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

The sky was starry and the air was warm. The visitors had spread through Paris by now and they strolled around entranced, in love, jilted, gay, suicidal, inspired, bellicose, defeated; in clean cotton St Trop, wine-stained Shetland, bearded, bald, bespectacled, bronzed. Acned little girls in bumbag trousers, lithe Danes, fleshy Greeks, nouveauriche communists, illiterate writers, would-be directors – Paris had them all that summer; and Paris can keep them.

‘You didn’t exactly inspire me with admiration,’ said Maria.

‘How was that?’

‘You didn’t exactly spring to the aid of the ladies.’

‘I didn’t exactly know which ones were ladies,’ I said.

‘All you did was to save your own skin.’

‘It’s the only one I’ve got left,’ I explained. ‘I used the others for lampshades.’ The blow I’d had in my kidneys hurt like hell. I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.

‘Your funny time is running out,’ said Maria.

‘Don’t be aggressive,’ I said. ‘It’s not the right mood for asking favours.’

‘How did you know I was going to ask a favour?’.

‘I can read the entrails, Maria. When you mistranslated my reactions to the injections that Datt gave me you were saving me up for something.’

‘Do you think I was?’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps I just salvaged you to take home to bed with me.’

‘No, it was more than that. You are having some sort of trouble with Datt and you think – probably wrongly – that I can do something about it.’

‘What makes you think so?’ The streets were quieter at the other end of St Germain. We passed the bomb-scarred façade of the War Ministry and raced a cab over the river. The Place de la Concorde was a great concrete field, floodlit like a film set.

‘There’s something in the way you speak of him. Also that night when he injected me you always moved around to keep my body between you and him. I think you had already decided to use me as a bulwark against him.’

‘Teach Yourself Psychiatry, volume three.’

‘Volume five. The one with the Do-It-Yourself Brain Surgery Kit.’

‘Loiseau wants to see you tonight. He said it’s something you’ll enjoy helping him with.’

‘What’s he doing – disembowelling himself?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Avenue Foch. Meet him at the corner at midnight.’ She pulled up outside the Café Blanc.

‘Come and have coffee,’ I suggested.

‘No. I must get home,’ she said. I got out of the car and she drove away. Jean-Paul was sitting on the terrace drinking a Coca-Cola. He waved and I walked over to him. ‘Were you in Les Chiens this evening?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t been there for a week,’ he said. ‘I was going tonight but I changed my mind.’

‘There was a bagarre. Byrd was there.’

Jean-Paul pulled a face but didn’t seem interested. I ordered a drink and sat down. Jean-Paul stared at me.

Jean-Paul stared at the Englishman and wondered why he had sought him out. It was more than a coincidence. Jean-Paul didn’t trust him. He thought he had seen Maria’s car in the traffic just before the Englishman sat down. What had they both been plotting? Jean-Paul knew that no woman could be trusted. They consumed one, devoured one, sapped one’s strength and confidence and gave no reassurance in return. The very nature of women made them his … was ‘enemy’ too strong a word? He decided that ‘enemy’ wasn’t too strong a word. They took away his manhood and yet demanded more and more physical love. ‘Insatiable’ was the only word for them. The other conclusion was not worth considering – that his sexual prowess was under par. No. Women were hot and lustful and, if he was truthful with himself, evil. His life was an endless struggle to quench the lustful fires of the women he met. And if he ever failed they would mock him and humiliate him. Women were waiting to humiliate him.

‘Have you seen Maria lately?’ Jean-Paul asked.

‘A moment ago. She gave me a lift here.’

Jean-Paul smiled but did not comment. So that was it. At least the Englishman had not dared to lie to him. He must have read his eyes. He was in no mood to be trifled with.

‘How’s the painting going?’ I asked. ‘Were the critics kind to your friend’s show the other day?’

‘Critics,’ said Jean-Paul, ‘find it quite impossible to separate modern painting from teenage pregnancy, juvenile delinquency and the increase in crimes of violence. They think that by supporting the dull repetitious, representational type of painting that is out of date and unoriginal, they are also supporting loyalty to the flag, discipline, a sense of fair play and responsible use of world supremacy.’

I grinned. ‘And what about those people that like modern painting?’

‘People who buy modern paintings are very often interested only in gaining admittance to the world of the young artists. They are often wealthy vulgarians who, terrified of being thought old and square, prove that they are both by falling prey to quick-witted opportunists who paint modern – very modern – paintings. Provided that they keep on buying pictures they will continue to be invited to bohemian parties.’

‘There are no genuine painters?’

‘Not many,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Tell me, are English and American exactly the same language, exactly the same?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Jean-Paul looked at me.

‘Maria is very taken with you.’ I said nothing. ‘I despise all women.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they despise each other. They treat each other with a cruelty that no man would inflict upon another man. They never have a woman friend who they can be sure won’t betray them.’

‘That sounds like a good reason for men to be kind to them,’ I said.

Jean-Paul smiled. He felt sure it was not meant seriously.

‘The police have arrested Byrd for murder,’ I said.

Jean-Paul was not surprised. ‘I have always thought of him as a killer.’

I was shocked.

‘They all are,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘They are all killers for their work. Byrd, Loiseau, Datt, even you, my friend, are killers if work demands.’

‘What are you talking about? Whom did Loiseau kill?’

‘He killed Maria. Or do you think she was always like she is now – treacherous and confused, and constantly in fear of all of you?’

‘But you are not a killer?’

‘No,’ said Jean-Paul. ‘Whatever faults I have I am not a killer, unless you mean …’ He paused before carefully pronouncing the English word, ‘a “lady-killer”’

Jean-Paul smiled and put on his dark glasses.

I got to the Avenue Foch at midnight.

At the corner of a narrow alley behind the houses were four shiny motor-cycles and four policemen in crash helmets, goggles and short black leather coats. They stood there impassively as only policemen stand, not waiting for anything to happen, not glancing at their watches or talking, just standing looking as though they were the only people with a right to be there. Beyond the policemen there was Loiseau’s dark-green DS 19, and behind that red barriers and floodlights marked the section of the road that was being evacuated. There were more policemen standing near the barriers. I noticed that they were not traffic policemen but young, tough-looking cops with fidgety hands that continually tapped pistol holsters, belts and batons to make sure that everything was ready.

Inside the barriers twenty thick-shouldered men were bent over road-rippers. The sound was deafening, like machine-guns firing long bursts. The generator trucks played a steady drone. Near to me the ripper operator lifted the handles and prised the point into a sunsoft area of tar. He fired a volley and the metal buried its point deep, and with a sigh a chunk of paving fell back into the excavated area. The operator ordered another man to take over, and turned towards us mopping his sweaty head with a blue handkerchief. Under the overalls he wore a clean shirt and a silk tie. It was Loiseau.