Murder on French Leave Read online

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Robin said, breaking in on these reflections. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

  ‘A Kyr. I can recommend it. In fact, I’m about ready for another, so you can ask the waiter for encore deux, if perchance you don’t trust your pronunciation.’

  ‘Oh, but I do. I trust it implicitly. I’ve been having a fascinating conversation with a most cultivated gentleman, and three-quarters of it in French. It’s quite gone to my head.’

  ‘So I see! What else happened at the Sûreté to create this euphoria?’

  ‘Ah, you guessed, did you? Well, I wasn’t making a mystery of it on purpose. I had to see an old buddy of mine who’s attached to a branch of the Deuxième Bureau; la piscine, as we call it in the argot. He’s been extremely cooperative on occasions and I felt it called for a courtesy visit. It might have caused offence if he discovered I’d been in Paris and not passed by his office to say Bonjour and so on. I wanted to get it done with and I literally expected it to take me ten or fifteen minutes. However.’

  ‘However!’

  ‘Well, we had a nice chat and it suddenly came into my head, just an impulse really, to ask if he knew anything about a certain Mr Sven Carlsen. It’s ungrateful of me, I know, but I don’t entirely trust that gentleman and I feel a bit curious about him. Any news of your suitcase, by the way?’

  I brought him up to date on that situation, including the telephone call, and he said:

  ‘There you are, Tessa! That’s exactly the kind of thing I mean. What a crazy way to behave! Why go to all the trouble of driving out to the airport at crack of dawn for the sake of someone he’d only just met? We can’t pretend he’s a besotted fan because it was painfully obvious that he hadn’t a clue who you were.’

  I had a vague sensation of something off key in this remark, but did not mention it, lest Robin should attribute my protest to wounded vanity, and he went on:

  ‘Presumably, you were meant to believe that some dim-witted messenger had dumped the case outside the front door, but why? Why not just have telephoned the good news and left it to the airline to deliver the case? It was entirely their responsibility, after all.’

  ‘Well, Ellen and I have a theory about that, which I’ll tell you in a moment, but something else has just struck me: how on earth did he find our telephone number? I’m positive I didn’t write it down for him because I didn’t know it myself, at that time.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have required much ingenuity, as it happens. You may not have noticed it, but those letter-boxes in the hall are arranged vertically, in pairs. Each pair has the floor number beside it and the name of the two tenants; the real tenants, that is, not itinerants like ourselves. So all he had to do was to look up two names in the telephone directory and he had an even chance of being right first go.’

  ‘How clever of you to work that out! But you still haven’t told me the real bit. What did you learn about him from your friend in the piscine?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. The old boy was awfully good and he got about fifty people sorting through the records, but not a thing turned up in any way connected with Carlsen. He was all set to extend the enquiries to the Danish police, but I thought that would be going too far, and I’m sure you agree.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but since you’ve drawn such a mighty blank, what on earth are you looking so happy about?’

  ‘Well, one thing led to another, you see, and that’s what really kept me there so long. The fact that I’d mentioned IDEAS was the tiny item to draw him out on a matter which is giving certain people a big headache at the moment.’

  ‘To do with IDEAS?’

  ‘Possibly. What’s happened is that, during the past four or five months, there have been some fairly serious leaks; on the espionage front, that is.’

  ‘Oh lovely! Do tell me.’

  ‘Well, It seems that none of the known agents have shown any special signs of activity lately, which is one reason why they thought it was time to take a fresh look at some of the international agencies. This is confidential, I might add, but I know you can be discreet, when necessary.’

  ‘But what led them to suspect those people?’

  ‘Past experience, presumably. They’re all supposed to be loyal first and foremost to the United Nations and the concept of brotherhood of man, etcetera, and no doubt many of them do subscribe to those ideals and put national patriotism second; but one can hardly suppose there are no exceptions. Furthermore, I learnt an interesting fact about how the top-level people are recruited.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Apart from the rare case where one man in the whole world is uniquely cut out for the job, the various member countries are invited to submit their own candidates. You can see what an unscrupulous government could do with a set-up like that?’

  ‘Dust off their best spy, cook his curriculum vitae and tell him to land the job, or get ready to face the firing squad? I wonder they should bother, though. After all, there can’t be much secrecy about their work. I should have thought it was all absolutely accessible to anyone who happened to possess an enquiring mind.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on that, but you’ve missed the point. It’s not United Nations secrets which are being leaked. What you may not realise about IDEAS, for example, is that every post over a certain level automatically carries diplomatic privilege. They have those very distinctive green C.D. number-plates, for a start.’

  ‘And can park anywhere they please, I suppose? How that would appeal to Toby! Perhaps we ought to try and fix a job for him here?’

  ‘No, because it would mean living in France, and he would probably hate that even more than America. Besides, I was thinking of something a little more weighty than parking fines. What about a certain immunity from the ban on driving in and around those areas where the ordinary visitor is not welcomed?’

  ‘You mean secret weapon factories and so on?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘How fascinating! And do you mean that the boys in the piscine are going to ask you to stay on and give them a hand?’

