12

All the shops had been closed on Sunday, and Henri had bickered with his wife and gone fishing alone. No one had seen him. He’d caught no fish, though when he returned, his boots had been wet. Tuesday, tomorrow, he would be making a delivery of condiments to St. Etienne. When I saw him Monday morning, I learned all this. He was nervous as usual, but sober, and I only stayed a moment on the pretext of having forgotten something.

I then sent a telegram to Avignon, where, according to the list he’d left with the police, Georges should have been staying. I expected no reply until evening at the earliest.

It was a cool and overcast day. The changes in weather had been abrupt, but one expected that in the spring. Perhaps the clouds would burn off by the afternoon.

I walked from the telegraph office to Lupa’s with my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my overcoat, seeing no one on my way.

He sat enthroned in his office. That’s the only way to describe him. So he had abandoned his schedule. It was after ten o’clock, and by all rights, he should have been up on the street with beer and newspaper. As it was, he sat behind his huge desk with the paper open before him and a glass by his left hand.

“Hello,” I said, sitting down. I’d asked Charles for coffee on the way through the kitchen and awaited him. “So you’ve given up working altogether.”

“I beg your pardon.” He looked up.

“You look so settled there, it’s hard to imagine that you’ll ever move back to the world of labor.”

“Cooking is not a labor but a love. I intend to continue with my duties here.” He put the paper aside. “You’ve read that Italy has joined us? That, at least, is good news. How are you today?”

I told him about Pulis and the telegram while Charles was pouring my coffee. He listened with his eyes closed, leaning back far in his chair. When I had finished, he frowned.

“It would make things much easier if we could ever eliminate someone completely. You say he’s going to St. Etienne tomorrow?”

As I nodded, there was a loud, ringing alarm. Lupa reached to a button on his desk and pressed it, shutting off the noise. He calmly opened his desk and took out his pistol, checking to see that it was loaded. “Stay here,” he said to me and disappeared into the tunnel. I sat uncomfortably for several minutes before I heard returning footsteps and voices. The curtain came aside and Lupa reentered with Watkins.

“… So it seems possible, though rather a long shot,” said the Englishman as he came into the room. “Ah, hello. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“He’s only just arrived,” said Lupa. “Would you have some coffee? Tea?”

“Tea, please.”

“Fine.” He ordered it, and we waited.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but what seems possible?”

Lupa closed his paper. “Joseph here has just returned from St. Etienne, where he’s been trying to find some information we can use. He’s not working at all on the murders, as you are, but only on the arsenal. After the attempt yesterday, I thought things would start to move quickly, but I was wrong. Nothing happened, at least that we know of, at St. Etienne. Joseph believes, however, that he was followed for quite some time, even back here to Valence, possibly by the man who shot at us. He was about to describe him.”

Watkins slouched in his chair, looking rather ragged, as though he hadn’t slept. The tea arrived, and he sipped at it. Suddenly, when he was about to speak, his eyes became illuminated, and he lost his vacant look. It was amazing, almost as though he were two different people.

“Actually, I never did get a good look at his face. He had brownish hair, I think, dressed plainly, about six foot.” He smiled. “Brilliant description, what? Could as well be me I’m talking about.” Then he shifted back into himself and sat as though he’d been deflated, sipping at his tea. “God, I’m tired.”

“Why don’t you get yourself some sleep? Are you going back to St. Etienne right away?”

“I thought I’d go down a bit later, say after dark.”

Lupa nodded. “Satisfactory. I’m getting ready to move, to create something if necessary. I’ve got a good guess who we want. By the way, Pulis is coming down tomorrow morning to deliver. Watch him.” He turned to me. “How does he go down?”

“Produce cart, I imagine.”

“Good, then he’ll be easy to pick up. Catch him outside of town and follow him everywhere. If he meets anyone… well, do what you can. It would be nice if we could use the police.”

Watkins stood and moved to the door. “Got it.”

“This trip back and forth must get tedious. When you go down, stay until you have something. I have a feeling things are coming to a head.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and started out.

“Oh, Watkins!”

He stopped and looked back in.

