Philip Kerr - Research

French regarded us both, but more especially John, with something close to loathing before laying the chicken salads very carefully on the table.

‘ Bon appétit ,’ he said quietly.

‘Christ, Philip,’ said John. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘As you can see, I’m your fucking waiter.’

‘Yes, but why?’

‘I should have thought that was obvious. I need the money, that’s why. I have bills to pay. I can no longer do that with my writing because no one will publish my work. Rather more to the point, what are you doing here? You’re the one who’s wanted for murder by the police. Or was that just some cheap publicity stunt to help you sell more crappy books?’

‘No. Orla’s dead. I really didn’t do it, Phil. I give you my word. Whatever you think of me, I’m not a murderer. We’re on our way to Marseille. To look for someone who’ll help to clear me I hope.’

‘As if I care.’

‘I’m sorry you think that. Look, Phil you won’t — you won’t call the police, will you? At least give me a chance to prove myself innocent.’

‘That’s a good one. You, innocent. An oxymoron if ever I heard one. Sorry. That’s not a word we’re allowed to use in one of your books, is it? Because most of your readers wouldn’t understand it.’

‘Please, Phil. I’m begging you. Don’t give me away.’

‘Did I say I would give you away? Did I?’

‘No, you didn’t. Phil, you’ve got every right to be angry with me. And I apologize if you think I treated you badly. All I can say is that I was under a great deal of pressure at the time. But look here, Don has found it within himself to forgive me. Can’t you?’

French glanced at me and I shrugged back at him as if John was speaking something like the truth.

‘Don was always the best of us,’ said French. ‘I’m made of less noble stuff than he is, I’m afraid.’

That made me smile. It’s funny how people think they know you when in fact they don’t know you at all. There is certainly nothing noble about me; but I’m no psychopath, just someone preternaturally disposed to killing, A hundred years ago, in the trenches, I’d have been up to my neck in death and — I wouldn’t be surprised — quite comfortable with that.

‘If I can clear myself I shall try very hard to make it up to you,’ said John.

I almost laughed. John might have been trying his best to throw himself on Philip French’s mercy but instead he only managed to sound pompous.

French shook his head and then glanced over his shoulder at the maître d’. ‘Look, I can’t talk now, but I’m near the end of my shift. Meet me in the underground parking lot at three o’clock and we’ll talk then. All right?’

‘All right.’

French walked quickly away without a backward glance.

‘That’s all I fucking need,’ said John, and for a moment he buried his face in his hands. After a moment he looked up, tried to eat some lunch and then drained his glass empty. ‘He’s probably calling the police right now.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No? He hates my guts. Why wouldn’t he?’

I shrugged. ‘Because he said he wouldn’t. More or less. Philip generally means what he says. Besides, does he really want the trouble if he’s working here? The management, the other guests — they might not appreciate it if a hundred gendarmes descend on this place. That might reflect on him, and if he does need the money he also needs the job.’

‘Yes, good point.’

I ate my lunch, most of John’s, lit a cigarette, ordered some coffees and pushed my face outside the shade of our umbrella and into the sun. I realized I was enjoying myself and decided I’d been a little unjust to the Château Saint-Martin. The Coche-Dury and truffle-poached chicken salad had been excellent and the gardens were nice, too. As usual I had more of a taste for expensive places and hotels than I would ever have let on. I decided that when I was in possession of a fortune of my own — which, I hoped, would be quite soon — I would come back to the Château Saint-Martin, perhaps with Twentyman’s shapely young Russian friend Katya, and, in the hotel’s best suite, fuck the arse off her morning, noon and night.

Meanwhile John had gone off and cancelled his massage. There didn’t seem to be much point in having it now, since it seemed unlikely that he would ever relax again.

At three o’clock we both went to the hotel’s underground car park where we had left the Bentley and found Philip French already waiting for us in the cool gloom. He was no longer wearing his waiter’s uniform, but it wasn’t just his own clothes that made him seem different; he was altogether more businesslike, even intimidating. He lit a roll-up and for a moment he just faced us in silence.

‘So then,’ said John, ‘what did you want to talk about?’

French laughed. ‘What do you think?’

‘I really don’t know why you’re taking this tone with me, Phil,’ said John.

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then I’ll come straight to the point. The price of my silence is 250,000 quid.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Fine. As soon as you’ve left here I’ll call the police. I don’t think they’ll have too much of a problem finding a nice Bentley like the one you arrived in.’ He walked over to the Bentley and sat on the blue bonnet. ‘You see, I already checked that with the concierge. The Swiss number-plate should make it easy to spot. By tonight you’ll be sharing a sweaty Monaco police cell with some Russian pimp and wishing you’d taken my offer.’

‘So that’s how it is,’ said John.

‘That’s how it has to be,’ said French. ‘I can’t afford it any other way. I’m skint, John. I owe money to all sorts of people down here. Which means I’m desperate. Maybe not quite as desperate as you are, perhaps, but that’s how it is, old sport .’

‘I don’t have that kind of money right now,’ said John.

French stroked the hood of Bentley and smiled. ‘Don’t give me that. This lovely car is worth at least a hundred K.’

‘It’s not mine. If I gave it to you the true owner would eventually report it stolen and then where would you be?’

‘No worse off than I am right now and that’s the truth. Caroline — my wife — she’s left me. Taken the kids and fucked off back to England. All I have down here are debts and dead mosquitoes. I can’t even afford to fill my swimming pool or switch on my air conditioning.’

‘When I closed the atelier I gave you a generous redundancy payment,’ said John. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten that.’

‘That was taxable, since I am self-employed. Tax down here is something akin to demanding money with menaces. So the French government had more than half of it. But then you wouldn’t know anything about tax, would you? Famously, you don’t pay any tax at all. Besides, what you gave me, after writing all those bestsellers I wrote for you, it was fucking chickenfeed. You know it and I know it and Don knows it. I don’t know why he’s helping you after what you did to the four of us. Unless he has some other agenda. Your biography perhaps, when you’re banged up in a Monaco jail. Yes, that might be it. No one has known you for as long as he has, which would make him best placed to write a book like that.’

‘Please leave Don out of this,’ said John. ‘No one had a better friend than him.’

‘Have it your way, Houston. But my price stands. Two hundred and fifty grand or I telephone the cops. And don’t think I won’t do it. I’ve been on the go since seven o’clock this morning so, believe me, it’ll be the best job I’ve had all day.’

‘You weren’t listening. I simply don’t have that kind of money. Look, use your loaf, Phil, I’m on the run. I’ve got a few thousand and that’s it. The minute I use an ATM I’m toast.’