Philip Kerr - The Other Side of Silence

“From the sound of things you’ve had quite enough to drink already, Walter. I don’t know. What you said-it’s rather offensive. I think you’ve outstayed your welcome. Perhaps you should go now.”

I said nothing.

“Or do I have to call the police?”

“Yes, let’s call them, if you like.”

Now it was Julia who stayed quiet.

“The police found a green chiffon scarf at the scene of the crime,” I said. “Poor Spinola was holding it in his hand when you shot him through the heart at close range. There’s a dress in your closet that’s the perfect match for that chiffon scarf. You wore it one night at La Voile d’Or. Maybe you remember that I picked it up when you dropped it on the ground and gave it back to you. I even caught the name on the label. It was Christian Dior. Same as the dress, I’ll bet money on it. Although not as much as you spent buying it. I’m sure the police will find it very interesting. It’s very hard to shoot someone at close range and not get blood on yourself.”

“I think you’re mistaken.” But her eyes were welling up with tears.

“No, I have a good memory. Believe it or not it’s part of my job to know what a lady is wearing. In case she needs to go shopping for something important. Like a new chiffon scarf. I wouldn’t advise it now. The cops will be paying attention to that kind of thing. In fact, I’d steer clear of most of the expensive ladies’ shops on the Riviera for a while, in case someone remembers you. Besides, green is really not your color, Julia. Take it from me. Blue would be much better on you.”

Julia Rose let out a sigh that sounded like a diver checking his breathing apparatus.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “What am I to do?”

“Do? There’s nothing to do. All you can do now is tell me what happened.”

I let her cry for several minutes.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.

“I can imagine. But you don’t need to apologize to me. Even if he was my bridge partner. And a damn good one, I might add.”

“I loved him. I loved him so much. He was the love of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever get over this as long as I live.”

“I believe you. But how long were you lovers?”

“Three years. I wanted to leave Jack and marry Antimo, who wouldn’t hear of it. He said he couldn’t afford to get married and that he preferred things the way they were. Easy to say if you don’t live with Jack. I told him I didn’t care about money, but he didn’t believe me.

“Then, out of the blue, he wanted to end things between us for good. I found myself unable to handle that. I was going to shoot myself in his apartment. That was the plan. I know it sounds stupidly, ridiculously melodramatic, Walter. You must think I’m mad. I suppose I was mad. Still am, if I’m honest. But love does that to people sometimes. I loved him so much I’d decided I couldn’t live without him. I wanted him to know that. I mean, really know that. It was late and I let myself into his apartment with the key he’d given me when we were lovers. He was in bed and got up when he realized I was there. We started to talk, I asked him to change his mind, and he refused. Then I took the gun out of my bag. I never meant to shoot him at all. Not for a minute. You must believe me, Walter. I tried to press the gun against my heart and pull the trigger but he wrestled it away and then it went off. Just once. And killed him. After that I just panicked and ran away.”

I nodded. “Do you still want to kill yourself?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Frankly, I try not to think about it.”

“No, please don’t ever do that. Listen, forget about what the priests and psychiatrists tell you. Take it from one who knows. Sometimes it’s only the thought of suicide that gets me through the night. It can be a real consolation.”

“I never know when you’re joking.”

“I have the same problem. Tell me, does Jack know anything about this?”

“No. If he suspects anything he hasn’t said as much.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded. “Jack drinks a lot. He doesn’t notice very much at all. Except the cards he’s been dealt. Somehow he always manages to pay attention to them.”

“What happened to the gun?”

“I still have it upstairs. And there is blood on the dress, you’re right.”

“Go and get the gun and the dress. Oh, and Spinola’s apartment key if you still have it.”

“Are you going to turn me in to the police?”

“Why? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But I feel so guilty that it’s almost like I meant to do it. That I really am a murderer.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“I feel sick. They still send people to the guillotine in France, don’t they?”

“Yes, but that’s not going to happen in this case. Look, if you can keep your head about this, then you can keep your head, I promise. Now, go and get those things like I told you.”

She went out of the room and returned with a small Beretta and her green dress in a carrier bag. She handed me the key, which had a small paper label on it that helpfully read “Spinola,” and I slipped it into my pocket.

“What are you going to do with those?”

“The gun and the key I’ll throw in the sea, probably. The dress I’ll burn in the incinerator at the hotel.”

“I suppose you want something for your silence. Is that how this works?”

“You think I’m going to blackmail you?” I smiled and shook my head. “I am not going to blackmail you, Julia. Most murderers only ever do it once, but blackmailers do it all the time. Which is why blackmail is a worse crime than murder. This is the first and last time we’ll ever speak of this, Julia. The next time we see each other we won’t even mention this evening.”

“But why? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? I don’t understand. We’re acquaintances. But we’re not really friends. I’ve never even thought that you liked me very much. You don’t owe me a thing.”

“You’re no murderer, Julia. I knew it the minute I looked in your eyes. Take it from one who knows about these things. Besides, the law of murder doesn’t mean the same as it used to. Not since murder became the continuation of politics by other means. That’s von Clausewitz. Well, it is since nineteen forty-five. Nothing would be gained by sending you to prison. And certainly not in France. And it won’t bring back my bridge partner, either.”

“What about the police?” she asked.

“The police? Listen to me, Julia. The police are just ordinary men. It’s only with the gun and the dress and the key that the impossible becomes possible and the possible probable, and the probable ever stands up in court. Not even the police can perform miracles, no matter how long you wait to see one. They need evidence. Without evidence there’s nothing. Nietzsche said that. Clearly he wasn’t nearly as mad as a lot of people make out.”

Somerset Maugham is being blackmailed,” I told Anne French over a late dinner at her house. “And not for the first time, I think. Previously it was just a few injudicious love letters. But this is much more serious. There’s an old photograph of him and various naked men, some of them now quite well known, I believe. And a tape recording. I can’t give you any details but it’s all very compromising to the old man. There’s a lot of money involved, too.”

“And what’s your role in this affair?” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking. Because, I’ll be honest, this sounds to me to be a little beyond the duties of a normal hotel concierge. Whatever they are. I’m never all that sure.”