Shaky still, I went over to the telephone. Clearly this was a furnished flat which Duchêne had rented. That’s why no name or phone number was listed for him. I rang Paulet’s office and was lucky enough to find him in.
I said, ‘I’m at 2 bis Rue du Bac. In a few moments I’m going to be strong enough to totter down the street as far as the Seine. You’ll find me propped against the parapet of the Pont Royal.’
He asked no questions. Just said that he would be there. I tried out my legs by moving round the flat. I could find nothing that interested me, except a bottle of Armagnac in a kitchen cupboard. I pumped a couple of quick glasses into myself, and then went out into the world.
Francois Paulet, driving a small Fiat van—he apologized for it, saying that in his work it was less conspicuous than a private car (though it rattled enough to draw anyone’s attention to it)—picked me up and took me down along the river to a small restaurant just off the Avenue Rapp. We ate overcooked veal and a limp salad, but the vin blanc was good. I told him what had happened, explaining that I had flown over thinking that a chat with Monsieur Duchêne might help me in my search for Freeman.
‘You take it from there,’ I said. ‘What the hell were those men doing, who were they, and where the hell is Monsieur Duchêne?’ He called for the cheese board and then said, ‘Monsieur Duchêne, I know, has gone to Rome. He travels much. The apartment is rented furnished and he is not often there. May I say that some of his activities—as I explained about the coins—are a little—well, irregular. But as far as I am concerned he has given me a straightforward job, to find Freeman.’
‘It’s not turning out like that.’
‘I told him about you. Before he went yesterday. He said he would pay for any information you could give about Freeman and also that I should help you as much as possible —even to travelling, if necessary, though he warned me to keep the expenses down. What do you think? I mean about helping you?’
‘I’m not doing much thinking at the moment.’
It was a lie, of course. I was. I was wondering whether I should drop into Paulet’s lap the knowledge that the list of antique coins was a phoney. He might know it and he might not. I decided not to tell him. It would have been giving away an advantage which eventually I might use to my own good.
Paulet sat there, pulling at his big nose, his narrow eyes anxious to please. ‘I would not get in your way. And it would be a privilege for me to observe your methods. Yes?’
‘I’ll think about it when my head returns to normal. What do you think these men wanted?’
He did the old Gallic handspread, palms up, and rolled his eyes. ‘Who knows?’
‘Have you any way of getting in touch with Duchêne?’
‘No. He phones my office, or writes when he is out of Paris.’
‘You’ve done other jobs for him?’
‘A few.’
‘Like what?’
‘Monsieur Carvay—would it be ethical—?’
‘All right.’
‘If you wish, I could give you a bed for tonight. My wife and I—’
‘You’re married?’
He smiled. ‘Well, not strictly. It is an arrangement . . . well, what I mean is that I am married, to another woman, but I live with this one. She is more my type and understands me. It is expensive, though, to keep two establishments going. Soon—if things do not improve—I may have to go back to the hotel business. You wish to spend the night with us?’
‘No. I’m going to get a night plane back.’
‘But you will keep in touch with me? About helping you?’
‘Probably.’ That was the best I could do for him.
He cut himself a large slice of Camembert and shook his head sadly. ‘I do hope you will. In an emergency, you know, I can be very useful.’ He grinned suddenly and tapped his head. ‘Not much up here, maybe—but I have a strong body.’
‘We’ll see.’
*
I got back to my flat at four in the morning and slept through until nine. Mrs Meld woke me, standing in the bedroom door holding the kitchen alarm clock which was ringing its head off.
‘Shut that thing off’
She did, but the ringing still went on. It was the telephone beside my bed. As I reached out for it she said, ‘It’s rung about twice in the last half hour. There was a police car round here last night, about nine. How many eggs do you want?’
‘Two boiled. Three minutes.’
She went and a voice over the phone said, ‘Don’t take too long over breakfast. You’re wanted round here.’
I knew the voice. It was coming all the way from some grim little room in New Scotland Yard.
I said, ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘We know that. But the Ashford police would like a statement from you. I’m interested too. It’s been a long time since I listened to one of your fairy stories.’
I was round there by ten. With my friend was an Inspector from Ashford. I gave them a straightforward account of my visit to the cottage and my reason for going. I didn’t say anything about the stuff I had taken from it. It took some time because the Inspector wrote it all down and then I had to read it and sign it. This done, he pocketed the statement and left. I sat and looked at my friend. He smiled at me and said, ‘Like to add anything off the record?’ It’s good to have friends in high places who trust you. He was a Chief Superintendent, ‘C’ Department, and wouldn’t be bothering himself with a tatty little murder in Kent unless there was a great deal behind it.
I said, ‘You whistled your country buddy off pretty smartly.’
‘I wanted