“Don’t you think it might be better if you exited the same way you entered? It’s just possible that someone might notice you coming out of a building you’d never entered. Also, in the future, why not try coming in by way of the restaurant.”

“Right, right, right…” he muttered, crossing the room again. “The plants need watering. I’ve turned on the lights.” He left.

“No olives?” I asked.

“Certainly an oversight. Is there anything else?”

“I was wondering where Anna fits in. In fact, I’ve wondered about where all of us fit in. I get the distinct impression that there are things you’d rather I knew nothing about, and I’d like to know why.”

He sighed. “You’re right. There is much you don’t need to know. Ideally, you wouldn’t know Watkins, but there’s no harm in that. For the other things, wait a few more days. You might treat people differently if you knew their alignment with us. For now, you know enough to do your job.”

“Well, then, Anna at least…”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to know if Tania’s in danger with her being there, or if that was arranged by you.”

“Oh, no. Certainly not. I’m concerned, in fact, about any danger Anna may be in.”

“Not that again.”

“No,” he said. “No, not that again. We are simply in different camps on that question, and I’m afraid it won’t be resolved until I’ve seen Madame Chessal’s family, perhaps until the whole matter is closed. But Anna… I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Is she with us?”

“Not in the sense you mean. I’ve gotten myself entangled with her. She knows generally what my functions are, and sometimes she’s a great help, but she works for no government. I think when she leaves Madame Chessal’s care, I’m going to send her away. We’ve talked of marriage.”

“Congratulations.”

“Posh! A man shouldn’t be congratulated when he finds himself trapped. I feel I owe it to her, in a way. She’s done a lot for me.”

“But that’s terrible!” I said. “Don’t you love her at all?”

“Oh, love. Come, Jules, let’s not be sentimental. Surely, I care for her, but I realize that these things pass. I’m too much my own man to tolerate a woman around for very long. Still”-he sighed-“she is a good woman. I suppose there’s no help for it. I will send her away for a while.” He sat back and closed his eyes. The alarm once more sounded.

“That would be Watkins again. I should show him the switch. Well?” he said after a pause. “Anything else?”

“Yes, there is. Talking of Anna just reminded me. I’m not working with the government anymore. I’ve resigned.”

He opened his eyes a fraction. “Hmmm…”

“I expect there’ll be some trouble.”

“Undoubtedly. Why?”

“Transfer.”

“The fools! Don’t they believe there’s trouble here? Their own agents are dying consistently. So you’ve quit. Well, good. I’ll see if I’ll be able to assuage some of their more retaliatory instincts. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, getting up.

“Fine. Wednesday night?”

“Oh, yes, all set with Henri and Tania. Georges said anywhere would be all right with him, and I’m going to see Paul now, so I’ll let you know. Oh, one more thing: the police want to see me. They’ve possibly seen me come here. How well do I know you?”

“Slightly.”

“Good, that’ll be easy, then. I’ll see them this afternoon after I get back.” So saying, I turned and left, hearing him calling for Charles to bring more beer.

I’d left the car parked at the telegraph office, so I walked back to it in the still brisk morning, trying again to piece together all I’d seen and heard, and once again coming up with a blank.

Since I’d never been to Paul’s house, I had a little trouble getting to it and was totally unprepared for what greeted me. It was set back on a small trail, nearly a kilometer from any real road, and looked like something from a fairy tale. It was tiny and seemed to be perfectly square, no more than ten meters on a side, though it did have two stories. I’d needed to ask directions before I arrived from some children who were playing nearby. All of them knew the place and seemed surprised that I didn’t. The roof was sharp-sloping, of the kind you see more often in Switzerland, though it was shingled with the familiar red tile. The house itself was white.

I parked to one side of the trail, walked to the small door, and knocked.

“Entrez! Un moment.” Paul’s voice came from upstairs. “Qui est la?”

“It’s Jules,” I answered, sitting down. “No hurry.”

The first thing I noticed about the inside was the cats. There were seven different kinds of felines lounging over the sparse furniture. I’d never supposed that Paul was so fond of cats; he’d never mentioned them, as cat lovers are generally wont to do. I, personally, did not particularly like them. The other outstanding feature of the room was the plants. There were potted plants in every window and suspended from the ceiling. “Well,” I said to myself, “after all, he is a poet.”

