Paid and Loving Eyes

for darling. Anything to strike back before I got arrested good and proper.

“Stop it, Lovejoy. I won’t have this daftness. I want to know what happened. Not”, she gave me in her best Clydebank reproof, “what’s in the papers, either.”

“Is it already in?” I was surprised, but then I never read them. Avoiding newspapers ensures a better quality of ignorance.

“What is it, Lovejoy?”

“Shouldn’t it be Gerald asking these questions, Lil?” I nearly joked about talking to the organ-grinder, not the monkey. “No good saying it all twice.”

She almost smiled. “Cheek! Gerald’s taking photographs, doing the recordings as usual. I’m the SAPAR field agent, Lovejoy, not him.”

I drew breath at that. “You?” Cunning, to wear the SAPAR gold pendant as if it was a fond husband’s gift, when all the time she was the baddy. “I’ve never heard of a bird hunter before. Does that mean that when you and me —?”

“Lovejoy.” She looked askance. “This is being recorded.” She meant Gerald was nearby with directional microphones on the go. “Who is the girl Lysette?”

“Mind your own business, you rotten cow.”

Not a quibble, more of a learner’s smile. “Start from the beginning, please.”

“Sod off.”

“It’s either me, Lovejoy, or Didier Pascal’s unit. He’s closing.” She paused. The waitress was emerging with my grub. “Me, you might get some reparation. Pascal is already on to it. When he moves, the fur will really fly. And he does read newspapers.”

If I delayed the full explanation, disguised as a show of willingness to co-operate, I might yet give Marimee time to do the necessary damage. He was only the instrument, after all. The syndicate was the real enemy.

“Inside, then,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere warm.”

We passed the waitress. I made profuse apologies. She followed us, hating Lilian all the way back in, knowing this change of plan was all the woman’s fault. It quite cheered me up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

« ^ »

The pity is you don’t get many chances. Things should be different, but never are. Some folk make their mark. Like Jules Tavernier, a French painter of the 1880s. One of his paintings hung in Claire Fabien’s shop; with any luck I’d call eventually and buy. He was no great shakes, Tavernier. But he made his mark by simply catching the boat to Hawaii. Unremarkable? Not quite—he did for Hawaii what Gaugin did for another exotic place. Now, he’s immortalized, the epic painter of Hawaii’s sublime and awe-inspiring terrain. See? One decision, glory for ever. Wish I was like that.

I got the taxi to drop me off at the factory I’d been taken to by Lysette and somebody else, the night I’d been made to realize. Shaking like a leaf yet bold as brass I went down the steps and banged on the door. I hollered, yelled, kept thumping, and finally somebody came. He looked North African, though how would I know?

“I wish to speak with the Commandant,” I told him. My ponderous French seemed acceptable, but in the darkness his cataract gave him a wall-eyed appearance. It put the fear of God in me. “L’homme,” I added for good measure.

He tried fobbing me off, shook his head. I thought of trying to bribe him. In despair I said the magic word. “Je desire parler avec Colonel Marimee.” His expression cleared, apprehension stalking his mind. He was the bloke who’d whopped the children. I could hear the noise going on, that faint bustle, chants, shouts. “Il faut,” I encouraged him, and had a go at telling him I’d been summoned by Marimee himself.

Ten minutes later I was in a long saloon motor between two gross toughs. That is, they looked and smelled like pimps, but were lean as laths, wiry and ready for anything.

“Mon commandant,” I said to Marimee, who oddly was doing the driving. “I wish to warn the Colonel, with respect.”

“Speak.”

“I… I hate to say this, mon commandant, but today I saw sold, at the Louvre des Antiquaires, a piece of furniture that I deposited in the Repository.”

Silence. I cleared my throat, ready to embellish. His goons compressed me, simply leaning sideways. I said nothing.

“You are certain?”

“Mon colonel!” I said it as if proud with obedience, trying to be the good soldier I’d once failed to be.

“From whom?”

“It was loaded on a van, Monsieur. I tried asking, then became worried in case… in case…” His nod was almost imperceptible. ”I failed to get the vehicle number. I didn’t know if I should ask Monsieur Marc or not, but —”

“Marc.” Flat, impersonal. “He was there?”

“Oui, mon colonel. He received money. I was anxious not to be seen, you see. I blame myself, sir. I passed the emporium a little earlier, and thought then that some pieces being loaded up looked