  ‘Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I’ve simply been telling you this because I knew it would amuse you, and now you can have a lovely time weaving fantasies about Sven Carlsen, the master spy. Apart from that, it doesn’t concern us at all.’

  ‘Oh, but Robin, I’m sure you could sort it all out for them in a trice, and just think how lovely if you could spend the whole six weeks here!’

  ‘I detect a slight contradiction in those remarks; but, in any case, they cling to this insane notion that they can manage their affairs very nicely without me. A pity, but there it is.’

  ‘Yes, it is a pity, but we had better drop the subject now. I see the check cap of our own little private criminologist about to cross the road. Something tells me we should do well not to inflame that over-heated imagination more than we must.’

  ‘We may as well talk about pots and kettles instead,’ Robin suggested.

  We lunched in a small restaurant just off the boulevard, the gilt on our delicious gingerbread being only faintly tarnished by the predominance of English voices; and then gawped our way round the Orangerie, in the company of three hundred other tourists. After that we strolled up the Champs Elysées for reviving Kyrs at Fouquet’s; but the only film which found favour in all eyes was playing at a cinema in Montparnasse. So we crossed the river again and finished the day with dinner at the Coupole. The scintillating feature here was the heavy sprinkling of French people among the customers, making us feel that, after all the slog, we belonged to Paris at last.

  The flat was like a new pin when we returned, more than ten hours after leaving it, and Robin’s shirt from the previous day had been laundered and placed on his bed.

  ‘Good old Lupe!’ I said, with a jaw-splitting yawn. ‘Do you think we could persuade her to come and live in Beacon Square?’

  ‘I trust not,’ Robin replied. ‘If it’s true that she has either four or eight children.’


  ‘I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, but I don’t rely too heavily on Ellen as interpreter. It could well be that Lupe only wishes she had four children and her sister wishes she had eight; or vice versa.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he replied, ‘they sound to me the kind of wishes that are all too likely to be fulfilled, and that is not a thing I would choose to occur at Beacon Square. You look exhausted. Goodnight and sleep tight.’

  ‘Oh, I will. As a drum. And I hope to dream of practical ways of rounding up all those spies. Since we seem to be stuck with Mr Carlsen, we may as well use him to get a foot in the door. If I bring it off, I should think it would get you the Légion d’Honneur, at least, if not the Freedom of Paris and the Croix de Guerre . . . and . . .’

  I suspect that I had become the target of some stern looks at this point, plus dire warnings on the subject of what he chooses to call meddling; but I cannot prove it, having fallen asleep even before the sentence was completed.

  Three

  (i)

  Sunday was another halcyon day and we went racing at Longchamps. The outing provided two unexpected features and the first was Ellen’s flair for picking winners. Her success in this sphere was so breathtaking that after the third race Robin and I gave up all pretence of competing. On the way back from the stands we placed our stakes in her eager little hand, with instructions to place them on the heads of any animals she took a liking to.

  This enabled us to return to our table inside and watch the proceedings on the closed-circuit television, an amenity which had been thoughtfully provided for punters like ourselves who were too timid or self-indulgent to face the hurly-burly outside. The camera concentrated mainly on full-screen close-ups of the Tote Board, flicking now and again to lists of the runners and starting price, but such fill-in shots as there were could have been specifically designed to soothe the fears of nervous chaperones. The colour was insipid as a child’s painting book; there were no scenes of frenzied crowds; hardly any, come to that, of horses, except as fuzzy blobs galloping away towards a rustic windmill near the starting post.

  The favourite background shot was of a massed bank of hydrangeas, which I had noticed just inside the main entrance, about a quarter of a mile from where we were sitting. At one point, just after Ellen had left us again to collect our winnings from the fourth race, we saw a man and a woman posed against this scene, in intimate conversation. It was easy to see why the cameraman lingered so lovingly on them. She was an elegant, dark-haired creature, very chic in a scarlet coat, and he wore a pale green suit and had a youthful, well-scrubbed face under a shock of snow-white hair. Set against the celestial back drop of flowers and sky, they made an arresting picture, and I was about to say to Robin, when he said furiously:

  ‘For God’s sake, Tessa, just look at that! Is there no escape?’

  ‘From what?’ I asked, looking around me.

  ‘Those Carlsens. No, that’s right, you didn’t meet her, but that’s Mrs Carlsen in the red coat.’

  I practically fell across the table in my eagerness, but already there had been a camera switch and we were back with the picturesque old windmill. The sight of it no longer brought any comfort.

  ‘Damn it all, Robin, what does she mean by slipping off to private assignations and leaving that Sven to rampage around on his own? And where’s Ellen got to? She should have been back by now.’

  ‘Keep calm,’ he said, his own burst of irritation evaporating as mine began to boil up, ‘I expect it’s just an unlucky coincidence because thousands of people go to Longchamps, so why not them? Probably they’ve only just arrived and it’s his turn to park the car today.’

  ‘People don’t arrive in time for just the last two races. It’s a plot, I’m sure of it. Perhaps he followed us here and now he’s given his wife the slip. Honestly, I do think one of us ought to go and look for Ellen.’

