almost preferred it.

“One thing I learned with the Berlin police,” I told him. “Money’s like a state pension. There’s never enough to retire on. Especially when you’re a crook.”

“I suppose you’re not going to pay me now.”

“That’s the general idea, smart guy.”

“But you still brought the money. You went to the house and fetched the money and now you’re here. Which must mean-no, don’t tell me that you’re planning to keep it yourself?”

“I thought about it.”

“Suppose I tell Mr. Maugham.”

“Suppose I slap your mouth with this pistol. Dentists aren’t so easy to find on a Sunday evening.”

“You know we could split the money. Fifty-fifty. With my silence guaranteed.”

“That would mean me becoming your partner. And that’s not going to happen, not after what happened in Konigsberg.”

“Ah. I was wondering when we’d get to that.” He shook his head. “Look, that was all a very long time ago.”

“Hard to forget, though.”

“Perhaps you should try. If you’d read my letter in the drawer at the Grand you’d have seen my apology for that. Not that this matters very much. We’re all friends in Europe now, aren’t we? Allies in the struggle against world Communism?”

“The way I figure it is this. With or without the fifty thousand dollars, you’ll either come back with something else you want to sell, or you won’t. A print you kept back. Or something altogether different. A letter, perhaps. Simple as that. My guess is that you will be back. Because you people always come back. I haven’t forgotten the way you and that bastard Otto Schmidt squeezed poor Captain von Frisch for five years. I don’t think you’re the kind of leopard who knows where to buy a tin of paint or find a good plastic surgeon.”

“Suppose I tell the police who you really are?”

“And suppose I tell them exactly how you know that? Involving the cops is bad for us both, and you know it. My guess is that we’re both wanted men, in one half of Germany or the other. Frankly, you should be glad I don’t put a hole in you, which is what you deserve.”

“My dead body would be a little hard to explain.”

“People have disappeared from this hotel before. During the war the Resistance met here.”

“Oh. Well, it can’t have been very effective, that’s all I can say. I seem to recall this part of France was Nazi in all but name. Don’t you agree?”

“I think it’s time that you started answering the questions, not me.”

“I’ve got nothing to say that you don’t already know.”

“I don’t think so. When you squeeze a lemon, you flex your fist more than once.”

“Not this time.”

I picked up a pillow, folded it over the Sig, and pointed it at the heel of one of his handmade shoes.

“You’re not serious.”

“Let’s start with where you got the picture.”

“You know what these queers are like. Can’t trust any of them.”