Len Deighton - The Spy Quartet - An Expensive Place to Die, Spy Story, Yesterday’s Spy, Twinkle Twinkle Little Spy

‘Simplicity annoys them,’ Byrd said. ‘It’s just a rectangle, one of them complained, as though that was a criterion of art. Success annoys them. Even though I make almost no money out of my painting, that doesn’t prevent the critics who feel my work is bad from treating it like an indecent assault, as though I have deliberately chosen to do bad work in order to be obnoxious. They have no kindness, no compassion, you see, that’s why they call them critics – originally the word meant a captious fool; if they had compassion they would show it.’

‘How?’ asked Maria.

‘By painting. That’s what a painting is, a statement of love. Art is love, stricture is hate. It’s obvious, surely. You see, a critic is a man who admires painters (he wants to be one) but cares little for paintings (which is why he isn’t one). A painter, on the other hand, admires paintings, but doesn’t like painters.’ Byrd, having settled that problem, waved to a waiter. ‘Four grands crèmes and some matches,’ he ordered.

‘I want black coffee,’ said Maria.

‘I prefer black too,’ said Jean-Paul.

Byrd looked at me and made a little noise with his lips. ‘You want black coffee?’

‘White will suit me,’ I said. He nodded an appreciation of a fellow countryman’s loyalty. ‘Two crèmes – grands crèmes – and two small blacks,’ he ordered. The waiter arranged the beer mats, picked up some ancient checks and tore them in half. When he had gone Byrd leaned towards me. ‘I’m glad,’ he said – he looked around to see that the other two did not hear. They were talking to each other – ‘I’m glad you drink white coffee. It’s not good for the nerves, too much of this very strong stuff.’ He lowered his voice still more. ‘That’s why they are all so argumentative,’ he said in a whisper. When the coffees came Byrd arranged them on the table, apportioned the sugar, then took the check.

‘Let me pay,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It was my invitation.’

‘Not on your life,’ said Byrd. ‘Leave this to me, Jean-Paul. I know how to handle this sort of thing, it’s my part of the ship.’

Maria and I looked at each other without expression. Jean-Paul was watching closely to discover our relationship.

Byrd relished the snobbery of certain French phrases. Whenever he changed from speaking French into English I knew it was solely because he intended to introduce a long slab of French into his speech and give a knowing nod and slant his face significantly, as if we two were the only people in the world who understood the French language.

‘Your inquiries about this house,’ said Byrd. He raised his forefinger. ‘Jean-Paul has remarkable news.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Seems, my dear fellow, that there’s something of a mystery about your friend Datt and that house.’

‘He’s not a friend of mine,’ I said.

‘Quite quite,’ said Byrd testily. ‘The damned place is a brothel, what’s more …’

‘It’s not a brothel,’ said Jean-Paul as though he had explained this before. ‘It’s a maison de passe . It’s a house that people go to when they already have a girl with them.’

‘Orgies,’ said Byrd. ‘They have orgies there. Frightful goings on Jean-Paul tells me, drugs called LSD, pornographic films, sexual displays …’

Jean-Paul took over the narrative. ‘There are facilities for every manner of perversion. They have hidden cameras there and even a great mock torture-chamber where they put on shows …’

‘For masochists,’ said Byrd. ‘Chaps who are abnormal, you see.’

‘Of course he sees,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Anyone who lives in Paris knows how widespread are such parties and exhibitions.’

‘ I didn’t know,’ said Byrd. Jean-Paul said nothing. Maria offered her cigarettes around and said to Jean-Paul, ‘Where did Pierre’s horse come in yesterday?’

‘A friend of theirs with a horse,’ Byrd said to me.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Nowhere,’ said Jean-Paul.

‘Then I lost my hundred nouveaux,’ said Maria.

‘Foolish,’ said Byrd to me. He nodded.

‘My fault,’ said Jean-Paul.

‘That’s right,’ said Maria. ‘I didn’t give it a second look until you said it was a certainty.’

Byrd gave another of his conspiratorial glances over the shoulder.

‘You,’ he pointed to me as though he had just met me on a footpath in the jungle, ‘work for the German magazine Stern .’

‘I work for several German magazines,’ I admitted. ‘But not so loud, I don’t declare all of it for tax.’

‘You can rely upon me,’ said Byrd. ‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Mum’s the word,’ I said. I relished Byrd’s archaic vocabulary.

‘You see,’ said Byrd, ‘when Jean-Paul told me this fascinating stuff about the house on Avenue Foch I said that you would probably be able to advance him a little of the ready if you got a story out of it.’

‘I might,’ I agreed.

‘My word,’ said Byrd, ‘what with your salary from the travel agency and writing pieces for magazines you must be minting it. Absolutely minting it, eh?’

‘I do all right,’ I admitted.

‘All right, I should think you do. I don’t know where you stack it all if you are not declaring it for tax. What do you do, hide it under your bed?’

‘To tell you the truth,’ I said, ‘I’ve sewn it into the seat of my armchair.’

Byrd laughed. ‘Old Tastevin will be after you, tearing his furniture.’

‘It was his idea,’ I joked, and Byrd laughed again, for Tastevin had a reputation for being a skinflint.

‘Get you in there with a camera,’ mused Byrd. ‘Be a wonderful story. What’s more it would be a public service. Paris is rotten to the core you see. It’s time it was given a shaking up.’

‘It’s an idea,’ I agreed.

‘Would a thousand quid be too much?’ he asked.

‘Much too much,’ I said.

Byrd nodded. ‘I thought it might be. A hundred more like it eh?’

‘If it’s a good story with pictures I could get five hundred pounds out of it. I’d pay fifty for an introduction and guided tour with co-operation, but the last time I was there I was persona non grata.’

‘Precisely, old chap,’ said Byrd. ‘You were manhandled, I gather, by that fellow Datt. All a mistake, wasn’t it?’

‘It was from my point of view,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how Monsieur Datt feels about it.’

‘He probably feels désolé ,’ said Byrd. I smiled at the idea.

‘But really,’ said Byrd, ‘Jean-Paul knows all about it. He could arrange for you to do your story, but meanwhile mum’s the word, eh? Say nothing to anyone about any aspect. Are we of one mind?’

‘Are you kidding me?’ I said. ‘Why would Datt agree to expose his own activities?’

‘You don’t understand the French, my boy.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘But really. This house is owned and controlled by the Ministry of the Interior. They use it as a check and control on foreigners – especially diplomats – blackmail you might almost say. Bad business, shocking people, eh? Well they are. Some other French johnnies in government service – Loiseau is one – would like to see it closed down. Now do you see, my dear chap, now do you see?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But what’s in it for you?’

‘Don’t be offensive, old boy,’ said Byrd. ‘You asked me about the house. Jean-Paul is in urgent need of the ready; ergo, I arrange for you to make a mutually beneficial pact.’ He nodded. ‘Suppose we say fifty on account, and another thirty if it gets into print?’

A huge tourist bus crawled along the boulevard, the neon light flashing and dribbling down its glasswork. Inside, the tourists sat still and anxious, crouching close to their loudspeakers and staring at the wicked city.