As though on cue, Paul came down the stairs.

“Jules, good to see you. What brings you around?” We shook hands. His was rather clammy. He was wearing American blue denims and a shirt he called his chemise de l’Ouest, a white affair with sloping pockets and mother-of-pearl buttons. “I’m just making some lunch. Will you have some?”

“Just coffee would be fine, thanks.”

He walked back to another room, which appeared to be no bigger than a closet. He called me in.

“You’ve never been here before, right? Right. Well, it surely won’t do to have you leave without the grand tour. This room here’s the kitchen.”

Compared to my own kitchen, it didn’t seem even minimally adequate for cooking. There were a pair of burners set on a drain and two or three shelves with a very few condiments lying in disarray upon them. The coffeepot was black with carbon, and looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned, ever. There was no sink. He went outdoors to a pump for the water. On the walls were faded posters of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show and one of Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Circus (The Greatest Show on Earth). He dumped several measures of coffee into the water and set the whole thing on a burner to boil. I wondered what Lupa would have had to say about the operation.

“Don’t worry about the grounds, Jules. There’s a filter inside the spout.”

Not clearly reassured, I waited, making small talk until the water was boiling. He poured us two cups, took himself a bit of cheese, and we went back into the sitting room. As soon as he was settled, two cats came and sat on his lap, and as we talked, he broke off bits of the cheese and fed them.

“Now,” he said again, “what brings you round here?”

“I said I’d get back to you about Wednesday night. You think you’ll be able to make it? We’d like to have it at La Couronne, since everyone feels the way you do about my place. What do you say?”

“Why’d you pick that place?”

“Monsieur Lupa offered it.” I shrugged.

“He’s coming again, is he?”

“Yes. He said we could use his kitchen, which is large and private. I’ve already sent over lots of beer. He seems anxious to meet us all under better conditions, and I’ve talked to him once or twice since… since Wednesday.”

“Why’s he so anxious to get together with us again?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t really say that. I just got the impression.”

“Hmm…” He drank the coffee, which wasn’t, finally, as bitter as I’d expected. “Seems a mite strange. But then…”

“He is, as you say, a mite strange. But then, I’ve never been here before, and I find it quite, er, unorthodox. I’ve never really trusted men who liked cats, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. And I find it funny that I’ve known you all this while, and never would have suspected that of you.”

He smiled. “Well, do you trust me less now?”

“It’s really not a question of trust or mistrust. I simply find it odd that your fondness for cats doesn’t somehow show. Cats seem more of a woman’s pet, and you’re certainly not what I’d call effeminate.”

“Shucks, no.” He laughed out loud now, nudging the cats playfully behind their heads. “Well, now you know I like cats, but that doesn’t show any more than if I smoked hashish or wore buffalo skin underwear, which, by the way, I don’t.”

I sipped at my coffee. “Well, yes, but…”

“No. You just can’t tell. Take all this stuff about Marcel. Now, I’m sorry and all to see him dead, and I’m sorry for you because you were his friend, but how much did we know about him? Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived. What if, for example-and don’t get mad-he was having an affair with Tania, and you found out and killed him. Or if he had recently gambled everything on some adventure, and lost, and for that reason killed himself. No way to know. Or if he was a spy of some kind, like some of the others said, and the whole thing had nothing at all to do with him personally, though I myself don’t credit that one much. He just didn’t seem the cloak-and-dagger type. ’Course, there I go again doing what I’m yappin’ at you about. He didn’t seem the cloak-and-dagger type, and I don’t seem the cat-lover type, though I am, isn’t that right, Esau?” This last was addressed to the large black tom seated sedately on his lap. “When you come down to it, and be honest, would I strike you as a poet?”

“I must admit… no. Though more so here in your house than elsewhere.”

“Because here I’m more eccentric?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“But that’s just another clich'e, you see. The eccentric, sensitive poet. I lived just this way for years before I wrote my first poem. Cats, plants, and all. You want some more coffee?” I shook my head no, but he got up and walked to the kitchen for some of his own. He yelled from there. “Gotta brew up some more. It’ll be a minute.”

