Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction (12 page)

‘Bonjour, cher cousin!’
The albino raised his own tall grey hat. ‘What a great pleasure to come upon you like this! We have a great deal to talk about since our last meeting. Perhaps you would be good enough to take a cup of coffee with me at L’Albertine?’

After they had dispensed with their hats and ordered, Count Zenith leaned back in his chair and moved his ebony cane in an elegant, economic gesture in the direction of a beautiful young woman wearing a long, military-style black coat, and with a helmet of raven-black hair, walking two cats, one a grey Oriental, the other a black, in the sunny gardens at the centre of the arcades. He gave no indication that he was already acquainted with the woman who was, of course, Mrs Una Persson, the famous European adventuress. ‘Has anyone, I wonder, ever really tried to imagine what it must be like to have the mind of a beast, even a domesticated beast like one of those exquisite cats? I think to enter such a brain, however small, would be utterly to go mad, don’t you, Sir Seaton?’

‘Quite.’ The Englishman smiled up at a pretty waitress (for which L’Albertine in the morning was famous) and thanked her as she laid out the coffee things. ‘I have heard of certain experiments, in which a beast’s brain has been exchanged with that of a human being, but I don’t believe they have ever been successful. Though,’ and in this he was far more direct than was his usual habit, ‘some say that Adolf Hitler, the deposed Chancellor of Germany, had succeeded and that he did indeed go quite mad as a result. Certainly his insolent folly at attacking three great empires at once would indicate the theory has some substance!’

Only by the slight movement of an eyebrow did Zenith indicate his surprise at Begg’s raising this subject. He said nothing for a moment before murmuring something about the Russo-Polish empire being already at the point of collapse. His own Romanian seat remained part of that sphere of influence, as Begg knew, and the fact was considered a source of some distress to the albino.

‘As one who showed such courage on their side during the war, you cannot be one of those who thinks Hitler should have been encouraged to attack the “alliance of eagles”?’ Begg offered. ‘The other Great Powers have since made an oath to protect the Slavic empire. Perhaps you feel that we have not been more resolute in tracking down the Hitler gang? I cannot believe you share their views.’

‘My dear Begg, the deposed Chancellor was a beerhall braggart supported by a frustrated military bully, a plump bore with aristocratic pretension and a third-rate broadcasting journalist!’ References to Röhm, to Göring and to Goebbels, whose popular radio programme was thought to have helped Hitler to power. ‘It was a matter of duty for anyone of taste to frustrate his ambitions. He was warned often enough by the Duma, the Assembly and your Parliament. His refusal to sign the articles of confederation were the last straw. He should have been stopped then, before he was ever allowed to marshal his land leviathans and aerial battleships. As it was, it should have taken three days, not a year, to defeat him. And now we have the current situation, where he and his riff-raff remain at large, doubtless somewhere in Bavaria, and far too many of our armed forces, as well as those of Germany herself, are engaged in putting a stop to his so-called Freikorps activities. I understand that it’s believed by some fools in the French foreign service that I yearn to ‘free’ my ancestral lands from the Pan-Slavic yoke, but believe me, I have no such dream. If I were to deceive myself that the people were free under the reign of my own family, I would deserve the contempt of every realist on the planet. And if there are, indeed, certain self-esteeming coxcombs on the Quai d’Orsay who believe I would ally myself with such degenerate opportunists, I shall soon discover their names and, in my own time, seek them out and challenge them to repeat their presumptions.’

Begg permitted himself a small smile of acquiescence. It was as he thought. He had needed only this statement by his cousin to confirm his understanding. But what was Zenith doing here in Paris, keeping such a strange, yet regular schedule? He knew that there was little chance of the albino offering him an explanation. All he had done was rule out the theory, as his French opposite number had hoped, of certain under-admired civil servants at the Quai d’Orsay. He regretted that he was not on terms of such intimacy with Mrs Persson. Although it was unlikely, she could be allying herself with the Hitler gang to further her own schemes.

Of course, Zenith had said nothing of any collaboration, though it was probably not the first time he and the Englishwoman had worked together, she for her political purposes, he for financial gain, Zenith required a great deal of money with which to maintain his lifestyle and finance the causes he favoured. It was known that he employed at least six Japanese servants of uncommon loyalty and proficiency and maintained several houses in the major cities of Europe as well as on the Côte d’Azur. For all that he had received an amnesty after the war, he remained wanted by the police of some Western countries, especially America, yet lived elegantly in such insouciant openness that he had rarely been captured. The opposite numbers of Begg and Lapointe preferred always to wait and watch rather than place him under arrest.

