She was a great one for Colette, had all her books in paperback. Her favourite aperitif was something called Ambassadeur—three bottles in the sideboard. There was whisky as well, half a bottle. I made myself a drink and carried it with me on the tour of inspection. She used Jolie Madame scent, favoured short nightdresses, one of them a rather nice number in blue and white spotted silk. She kept Paulet’s love letters—about twenty of them—in a bureau drawer, tied up with a red ribbon that had Galerie Lafayette printed on it in gold. I struggled through them; they were dated from long before the Dawson affair and were mostly repetitious—Paulet, even my bad French told me, had no literary style or true lover’s felicity of expression. In fact he was mostly quite earthy and direct about his need and feeling for her. There was only one thing of interest in them. It was in a letter just over eighteen months old, written from Rome. Just one sentence which read, translated, ‘J. has died suddenly so the whole D. business has been cancelled’.
I stood there, pondering this. D. could, of course, have stood for Dawson. Who was J.?
I put the letters back. Under them, wrapped in a yellow duster, was a 9 mm Browning pistol—obviously a spare to the one Paulet carried—and some ammunition. I took the gift without leaving a thank-you card.
I washed my whisky glass in the kitchen and put it back in place and made for the flat door, head down with the dejection of failure. It was just as well, otherwise I might not have seen it. On entering, the opening door had pushed it back far to one side from where it had fallen through the letter box on to the thick carpet. It was a confirmatory cablegram in a little envelope—the kind they always send you the next day to confirm a telegram which has been passed over the phone.
I opened it. It was in French. Translated, it read: We need a good cook at V.V. immediately. Meet Mimo, Tristan’s Bar, any midday next three days. It was signed Francois, and had been sent from Bizerta the day they had released me. Thérèse had received it—over the phone—late the same day, and had been away early the next morning before the postman had dropped the confirmation through the letter box. But where the devil were V.V. and Tristan’s Bar? I went to the flat telephone and called Directory Enquiries. There was no Tristan’s Bar or Bar Tristan listed in the Paris area.
I went back to the hotel and to bed, but not to sleep. I stared at the ceiling and kept saying to myself, ‘J. has died suddenly so the whole D. business has been cancelled.’ If D. stood for Dawson, could it have been that Saraband Two and company had had this affair lined up—maybe a straightforward job they were going to do themselves—nearly two years ago? And if so, why was J. so important that his or her death had made them cancel the deal?
*
The next morning—Olaf wasn’t arriving until after midday —I went round to see Letta. I needed company and also I hoped that I would get some information. All right, so I was breaking a Manston rule not to let anyone know that I was alive. But I was prepared to break all the rules in the book if it would give me a chance of getting Wilkins back. And, anyway, if I told Letta to keep her mouth shut she would.
She was having breakfast near a wide window, the sunlight gold-leafing her skin, her dark hair piled up close around her head in some morning coiffure that made it look as though she were wearing a cossack hat. She wore a loose morning coat, red and white stripes, had her legs up on a stool and her feet were bare. She looked so good to me that I wished this were just a social call and that I had all the time in the world and no worries and could start off on a little interregnum of pleasure and dalliance such as a man must have now and again to rejuvenate the mind and the spirit.
It was clear, too, that she felt the same way. She came out of her chair in one long graceful movement and her arms went round me in a warm tackle. It was nice to know that I meant so much to her. I just let the mutual disentanglement come gently and in its own sweet time. Then I sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette. She sat on the arm and with the tips of her fingers did things to the top of my head. It was pleasant but made thought difficult.
I said, ‘Can we talk frankly or are there any snakes around?’
She nodded towards the top of the window. Lilith was up there, coiled around a fat transverse curtain pole.
‘Poor Lilith,’ said Letta. ‘At the moment, you know, she is not well. She won’t eat and is so irritable. She is all nervous and tensed up and I cannot use her in my act. Last night she kept me awake for hours, twisting and rattling in her basket. Why should she be off her food—the guinea pigs in Paris are very good? And now she won’t come down from there.’
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. The