I saw Paul walking outside toward the pump. At the same time, one of the small kittens jumped from a chair and scampered to the foot of the narrow staircase. When I moved to see it more clearly, it bolted up the stairs, then turned to look back at me. Alarmed at the height it had attained, it began whining piteously, and I got up intending to hold it until Paul’s return.

But I must have spooked it again, because it turned and disappeared up into a room at the top of the stairs. In all innocence, I followed it into Paul’s bedroom-cum-workspace, with a cluttered desk and an unmade bed. Over the bed were more dusty prints of American shows, and the wall over the desk was covered with books along its entire length and breadth. There were two large windows, one just to each side of the bed, and in the corner a stepladder leading to a square hole in the ceiling.

Forgetting the cat and feeling guilty, I nevertheless crossed to the desk and silently opened the top center drawer. It was filled with well-nibbled pencils, yellowing bits of paper with fading snatches of writing barely visible-in short, exactly what should have been there. Glancing at the books in front of me, I found the titles entirely commensurate with my expectations. Possibly he had a hollow book up there, but suddenly that struck me as highly unlikely. The room just didn’t feel like a hiding place, and I was beginning to feel foolish and slightly embarrassed for having invaded Paul’s privacy.

He would be returning shortly with his coffee, and I resolved to get back downstairs as quickly as I could, when the kitten whined again, this time from the hole in the ceiling. Somehow it had made it up the stepladder and now was truly frightened. I moved over and looked up while the crying continued.

“Come here, kitty,” I said, my foot poised on the bottom rung. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not much of a cat person, and my technique in calling was not effective. In fact, the animal disappeared back into the opening. “Come on,” I repeated. “Good kitty, come here.” I climbed the few steps and looked around.

As my eyes became adjusted to the darkness, I was dumbfounded by what I saw. The attic looked like an arsenal. The walls on both sides under the pitched eaves were covered with rifles and pistols of every size and description. The cat forgotten, I crawled up into the small space and stared. Boxes of ammunition for the various guns sat open on the floor. I noticed a few bullet molds near a low table, what appeared to be a lead smelter, cleaning rags, the usual paraphernalia.

In my shock, I must have lost track of the time. Paul’s voice echoed faintly from below, and then almost immediately I heard his bounding footsteps on the stairs. I had no time to cover my indiscretion.

“I’m up here, Paul,” I said feebly, “in the attic.”

“What the hell…?” he began.

I looked down at him. “I was trying to rescue a cat.”

As though on cue, the kitten crawled to the opening and looked over, meowing at the sight of its owner.

Paul stood on the balls of his feet as though poised for action, the coffee steaming in his right hand. I watched his face carefully and even went so far as to make sure my own pistol was within easy reach. But after a moment of consternation, he seemed to reach some decision and smiled at me, his insouciant air returning.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you’ve found me out.”

“I had no idea you had such an interest in guns.”

He grinned. “Another surprise. First cats, then plants, now guns.”

“But so many?”

He shrugged. “It’s a hobby.”

“You’ll pardon me if I say it’s a strange hobby, especially at this time. Do the police know about it?”

“I doubt it,” he said, “or they’d have probably arrested me in spite of the fact that Marcel was poisoned.”

“But what do you do with them?”

“I save them, shoot them, clean them, make ammo. It relaxes me. Takes my mind off the jungle of literary life. Besides, guns fascinate me, always have.”

“Aren’t you worried about being discovered?”

“God! You talk as though I’d done something. No, not at all. I never let the kids up here, of course, and the few friends to whom I’ve shown the place can be trusted. I figure if you can trust me with your beer, the least I can do is reciprocate. No, I’m not worried.”

“Do you shoot them often?”

“Sure. In fact, yesterday I packed a few of ’em away and went off shooting. Got a couple of rabbits, though I got the first one with a buffalo gun. If there weren’t so many of the damn pests, I suppose I’d feel unsportsmanlike, but it’s good practice.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“In all modesty, Jules, I am a crack shot.”

