The Widow (16 page)

‘Oh damn, oh damn,' said Arlette crossly. Her brand new and cherished – had some fool bumped her? No – a catapulted stone from a passing truck? She banged her hand in fury on the back of the seat beside her and took her hand away as though scorched. The upholstery was torn and broken. She put her fingers back carefully with the glove off. Feeling about in the ripped padding she found a small hard object. Crumpled and bent, a slug half squashed and nauseating, so that she shuddered as though it still writhed, dropped it and brushed her cringing hand on her skirt. The car had been shot. She felt it as though shot herself.

Mustn't sit here to be potted like some paralysed rabbit. She got out and slammed the door angrily, not feeling frightened, too angry to ask herself why. Glared around. Nothing to be made of that. The Rue de l'Observatoire at night, dim reflections on patterns of window and balcony; skyscape and roofscape lit by the orange glow of the city at night; the dapple of darker trees, leaves beginning to fall. Everything silent and still down to the passing traffic on the Boulevard de la Victoire. Her hand was not shaking at all as she locked the car and strode over to her front door.

Arthur narrow and English in a waistcoat, back straight, holding a fan of cards up high and to one side, teaching Marie-Line to play piquet. They looked at her startled.

‘My dear girl.'

‘I've been shot at. Here. Just now. On the street.'

‘Call the police.'

‘No. Nonsense. Give me a drink. Police Judiciaire if anything. No. Not that either. Sorry, I'm being silly. Don't look so saucer-eyed,' crossly at Marie-Line. ‘Sorry. Bugger. Heaven's sake, don't let's dramatize. I can't drive you, that's all. Windscreen's starred up.'

‘Let me look.'

‘Arthur – heaven's sake what will you see? You Scotland Yard or what? Just ring Paul Friedmann, apologize, ask him to come across. Forgive me Marie-Line, I'll explain in just a tick, this is a friend who kindly asks you to come and stay a day or so; he's very nice. Give me a cigarette somebody.'

‘Intimidation,' said Paul. ‘Rather odd.' The two men had pottered about, masculine and important, as always when something has happened to a car.

‘But of course. I worked that out; if anybody wanted to shoot me they'd wait till I was out of the car.'

‘Good,' said Arthur. ‘We worked it out just like Police-Whoever. You're parked nose a bit out – across the street, about twenty metres, in the shade of those bushes that need clipping, on the pavement. Flat trajectory. Might have been standing or crouching. Bullet might have been deflected a bit by the safety glass, tumbled a bit and smacked the seat back. Wouldn't have hit you – far right-hand corner. Twenty-two rifle.'

‘I was bending down. Lost my glove. I've had time to think; I don't believe it has anything to do with this at all. Or put it another way, Paul, I don't think anyone will shoot at you.'

‘Assassination attempt upon popular young advocate – I feel quite regretful. Look, ring me in the morning. Come on Marie-Line. Let's affront these sinister highways.'

‘Nothing to it really,' said Arthur. ‘Get the garage to replace the windscreen tomorrow. No other serious damage. Legally of course one's supposed to report these things, and the police might be cross if we don't.'

‘Yes. Arthur, am I getting badly out of my depth?'

‘No no, this is just a nastiness of some evil-minded small
boy. Whatever the good dentist gets up to he doesn't creep about at night with his air pistol.'

‘No, of course not. Listen, there was a man, and he made me promise to keep his confidence, even to you. So I did. And he's dead. Death cancels that kind of promise, doesn't it?'

‘Yes, it does.'

‘I got a queer phone call. But then I get lots of queer phone calls. It's all too Chandlerish for words.'

‘Everything is Rather Frightening? You've had a shock.'

‘Yes, I want to go to bed. I don't mean taken to bed, I mean Go to bed. I'm icy, would you put my blanket on full for me?'

‘Yes; d'you want a pill?'

‘No, I never want any pills.'

‘I know: boiling hot lime tea.'

‘Yes, that'd be nice. Warmth and comfort. Oh dear, what a foolish cow.'

‘Vastly incompetent? Fumble-butter-finger?'

‘Yes.'

‘My dear, Paul and I were wide-eyed with admiration and Marie-Line simply thrilled.'

‘Tiresome girl, I wish I'd never laid eyes on her.'

She fell asleep like a block, and Arthur had to push her to stop her snoring.

