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

‘Do you think so?’ said Maria. A flash of

fear rose inside her, radiating panic like a two-kilowatt electric fire. Jean-Paul’s large cool hand gripped her shoulder. She wished he would grip her harder. She wanted him to hurt her so that her sins would be expiated and erased by the pain. She thought of Loiseau seeing the film in the company of other policemen. Please God it hadn’t happened. Please please God. She thought she had agonized over every aspect of her foolishness, but this was a new and most terrible one.

‘But why would they keep the films?’ Maria asked, although she knew the answer.

‘Datt selects the people who use that house. Datt is a psychiatrist, a genius …’

‘… an evil genius.’

‘Perhaps an evil genius,’ said Jean-Paul objectively. ‘Perhaps an evil genius, but by gathering a select circle of people – people of great influence, of prestige and diplomatic power – Datt can compile remarkable assessments and predictions about their behaviour in everything they do. Many major shifts of French Government policy have been decided by Datt’s insights and analysis of sexual behaviour.’

‘It’s vile,’ said Maria.

‘It’s the world in our time.’

‘It’s France in our time,’ Maria corrected. ‘Foul man.’

‘He’s not foul,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He is not responsible for what those people do. He doesn’t even encourage them. As far as Datt is concerned his guests could behave with impeccable decorum; he would be just as happy to record and analyse their attitudes.’

‘Voyeur.’

‘He’s not even a voyeur . That’s the odd thing. That’s what makes him of such great importance to the Ministry. And that’s why your ex-husband could do nothing to retrieve that film even if he wished to.’

‘And what about you?’ asked Maria casually.

‘Be reasonable,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘It’s true I do little jobs for Datt but I am not his confidant . I’ve no idea of what happens to the film …’

‘They burn them sometimes,’ Maria remembered. ‘And often they are taken away by the people concerned.’

‘You have never heard of duplicate prints?’

Maria’s hopes sank. ‘Why didn’t you ask for that piece of film of us?’

‘Because you said let them keep it. Let them show it every Friday night, you said.’

‘I was drunk,’ said Maria. ‘It was a joke.’

‘It’s a joke for which we are both paying dearly.’

Maria snorted. ‘You love the idea of people seeing the film. It’s just the image you love to project. The great lover …’ She bit her tongue. She had almost added that the film was his sole documentary proof of heterosexuality, but she closed her eyes. ‘Loiseau could get the film back,’ she said. She was sure, sure, sure that Loiseau hadn’t seen that piece of film, but the memory of the fear remained.

‘Loiseau could get it,’ she said desperately, wanting Jean-Paul to agree on this one, very small point.

‘But he won’t,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘He won’t because I’m involved and your ex-husband hates me with a deep and illogical loathing. The trouble is that I can understand why he does. I’m no good for you, Maria. You would probably have managed the whole thing excellently except that Loiseau is jealous of your relationship with me. Perhaps we should cease to see each other for a few months.’

‘I’m sure we should.’

‘But I couldn’t bear it, Maria.’

‘Why the hell not? We don’t love each other. I am only a suitable companion and you have so many other women you’d never even notice my absence.’ She despised herself even before she’d completed the sentenee. Jean-Paul detected her motive immediately, of course, and responded.

‘My darling little Maria.’ He touched her leg lightly and sexlessly. ‘You are different from the others. The others are just stupid little tarts that amuse me as decorations. They are not women. You are the only real woman I know. You are the woman I love, Maria.’

‘Monsieur Datt himself,’ said Maria, ‘he could get the film.’ Jean-Paul pulled into the side of the road and double parked.

‘We’ve played this game long enough, Maria,’ he said.

‘What game?’ asked Maria. Behind them a taxi-driver swore bitterly as he realized they were not going to move.

‘The how-much-you-hate-Datt game,’ said Jean-Paul.

‘I do hate him.’

‘He’s your father, Maria.’

‘He’s not my father, that’s just a stupid story that he told you for some purpose of his own.’

‘Then where is your father?’

‘He was killed in 1940 in Bouillon, Belgium, during the fighting with the Germans. He was killed in an air raid.’

‘He would have been about the same age as Datt.’

‘So would a million men,’ said Maria. ‘It’s such a stupid lie that it’s not worth arguing about. Datt hoped I’d swallow that story but now even he no longer speaks of it. It’s a stupid lie.’

Jean-Paul smiled uncertainly. ‘Why?’

‘Oh Jean-Paul. Why. You know how his evil little mind works. I was married to an important man in the Sûreté. Can’t you see how convenient it would be to have me thinking he was my father? A sort of insurance, that’s why.’

Jean-Paul was tired of this argument. ‘Then he’s not your father. But I still think you should co-operate.’

‘Co-operate how?’

‘Tell him a few snippets of information.’

‘Could he get the film if it was really worth while?’

‘I can ask him.’ He smiled. ‘Now you are being sensible, my love,’ he said. Maria nodded as the car moved forward into the traffic. Jean-Paul planted a brief kiss on her forehead. A taxi-driver saw him do it and tooted a small illegal toot on the horn. Jean-Paul kissed Maria’s forehead again a little more ardently. The great Arc de Triomphe loomed over them as they roared around the Étoile like soapsuds round the kitchen sink. A hundred tyres screamed an argument about centrifugal force, then they were into the Grande Armée. The traffic had stopped at the traffic lights. A man danced nimbly between the cars, collecting money and whipping newspapers from window to window like a fan dancer. As the traffic lights changed the cars slid forward. Maria opened her paper; the ink was still wet and it smudged under her thumb. ‘American tourist disappears,’ the headline said. There was a photograph of Hudson, the American hydrogen-research man. The newspaper said he was a frozen foods executive named Parks, which was the story the US Embassy had given out. Neither the face nor either name meant anything to Maria.

‘Anything in the paper?’ asked Jean-Paul. He was fighting a duel with a Mini-Cooper. ‘No,’ said Maria. She rubbed the newsprint on her thumb. ‘There never is at this time of year. The English call it the silly season.’

Les Chiens is everything that delights the yeh yeh set. It’s dark, hot, and squirming like a tin of live bait. The music is ear-splitting and the drink remarkably expensive even for Paris. I sat in a corner with Byrd.

‘Not my sort of place at all,’ Byrd said. ‘But in a curious way I like it.’

A girl in gold crochet pyjamas squeezed past our table, leaned over and kissed my ear. ‘Chéri,’ she said. ‘Long time no see,’ and thereby exhausted her entire English vocabulary.

‘Dash me,’ said Byrd. ‘You can see right through it, dash me.’

The girl patted Byrd’s shoulder affectionately and moved on.

‘You do have some remarkable friends,’ said Byrd. He had ceased to criticize me and begun to regard me as a social curiosity well worth observing.

‘A journalist must have contacts,’ I explained.