“Yet another thing I’d never have guessed.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? And there’s probably a lot more. I’ve got quite a few tricks up my sleeve. You know, I was in Alaska when I was a boy, looking to get rich on gold. Picked up a lot of useful knowledge there, not to mention most of my adult interests. Probably that’s why I like the kids here so much and take the time for them. Lots of old men helped me out up there, and it wasn’t so easy to get by.” He stopped abruptly, remembering, drinking his coffee reflectively, his eyes far away. “But come, Jules, take a look at what I really do.”

I had to turn my back to him to come down the ladder and I felt a surge of trepidation as I began, but it was quickly over. He led me to the desk and picked up one of the stacks of paper, covered with what was, to me, an illegible scrawl. Americans write in a strange hand.

“My first retrospective,” he said proudly. “Collected best poems from my other books. They’re even allowing me to pick the material. I’m a little nervous because I’ve decided to include twenty-three new poems. They asked for a collection of published stuff.”

I picked up the bundle. “Looks like a lot of work, but it’s impressive, Paul. I’m sure they won’t mind the new work.”

“I don’t really see why they would, but you never know.”

“You know,” I said, “I’d like to read your work correctly translated someday. I always enjoy it but I’m afraid I miss nuances in English. And the poetry must be very good if they want a collection.”

He shrugged. “It’s a living. Beats looking for gold.” He sat in the chair behind the desk and stared out the window. “I understand, though, that this will be translated into French, so you may get your chance. I’ll autograph a copy for you.”

I thanked him and saw an opening for more questioning. “Where do you get your ideas, Paul? What does a poet do on an average day?”

The subject seemed to interest him. “Yesterday wasn’t my average day, what with the shooting and all, and neither is today, since you’ve come. But generally I get up around dawn and drink coffee, write for two hours, and go after food. When I get back I have lunch, then go up to the studio and work on my hobbies. Usually, the kids come by. I’m kind of the neighborhood character. They all love coming over here, and we go out and fool around, exploring or whatever. One of the boys got a motorcycle not so long ago, and we’ve been doing a lot of fooling with that. Lots of fun. You ever ride one? No? Well, you wouldn’t believe the speed. Then I generally go to town and have dinner with one of my friends, then home, a little more writing, and bed. Doesn’t sound eccentric, does it?”

“Not to me,” I admitted. I stood up and walked over to the plants. “You know one of Lupa’s fetishes is plants, too?”

“See?” He came over to where I stood and began plucking dead leaves from some stems. “I never would have figured that.”

“Mais c’est vrai,” I said. “Have you heard anything new about Marcel’s death?”

“Have they arrested someone? I’d be happy to see that. It’s a real pain reporting every day to the flics.”

“No. One of the investigators has been found dead.”

He went to a chair and sat down.

“Well, I’m damned! Looks like a bad business.”

“Very,” I agreed. “He’d just been to see Henri.”

“The poor bastard! You think he did it?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m trying to keep out of it as much as I can. Haven’t seen the police yet.”

“Probably a good idea. In fact, thinking about it, I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea meeting with everyone on Wednesday. Why not put it off a week?”

“I should give you a reason, but it’s really more of a personal thing with me. We’ve, most of us, been friends for so long that I thought it would be good to get back together, lay any suspicion to rest.”

“You’re right, I suppose. It would be good to see everyone back to normal.” He stood again with his coffee cup in his hand and clapped me heartily on the back. “Well, Jules, rest assured. I don’t suspect you of anything, except that I instinctively mistrust cat haters.” He laughed.

“Then can I expect you on Wednesday?”

“Sure as shootin’.”

“Comment?”

“That means, yes, count on it.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Have a good day. Ciao.”

Paul showed me out, and I walked back to the car. He had raised many more questions for me than he’d answered. He’d been out yesterday with a rifle. But of course, if he were a crack shot, he wouldn’t have missed. Then again, possibly…

Hell, I thought, possibly anything.

I got in the car and started off toward the road. I rounded a turn and came upon a group of youths running alongside a boy on a motorbike, heading back toward Paul’s house. It was still a bit chilly, and I’d left my windows up, so that as I passed the boys their voices were muffled and indistinct, though shrill, and blended with the noise of the motor. I had the uneasy feeling that I’d heard those same voices before.