‘Very well, I won't interfere,' said Arthur. She was already scribbling actively at a scratch-pad with the coffee-cup pushed back. The daily paper lay between them. ‘Take my advice, draft it now while you're red hot. Let it rest. Rewrite it when cool: you've the whole day before you. I've taken by the way all the glass out; a foul job it was. Need no plastic, it's a lovely morning.'

‘I'm going to fight this out, first.'

Get Maitre Friedmann to handle it, Arthur had suggested. No, she said, it's my pigeon. And Paul will be quite expensive enough as it is.

Only insinuation … A letter to a paper …

“A correspondent writes to complain of what, as he sees it,
amounts to misleading and mischievous advertising in this journal. In printing his views, we need hardly add, in fairness to public opinion, we must emphasize once more that while we take pains to ensure that publicity announcements in the advertisement columns are as far as can be ascertained
bona fide
, we cannot be held responsible for any claims made by the advertiser. We have frequently warned our readers that fraudulent publicity is a matter coming under the Criminal Code, and complaint should be made to the appropriate authority.

“It is understood, in the consequence, that the editors of this journal do not necessarily associate themselves with the opinions expressed in letters received, and that such are printed in obedience only to our avowed duty to inform.

“It is a public scandal” (writes our reader) “that while the sale, especially to minors, of weapons, drugs or pornography is in theory at least regulated, persons should be free to announce ‘services' in your journal that may be equally noxious. As father of a family, and a citizen holding a position of public trust, I protest energetically against the appearance of advertisements offering so-called ‘aid or counsel' which to all responsible people are nothing but an impudent method of gaining confidence, and perhaps extorting funds. I have nothing to say in criticism of the approved charitable organizations. Such operations, however, as the one described are to be regarded as nothing but enticement, and it is to be hoped that the legislator's attention can be drawn to a deplorable gap in the regulation of offers made to the public.' (Editorial note: our correspondent's letter is too long to reproduce in its entirety.)

“Our reporter, naturally, took pains to verify the announcement complained of. The person apparently concerned, a certain Madame V, at an address in the University district. Would neither confirm nor deny the allegation made by our reader. ‘I have nothing to reproach myself with,' she stated when interviewed. ‘I ask for no payments in advance, and I give no advice to anyone, minors or otherwise, that is not in
their own interest and in that of their family.' When asked to explain herself in greater detail, Madame V. refused to comment further.”

After much scratching and scribbling out, Arlette went downcast to Arthur, who was finishing shaving.

‘I'm supposed to be an educated woman trained in putting a simple piece of prose on paper, but whatever I say sounds wrong.'

‘My poor heart – overcome your scruples, leave it to me, I'll bring it you at lunchtime. Any so-called sociologist can draft a piece of pomposity to squash this bug. I'll bring the car into the garage and back with me, okay? Don't worry. I've been on the phone to our friend Monsieur Berger. He says it's nothing to bother about, but if you'll pop over to the PJ office, and ask for Simon, he'll be pleased to listen to your tale in confidence.'

‘You do me good,' said Arlette bleakly. ‘I feel most deplorably the bumbling amateur, making a right balls of it.'

‘You can't do everything all by yourself. Don't lash about in frenzy. Sincerity you know – a relative concept. If I leave the office for a haircut, do I say so? No, I say I've a most important business meeting. If I may humbly say, you are still a bit rigid in your guidelines. Don't, above all, get worked up.'

There were already a few anonymous folk on her tape, pleasurably stimulated by malice. She passed a bad moment, like a repentant drunk after a swig.

Inspector Simon at the PJ was much more like a cop than anyone else she'd met there: in that half an hour after leaving him she couldn't remember what he looked like. Broad, and with a navy blue shirt buttoned up. Polite and painstaking, and suggesting only in small tactful ways that women were frail and silly. Being classified with the scattered-wits sorority made her behave more stupidly than she usually did. It was as a courtesy, doubtless, to Arthur that she was being given time.

‘Wait a sec; I haven't got it clear yet. He phoned you giving a false name. And he got in touch with you; you met him in
this pub. And he behaved oddly. You got the impression of a man with something on his mind.'

‘A frightened man. Furtive, and glancing about.' It did all sound like Peter Lorre in an old movie.