  ‘I will, if you’re really worried. Just so long as you don’t want me to find a post office while I’m out there and send a cable to Toby. Oh look! All’s well. Here she is.’

  ‘What a relief!’ I said. ‘But I’m taking no more chances if you don’t mind. I think we should go home now.’

  Ellen had not done quite so well on the fifth race and I made this the excuse to break things up:

  ‘Always bring the curtain down before they’ve had enough of you,’ I said pompously. ‘It’s one of the cardinal rules.’

  ‘Did you come across anyone you knew in that mob?’ Robin asked her casually, when we were driving home.

  ‘No, but how could I? Lupe’s the only person I know in Paris and I expect she’s too busy with the children to go to race meetings.’

  ‘You know Mr Carlsen,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Oh yes, but I don’t count him. He’s really more your friend than mine. What are we doing this evening?’

  ‘Oh blimey! Haven’t we had enough excitement for one day?’

  ‘No, not nearly.’

  ‘How about a thrilling game of international scrabble?’ Robin suggested. ‘You could play in Spanish, Tessa in French and I’ll stick to English. That might be both edifying and exciting.’

  ‘As well as giving you the best chance of all for a bit of cheating,’ I pointed out, but even this bait proved resistible.

  ‘Can’t we go somewhere and have some singing and dancing? I want to fritter my winnings.’

  She was a true child of her father and, like him, invariably got her own way, although the singing and dancing which was even then lying in wait for us, however much an improvement on the trilingual scrabble programme, may not have been quite the variety she had in mind.

  When we arrived back at the flat we found the corner of an envelope protruding from under the front door. It was addressed to Robin and me and contained a smudgy, roneoed sheet of paper, announcing that someone called Vishnaradhakrishna would be appearing for one performance only with his celebrated company, at seven forty-five on Sunday, at 19 rue de la Cavallerie, in a recital of Indian music and dance. Admission 15 Fr.

  Pinned to it was a handwritten note, also in English, which ran as follows:

  Dear Friends,

  Sven Carlsen (a colleague of my husband’s) feels you will be interested in the enclosed. Unfortunately, neither he nor Adela can be with us tonight, but we do hope you will both come. Vishna is a beautiful person and one of the finest musicians of our day. Your presence would mean so much and I look forward to welcoming you to our little gathering.

  Sincerely, Leila Baker

  ‘Oh, another little machination on the part of the one Ellen calls our friend,’ Robin said in a disgusted tone. ‘I wonder how much more of it I can stand?’

  ‘It might be a smart move to go, however, since it’s the one place in Paris tonight where we can be sure of not finding him.’

  ‘Oh, I know you always fall for phrases like: “Your presence would mean so much,” but fifteen francs! You’d have thought, if it meant as much as that, she could have sent us complimentary tickets.’

  ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t mean quite so much, if we weren’t paying,’ Ellen pointed out. ‘At any rate, it would be better than just sitting at home all the evening. What do you say, Tessa? My treat!’

  ‘I have a strong feeling it won’t be mine,’ Robin told her. ‘And where is this Cavalry Road, anyway? Miles away, probably.’

  ‘Just round the corner, actually.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case, at least there’ll be time for a shower first and a nice big drink. Something tells me I’m going to need every drop of them.’

  (ii)

  There might have been time for one but strictly speaking there wasn’t time for two nice big drinks, and we crept furtively into 19 rue de la Cavallerie ten minutes after the scheduled time.

  It had turned out to be an annexe of IDEAS, one of three or four separate buildings within its grounds and accessible from them, but with another entrance on to the side street. I concluded that this enabled it to function as a conference hall for of
ficial use and also to earn its keep by being hired out at weekends for occasions such as this, which carried the blessing, if not the banner of the organisation. At any rate, there was no mention of IDEAS in any of the newspaper reports which dealt with the major event of the evening.

  However, at five minutes to eight this was still in the future and nothing could have looked less ominous than the scene in the foyer, when Ellen and I sidled in, leaving Robin to pay the taxi. It had been agreed that, for appearances’ sake, he would shell out all the expenses of the evening and present his account later.

  The entrance hall was a lofty, austere kind of place, with a marble floor and mahogany panelling. There were two or three dozen people dotted around in groups, looking somewhat lost and subdued by the grandeur of their surroundings. They included a few Europeans and one or two Africans as well, but the majority were Indian, all in national dress. There were even a few veiled women of unidentified nationality, looking more like novice nuns than people in search of entertainment, who added an extra solemnity to the atmosphere. I assumed that their presence signified that the occasion had some religious or mystical contribution for the initiates, although I could have been as much mistaken in this conclusion as in another which I had jumped to even earlier. I had taken all these people to be latecomers like ourselves, waiting for the first item on the programme to finish, before disturbing the audience inside, but in fact the double doors to the auditorium stood wide open, revealing a silent and darkened interior.

  Robin entered Centre, looking harassed and distraught. He had grown increasingly harassed and distraught ever since the outing was mooted, so I did not take much account of it; but instead of joining us he grabbed my arm and drew me back towards the entrance: