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

‘You’re too late,’ I said. ‘They were here.’

‘What a fool I am. I should have told you earlier this evening. It might have been in time.’

‘No matter,’ I said. ‘There was nothing here of value except the typewriter.’ I decided to solidify the freelance-writer image a little. ‘That’s the only essential thing. What else did you want to tell me?’

‘Well that policeman, Loiseau, is a friend of Byrd.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Byrd was in the war with Loiseau’s brother.’

‘Right,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Now Inspector Loiseau was asking Byrd about you earlier today. Byrd told Inspector Loiseau that …’

‘Well, come on.’

‘He told him you are a spy. A spy for the West Germans.’

‘Well that’s good family entertainment. Can I get invisible ink and cameras at a trade discount?’

‘You don’t know how serious such a remark can be in France today. Loiseau is forced to take notice of such a remark no matter how ridiculous it may seem. And it’s impossible for you to prove that it’s not true.’

‘Well thanks for telling me,’ I said. ‘What do you suggest I do about it?’

‘There is nothing you can do for the moment,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘But I shall try to find out anything else Byrd says of you, and remember that I have very influential friends among the police. Don’t trust Maria whatever you do.’

Maria’s ear went even closer to the receiver. ‘Why’s that?’ I asked. Jean-Paul chuckled maliciously. ‘She’s Loiseau’s ex-wife, that’s why. She too is on the payroll of the Sûreté.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘See you in court.’

Jean-Paul laughed at that remark – or perhaps he was still laughing at the one before.

Maria applied her make-up with unhurried precision. She was by no means a cosmetics addict but this morning she was having lunch with Chief Inspector Loiseau. When you had lunch with an ex-husband you made quite sure that he realized what he had lost. The pale-gold English wool suit that she had bought in London. He’d always thought her a muddle-headed fool so she’d be as slick and businesslike as possible. And the new plain-front shoes; no jewellery. She finished the eyeliner and the mascara and began to apply the eye-shadow. Not too much; she had been wearing much too much the other evening at the art gallery. You have a perfect genius, she told herself severely, for getting yourself involved in situations where you are a minor factor instead of a major factor. She smudged the eye-shadow, cursed softly, removed it and began again. Will the Englishman appreciate the risk you are taking? Why not tell M. Datt the truth of what the Englishman said? The Englishman is interested only in his work, as Loiseau was interested only in his work. Loiseau’s love-making was efficient, just as his working day was. How can a woman compete with a man’s work? Work is abstract and intangible, hypnotic and lustful; a woman is no match for it. She remembered the nights she had tried to fight Loiseau’s work, to win him away from the police and its interminable paperwork and its relentless demands upon their time together. She remembered the last bitter argument about it. Loiseau had kissed her passionately in a way he had never done before and they had made love and she had clung to him, crying silently in the sudden release of tension, for at that moment she knew that they would separate and divorce, and she had been right.

Loiseau still owned a part of her, that’s why she had to keep seeing him. At first they had been arranging details of the legal separation, custody of the boy, then agreements about the house. Then Loiseau had asked her to do small tasks for the police department. She knew that he could not face the idea of losing her completely. They had become dispassionate and sincere, for she no longer feared losing him; they were like brother and sister now, and yet … she sighed. Perhaps it all could have been different; Loiseau still had an insolent confidence that made her pleased, almost proud, to be with him. He was a man, and that said everything there was to say about him. Men were unreasonable. Her work for the Sûreté had become quite important. She was pleased with the chance to show Loiseau how efficient and businesslike she could be, but Loiseau would never acknowledge it. Men were unreasonable. All men. She remembered a certain sexual mannerism of his, and smiled. All men set tasks and situations in which anything a woman thinks, says, or does will be wrong. Men demand that women should be inventive, shameless whores, and then reject them for not being motherly enough. They want them to attract their men friends and then they get jealous about it.

She powdered her lipstick to darken it and then pursed her lips and gave her face one final intent glare. Her eyes were good, the pupils were soft and the whites gleaming. She went to meet her ex-husband.

Loiseau had been smoking too much and not getting enough sleep. He kept putting a finger around his metal wristwatch band; Maria remembered how she had dreaded those nervous mannerisms that always preceded a row. He gave her coffee and remembered the amount of sugar she liked. He remarked on her suit and her hair and liked the plain-fronted shoes. She knew that sooner or later he would mention the Englishman.

‘Those same people have always fascinated you,’ he said. ‘You are a gold-digger for brains, Maria. You are drawn irresistibly to men who think only of their work.’

‘Men like you,’ said Maria. Loiseau nodded.

He said, ‘He’ll just bring you trouble, that Englishman.’

‘I’m not interested in him,’ said Maria.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Loiseau cheerfully. ‘Reports from seven hundred policemen go across this desk each week. I also get reports from informers and your concierge is one of them.’

‘The bitch.’

‘It’s the system,’ said Loiseau. ‘We have to fight the criminal with his own weapons.’

‘Datt gave him an injection of something to question him.’

‘I know,’ said Loiseau.

‘It was awful,’ said Maria.

‘Yes, I’ve seen it done.’

‘It’s like a torture. A filthy business.’

‘Don’t lecture me,’ said Loiseau. ‘I don’t like Amytal injections and I don’t like Monsieur Datt or that clinic, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He sighed. ‘You know that, Maria.’ But Maria didn’t answer. ‘That house is safe from even my wide powers.’ He smiled as if the idea of him endangering anything was absurd. ‘You deliberately translated the Englishman’s confession incorrectly, Maria,’ Loiseau accused her.

Maria said nothing. Loiseau said, ‘You told Monsieur Datt that the Englishman is working under my orders. Be careful what you say or do with these people. They are dangerous – all of them are dangerous; your flashy boyfriend is the most dangerous of all.’

‘Jean-Paul you mean?’

‘The playboy of the Buttes Chaumont,’ said Loiseau sarcastically.

‘Don’t keep calling him my boyfriend,’ said Maria.

‘Come come, I know all about you,’ said Loiseau, using a phrase and a manner that he employed in interrogations. ‘You can’t resist these flashy little boys and the older you get the more vulnerable you become to them.’ Maria was determined not to show anger. She knew that Loiseau was watching her closely and she felt her cheeks flushing in embarrassment and anger.

‘He wants to work for me,’ said Loiseau.

‘He likes to feel important,’ explained Maria, ‘as a child does.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Loiseau, taking care to be unamazed. He stared at her in a way that a Frenchman stares at a pretty girl on the street. She knew that he fancied her sexually and it comforted her, not to frustrate him, but because to be able to interest him was an important part of their new relationship. She felt that in some ways this new feeling she had for him was more important than their marriage had been, for now they were friends, and friendship is less infirm and less fragile than love.