‘It seems consistent. If he was nervous about something, that would be the kind of person who didn't hear a train coming or got flustered when he did. Look at it, you're strolling along there, and you're pondering some deep problem, your figures have a way of coming out wrong or you've pain in your gall bladder, and all of a sudden you're startled, Yaysus there's a train almost on top of you; that's when you make a clumsy move and slip.'

‘But his stomach or his ledger wrong wouldn't have brought him to me. Anyhow I asked him. I pointed out that I wasn't equipped to deal with anything medical or legal, or financial. He said it was nothing like that.'

Monsieur Simon sighed a little, patiently.

‘One of the first things you learn in this trade is that people tell lies all the time. I don't just mean when they're caught breaking the window and say no no, it wasn't me. Or people who're not very bright in the head. Or systematized fantasies. Quite ordinary people, nothing to hide, nothing to feel guilty about. I saw this and I saw that, when it's obvious they saw nothing of the kind.' She felt unsure whether this was supposed to apply to Demazis, or to herself.

‘People seeking to make themselves important, you mean? Something of the sort occurred to me.'

‘That and not even that. Think about it, get a nasty crime, like we get too often, with blood and violence; a lot of people reading about it get knocked off their balance. The ones whose screws are a bit loose but not so's you'd notice, become neurotic. Those are the ones who confess to it, seek to copy it even. A whole lot more, who aren't abnormal but who have a dull humdrum existence, want to share in the vicarious excitement. A bit sick, and a notorious great obstruction to us, but one has to learn to expect it.'

‘The gawpers you mean, who'll get in the car and drive an hour to the scene of a bad accident, just to see?'

‘That's right. See and share and enjoy. Sadism in us all, the shrink says, huh?'

‘I thought of all this; and somehow it wasn't like that. He was too diffident, not wanting to confide at all and getting cold feet about it. He promised to come and talk to me, and rang up cancelling it in an awkward, silly way.'

Mr Simon sighed again, scratched his thick brown hair with his ball point, lit a cigarette and picked a thin folder off his table.

‘Look here, this has nothing to do with us, you realize. We're at the disposal of the Proc, as you know, and we act on his word. This matter like any violent death, traffic accident or suicide or what, got the treatment, all proper, from urban brigade being within city limits; measurements, sketchplan all complete, observations made like anything untoward, weather conditions, visibility. They flipped the file over to me when I asked to see it, no strain. Doctor says – I spare you that, technical as well as gory …' She wanted to say Don't spare me that, I'm not a baby, but could find no grounds for objecting.

‘Railway line. Rainy, a bit foggy. Track greasy and slippery. Loose ballast, you know the stuff, stone with sharp contours, doesn't slide about like smooth pebbles, but superficially unstable and uneven. Means you put your foot down, you can easily lurch a bit, because the loose bed forms hummocks and pockets. Narrow path, used by railmen, alongside. You can bicycle on it and they do, of course, but it's a hazard. This time of year, it's often obscured by summer growth of brambles, dead sticks. Easy to trip. Maintenance crews cut or burn this back, or they're supposed to, but mean to say Yaysus, it's a hazard, or why else warn people off the line? Fella shouldn't be there; damn dangerous situation. Likelihood of accident trebled, quadrupled.

‘Time, late at night.' He dragged at his cigarette, turned the page of close conscientious typing. ‘Statement taken from only
witness, to wit locomotive mechanic. Serious man, plenty years' service, no accidents, good record, clean of alcohol. You see? Quote verbatim: we always do keep a good lookout, standing orders and public notoriously undisciplined about trespassing. Het setera. Attention somewhat relaxed this late – that's fair enough. Signals clear, no untoward encounter expected – why indeed should it be? – visibility normal; that's lights he means, signals. Speed forty-five kayem hour, standard for the stretch. Right. He's taking regular mechanical looks at the line, but this is all dead routine, he's looking forward to getting off and going home and who blames him. Right, loco's a BB, I don't know how many tons that is but remarkably heavy. Slight but perceptible shock is what alerts him. No cry, but you're hit by a loco anywhere you're just dead, massive rupture, major bloodvesseis. Doesn't have to decapitate you or hit your heart: colossal traumatic shock. Forty kayem, doesn't sound much, but even if a car hits you at that, you're a mess. He thought, he says, of an animal, a fox or a dog.'