‘It wasn’t meant as a serious solution,’ said Neil.
‘No, not. Not serious perhaps. But as a plan it might have worked.’
Neil looked at him with a superior smile: ‘It still wouldn’t have prevented those paras from killing a few hundred people — even in Wigan.’
‘Ah, les paras!’ said Pol, shaking his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid that France is obsessed with phantoms of military glory. We are becoming almost as morbid as the Germans.’ He took another deep drink: ‘You see, I have always been radical in my views. I think if the circumstances were right I might even be a revolutionary. I am hampered by the fact that I am also a capitalist. But don’t misunderstand me! When Fascism raises its head — when men like Guérin and Broussard try to ride the tide of history — then I draw my sword, Monsieur Ingleby! — I become a warrior!’ He sat back and mopped his face: ‘I think, from what I have read of your articles, that you are also something of a radical — a man of the Left?’
Neil, with the instincts of breeding, disliked having his politics discussed by a stranger. He said evasively, ‘Well, more or less.’
‘And you hate Fascism?’
‘Of course.’
‘Exactly!’ Pol smiled. ‘I think, Monsieur Ingleby, that you and I may be able to work a little together.’
‘Work together?’ Neil frowned: ‘I don’t quite follow you. Are you suggesting that I work for the French Secret Service?’
‘Ah, you are very suspicious!’ Pol sounded almost unhappy.
‘Certainly I’m suspicious — and with some reason, I think. Since putting foot in this city two hours ago I’ve been arrested, searched for arms, then brought to an hotel suite and questioned about a terrorist leader by a man who tells me he runs a supermarket for French ladies’ underwear. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?’
‘You exaggerate,’ said Pol. ‘I specialize in tinned foods and kitchen utensils. It is a perfectly respectable business.’
‘But you work for the Deuxième Bureau?’
‘I have told you that I am not a policeman. Please! I find policemen the most tedious brutes. They are even worse than soldiers — they drink less for one thing — and they are quite as corrupt as politicians, except they don’t do so well out of it.’ He paused and grinned.
‘Then who do you work for?’ Neil persisted.
‘I work,’ said Pol reluctantly, wiping his brow again, ‘for the French Government — not because I love them, but because France deserves to be ruled by better men than Guérin and Broussard. Besides, I enjoy the adventure of the work — it’s the only thing that keeps my fat down.’
‘You mean you’re a secret agent?’ said Neil, smiling suddenly at this preposterous man, with his kiss curl and white telephones and whiskies for breakfast.
‘I am an amateur agent,’ said Pol, heaving himself up to refill his drink, ‘I am not employed by any of the security departments. What in France we rudely call a barbouze — a “false beard”.’ He tugged at his own little goatee and grinned hugely: ‘Only mine is real!’
Neil followed him to the table, his head growing light. ‘Monsieur Pol, you mentioned just now that we might be able to work together. You obviously didn’t mean in your tinned food department.’
Pol turned and rocked on his slippered feet. An impish smile illuminated his enormous face; he put a hand on Neil’s shoulder and pulled him closer till Neil could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘Monsieur Ingleby,’ he crooned, still smiling, but with eyes that had become peculiarly hard, ‘you are a journalist, you are interested in what goes on in the world — in what goes on behind the scenes. Now I like to help journalists whenever I can. I think in English you have an expression, the scoop? Well, I may be able to give you a scoop. In a week, two weeks, perhaps a few days. I cannot tell you about it now, but when it comes it will be worth writing about, believe me!’
Neil felt exhilarated and amused and rather drunk. At the back of his mind a tiny instinct warned him that this burst of speculative generosity might not be as innocent as it sounded. But the whisky bottle was three-quarters empty, and Van Loon had come back into the room, and Pol, with his short little arms outstretched, was seeing them to the door, inviting them to lunch with him at the hotel at one o’clock.
‘We’ll meet in the bar,’ he cried, ‘for a good American cocktail!’ He laughed, and Van Loon laughed, and they all shook hands.
‘He is a terrific fellow, that!’ Van Loon said, as they rode down in the lift. ‘I think a sort of spy, huh?’
‘Something like that,’ Neil said; and they went out into the hot sun.
CHAPTER 3
They found a cheap hotel that looked down Kolokrotni Street towards the Acropolis. Their room had a stone floor and no hot water and smelt of charcoal and mutton. But there was a solid table in front of the window where Neil hoped he might work.
The whisky had made them both drowsy, and they stretched out on the lumpy beds to rest before their lunch with Pol. Neil stared at the ceiling and dozed and thought; and the more he thought about Pol, the more intrigued he became. His own enthusiasm had been dissipated by the soft life; what he needed now was a crude dash of adventure. Pol was an adventurer, and Neil envied him for it.
At exactly one o’clock, he and Van Loon were back at the King George Hotel. Neil went to the reception desk and changed a £10 travellers’ cheque from his
