loud, louder, loudest.
A bloke spoke to me in German from the end of the corridor. He wore a dressing-gown. Different bloke, no ’tache, no specs. I was relieved at another witness, explained in poor French I was trying to wake my friends who’d forgotten to leave my money at the desk. I tried the door as I was talking, exclaimed aloud as if pleased, and staggered in a sweat of fear into Guy’s room. And gagged. No pretending any more, not for anyone.
They lay on the bed. The light was on. A syringe was in Veronique’s arm, dangling, partly filled with blood. Guy lay beside her. The stench was sour, acrid. Vomit soiled the counterpane. Both were partly clothed. Bloodstains on their faces and bare arms, as if they’d pawed each other in some terminal dementia. White, white skin, whiter than the Zurich snow. The pallor seemed an aura. Guy’s face was buried in the pillow, a pool of vomit forming an ugly meniscus along one cheek. It was Veronique that got me. She seemed faintly worried, as if trying to be serene but knowing something was going awry. This isn’t part of the game, her attitude seemed to be telling me, so what’s up, Lovejoy? Can’t you explain to these men who’ve come stealthing into our room and who’re giving us a dose we don’t actually want this time? Yet there was no expression. There never is, in death. It’s a vacancy, a marked absence. It was only me again, supposing.
I have no illusions. In that terrible split second when I was reading expressions into her posture to obfuscate, explain away the ugliness of the two bodies’ cesspool state, the scatter of needles, the bloodstained syringes, the marks—
For Christ’s sake, I’d forgotten to howl. I’d silently practised one before coming to knock. It didn’t matter, because I found myself doing it anyway, creating enough noise to wake the—well, being sick as a dog on the landing, going argh-argh-argh like they do in the pulp comics when fighting. Only I was vomiting on the threadbare carpet, reeling like a drunk, panting and trying to do my howl and failing. Always, always failing. My scene, I sometimes think. What I’d not shown for friends, I showed in grief for enemies. Typical me.
Gasping, sicking, pointing as doors opened and the no-’tache man went past me and started hollering. I made my way downstairs, hardly knowing any longer if I was sticking to any plan. Pointing back upstairs, I reeled wherever my feet took me. I managed a brief word as the irritable desk clerk climbed slowly upstairs past me. “My friends…!” I got out. He merely expressed outrage at the mess I’d made, and avoided stepping into anything Zurich might not be proud of.
Swiss trains run on time. I don’t mean this as a political jibe. They simply do. Not as many of them as I’d like, and jiggery-pokery at borders, but nothing worth writing home about. Into France, into Paris, me kipping all the way, sleep of the just and innocent I shouldn’t wonder. Sleep needs six hours a man, seven a woman, eight a fool. The old saying doesn’t say who gets none.
Your feet do the choosing, I often notice. I got into a dozy little doss-house within a mile of that glass pyramid somebody conned Paris into buying. Worryingly, I was low on money. And I needed a motor now that, well, now circumstances had changed. First thing I did was get on the blower to Dicko Chave. God, but heartiness is a killer. I staggered from there like a beaten boxer. What with his indefatigable good cheer, his merriment, his stiff upper lip. I’m sure he’d be great in battle, but just to say hello to him was a burden. He’d bring more money over, he told me. Midday flight.
“Looking forward to meeting her, Lovejoy,” he’d said crisply.
“Her?” I’d bleated, in a panic remembering my super new mythical partner. He’d already financed her once at my Zurich hotel. “Ah, well, you see old chap —”
“Toodle-oo, Lovejoy. See you in Gay Paree!”
That’s all I needed. He was still blabbing cheer when I rang off, depressed. Things were getting too complicated. I wondered if I could reasonably nick a car, decided against it. There was Lysette, of course. Where? Sheer spite must have taken her off in high dudgeon. Being a bird, she’d naturally blame me so she was, frankly, out. My one chance of help, and I had to chuck her. Typical, but I felt utterly panned out, forswunked. It wasn’t my fault things had turned out like this.
They’d repaired the ramraiders’ efforts. I was pleased at that. The pretty girl—Claire, was it?—had done her stuff. I hoped I’d given her enough heavy hints to get her antiques out of the way. I stood opposite, watching the dealers in and out. It was along here that the ramraider had hated me and someone else, when he’d peered in and called us bastards. Given such a clue, I should have made myself face facts back then. Someone else, with more sense, had. Nobody’s more sentimental towards children than a crook. It’s a wonder the ramraider hadn’t clubbed me there and then. In fact he would have, but for leaving clues, collecting bloodstains. I’d escaped such a fate, of course; lucky old me. Somebody else hadn’t, o.c.; Lucky old me.
“Monsieur Lovejoy?”
Somebody touched my arm. I fumbled in my pocket for a coin to give to this importuning beggar. You can’t be all worked up about child exploitation while ignoring the plights of others. I thought. Here, hang on. How the hell did this policeman know my name? Him and two police cars—so low on the ground, Paris bobbies’ motors are—and what was going on?
“You will accompany…” Long pause, then he made it: ”… us.”
“Thank you,” I said miserably, and got into their motor. Best not to say a single word of a foreign lingo straight away, or you get spoken to at such speed you’re lost in a trice. To show grovelling subservience I added, “
And got driven away to the police station. I wasn’t quite ready, but when is ready for the likes of them?
The place wasn’t some grand Victorian dump, nor some black glass rectanguloid. It seemed no more than a dullish office that looked like a building-society branch office. I’d never seen people smoking like their jobs depended on fags, but this lot were. All except the lead bloke. He was an oddly motionless bloke with an ornate waistcoat, the sort you saw years ago on telly announcers. The rest of him was very, very serious.
“Lovejoy?” he said. Not to me, to everybody else. The police who’d fetched me promised yes, this man was Lovejoy, and got sent on their way. He had a good smile, events such a drag and couldn’t we get on with things, please, but I wasn’t taken in. Police only have three sorts of smiles, all phoney. They constitute threat. “You’re Lovejoy,” he told me sadly.
“Lovejoy, Monsieur,” I agreed. “
“Bring the lady in.” English his language, so no cheating.
And in came the beautiful Claire Fabien. She stood carefully away from me. I smiled my very best, innocence radiating from me. I rose, made to shake hands. She recoiled. I faltered.
“Miss Fabien!” I tried. “The antique dealer! You remember me? I bought several pieces from you. The
