Philip Kerr - The Other Side of Silence

“Because he asked me to.”

“Oh, come on, Walter. I’m not a fucking idiot. Everyone wants something from the old boy. What’s your angle?”

“Would it make you feel a little more comfortable if you thought there was money in it for me?”

“Yes, I suppose it would. I mean, it’s like Dr. Johnson says about being a writer: No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. Well, surely the same is doubly true for a man who used to be a private detective like you.”

“Who told you that?”

“What?”

“That I used to be a private detective?”

“I suppose my uncle must have mentioned it.”

“No, he didn’t. I asked him to remain silent about it. And he gave me his word he wouldn’t mention it to anyone.”

“He and I have no secrets. You should know that by now.”

“That’s not true, either. I’m not sure your uncle Willie trusts you as much as you think he does, Robin. Plus, your uncle Willie’s word actually means something. Which means someone else mentioned it to you.”

“Like who?”

“Why don’t you tell me? Who knows? You might appreciate a little confession. No?” I smiled patiently. “Besides, I am getting paid. That’s what’s in it for me. Since you ask. Your uncle promised me five thousand dollars. Or maybe he didn’t tell you that, either.”

“That was to handle the money transfer at the hotel. But you’ve done that. This tape business seems to be a lot more complicated.”

“All part of the same Grand Hotel concierge service.”

“Yes, I suppose one could look at it that way.”

“I do.”

“Good of you. Thanks.”

“Will you be joining us to listen to the tape?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have you listened to it, yourself?”

“Not yet. It’s really none of my business. And it seemed more courteous to wait until your uncle was present. He’s the one who’s been asked to pay two hundred thousand dollars for the tape, after all. Besides, I’m not sure any of it will mean very much to me. My English is good but it’s not perfect. I still have a problem working out what any of you people really mean. English is very different from German in that respect. In German people say exactly what they mean. Even when they would prefer to say something else.”

“Oh yes. Of course.”

It was time for me to play out a hunch I had.

“Maybe this is a good opportunity for us to talk frankly, Robin.”

“About what?”

“I was hoping you might volunteer something about this whole dirty business.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do.”

Robin smiled and feigned patience even as he fidgeted with his gold cuff links, nervously. “No, actually, old boy, I don’t.”

“By all accounts your uncle’s old friend and companion Gerald Haxton had some quite substantial gambling debts. At the casino in Nice, it turns out. I checked with a friend of mine who was the manager there for a while. Gerald was up to his gills in debt.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. About Gerald, that is.”

“Previously it was Gerald who put Louis up to blackmailing your uncle. To make some money for them both.”

“Yes, perhaps. Louis wasn’t my friend, exactly. He was Gerald’s.”

“Nevertheless you also went to bed with Louis. At least according to your uncle. Gerald as well, probably.”

“What of it?”

“Only this: I think Gerald gave or perhaps sold you some letters and photographs before he died. As a sort of legacy or insurance policy, I don’t know. And you decided to copy his example and use them as a way of making a bit of extra money now and then. When you needed to raise a bit of cash for a new toy like that Alfa Romeo you’re driving.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Didn’t I make it clear? You’re a blackmailer, too, Robin.”

“Nonsense. I’m a writer. And I make a good living as a writer. A few years ago I wrote a novel called The Servant , which has done very well-look, I don’t have to sit here and be insulted by you.”

“You do unless you want me to tell your uncle exactly what you and Harold Hebel were arguing about the first time I saw you both at La Voile d’Or.”

Robin Maugham paused, blushing to the edge of his handmade shirt collar, and then lit a cigarette, trying to affect a nonchalance that plainly wasn’t there. “No secret there,” he said. “I should have thought that was bloody obvious. He had a compromising photograph involving my uncle and I was rather keen to get it back.”

“In my experience people don’t normally behave like that with a blackmailer.”

“Is there a correct way to behave? Don’t be absurd.”

“Usually people are very meek because they’re afraid.”

“Possibly because they’re the ones being blackmailed.”

“According to the manager at the Voile you and Hebel met for a drink. More than once. Your name is in Hebel’s address book. And his diary. I searched his room at the Grand the other night. I think it was Hebel who told you that I was a private detective. And I think your argument was because you were very anxious to know exactly how he came by that photograph.”

“From Louis Legrand, of course.”

“No. That’s what Hebel said. But it’s just not possible. You see, Louis Legrand has been in prison in Marseilles for several months. I checked with the police, in Nice. Hebel couldn’t possibly have met your little friend Loulou.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t like it myself. You’re right. It makes me sound like a queer. Like a bitch. Maybe I should paint my toenails, buy a silk shirt-then I could fit right in at the Villa Mauresque. Either way I don’t think your uncle will have any trouble believing me. Even without lipstick I can make an attractive argument about this to him.”

Robin Maugham sighed and then stared up at the ceiling as if hoping he might find the answer hanging off the dusty wooden chandelier. The French windows were none too clean either; bright sunlight showed up cobwebs like giant fingerprints on more than one pane of glass, and in the lost domain that was one corner under the refectory table was a champagne glass containing a cigarette end. Maybe I did belong somewhere like that; I wasn’t exactly gleaming myself.

“Don’t get me wrong, Robin. I’m no better than you. In many ways I’m worse. Long ago I concluded I don’t have a soul of my own. Not anymore.”

“Look, if I tell you the truth, will you promise not to tell my uncle?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. It all depends on what you tell me.”

“I’ll pay you to keep silent about this.”

“I think you’re mistaking me for another double-dealing bastard, Robin. I’m not a blackmailer. And I agreed to help your uncle, not help someone else to put the squeeze on him.”

“Look, I’ve made mistakes. I’m only human. But you must believe me, I’d never do anything to hurt my uncle Willie.”

“Not consciously, perhaps. So. Why don’t you tell me? How did Harold Hebel come to be in possession of this photograph?”

Robin Maugham got up and went to close the drawing room door. Then he lit a cigarette, quite forgetting there was one already burning in the ashtray, and walked around the room nervously for a few seconds before sitting down again. It wasn’t yet eleven but already he was sweating profusely.

“I’m not exactly sure, to be honest.”

“Take your time. I’m in no hurry. I took the whole morning off.”

“There’s a man in London who used to be a friend of my uncle’s. Chap named Blunt, Anthony Blunt. He’s queer, too.”

“Blunt’s one of the naked men in the photograph that was taken here at the Villa Mauresque, right?”