It was the secret of Zenith’s great success that he understood the psychology of his opponents marginally better than they understood his: thus his penchant for openness and his willingness to depend entirely on his own quick wits should he ever be in danger. One day, Begg hoped, that cool intelligence would be employed entirely on the side of the law. Meanwhile, he remained convinced of Zenith’s highly developed sense of honour, which meant he never lied to those he himself respected. Moreover, Zenith was as hated and feared by the criminal classes almost as much as he was sought by the police. That ebony stick of his hid a slender sword remarkable in that it, too, was black, and into it had been carved certain peculiar scarlet markings which a trick of the sword-smith’s art gave the appearance of seeming to move whenever the blade was unsheathed.

Begg had pursued the man across the multiverse more than once and knew that sometimes that sword became an altogether larger weapon, usually carried in an instrument case of some kind. Zenith was a skilled musician, as expert on the classical cello as he was with the popular guitar. Begg knew, also, that more than once Zenith’s opponents had been found dead, drained in some terrible way not of blood but of their very life force. Underworld legend had it that Zenith was a kind of vampire, drawing his considerable physical power from the very souls of his enemies.

At that moment, no casual customer of the salon would have seen anything but one elegant man of the world in amiable conversation with another. An observer might have noted that both seemed to be taking an admiring interest in the tall woman walking,
à la
Colette, her two Oriental shorthair cats in the noon sunlight, passing through the sparkling waters of the central fountain, with its classical marble merfolk doing homage to Neptune, whose trident was green with verdigris. The spraying water formed a blur of rainbow colour giving the woman an almost unearthly appearance as she entered it and stood for a while staring thoughtfully into the middle distance, seemingly utterly oblivious of the two men.

Begg smiled to himself, well aware that this was Mrs Persson’s characteristic way of taking stock of those she believed were watching her. It had the effect of disconcerting any observer and causing them to turn their gaze away. Even though she aroused no such response in Begg or Zenith, whom she recognised, nonetheless it seemed even to them that somehow she stepped through the shimmering wash of colour and, with her cats, disappeared.

’You are acquainted, I know, with Mrs Persson,’ murmured Begg. ‘The Quai d’Orsay, if not the Quai des Orfèvres, are convinced that she is working for the German insurgency. I would be surprised if it’s true, for I thought her nature too romantic to let her fall in with such a gang.’

’Mrs Persson is not usually in the habit of confiding in me.’ Monsieur Zenith raised his hand as a signal for the waiter to bring him a drink. ’Will you join me, Begg? Is it too early for an Armagnac?’

When the detective acquiesced, Zenith raised a second finger and made a small gesture. The waiter nodded. Almost immediately Zenith was watching with approval as the
serviteur
mixed his absinthe and placed two specially formed pieces of sugar in the saucer, while Begg received a generous measure of St-Aubin. It was rarely his habit to drink his favourite Special Reserve before lunch, but he was more than usually anxious to remain on agreeable terms with his old opponent. Zenith appeared to live chiefly on Turkish ovals and absinthe.

‘Would you permit me, cousin, to ask you a rather direct question?’ he asked after a couple of appreciative sips.

‘How could I refuse?’ A smile, almost a grin, appeared on Zenith’s handsome lips. Clearly, this unusual approach amused him. And Begg knew he desired amusement almost as much as he needed action to relieve his ennui.

‘I have to assume that your business in Paris has some association with the present situation in Germany. I am also curious to know what Mrs Persson’s association with the Germans might mean.’

‘I fear that any confidence Mrs Persson chooses to share with me must remain just that.’ Zenith’s voice sharpened a little. ‘Naturally the British and French are in haste to conclude their present business with Colonel Hitler, but, while I wish them well, you must know-’

’Of course.’ Begg regretted his directness. He believed he had offended his cousin, whose sense of decorum was if anything somewhat exaggerated. There was no retreat now. ‘I suppose I am asking your help. There is some suggestion that many innocent lives are at stake.’

’My dear Begg, why should you and I care if a few bourgeois more or less are gone from central Paris by next Sunday?’ Monsieur Zenith finished his absinthe. He removed a large, crisp note from his slender case, laying it on the table and standing up. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, I have some business which cannot wait.’

Begg rose, trying to frame some kind of apology or even protestation, but for once he was at a loss. With his usual litheness and speed, Zenith slipped his hat from the shelf and, with a perfunctory bow, strolled towards the exit.

Cursing himself for his uncharacteristic impatience, Begg watched his relation depart.

Only as he took up his own broad-brimmed hat did a small smile suddenly appear on his face and under his breath he murmured a heartfelt ‘
Merci beaucoup’.

Of course, Commissaire Lapointe had set his men in waiting for Monsieur Zenith and the albino was followed, once again. Once again, as his old colleague was bound to admit to Begg, they had lost him. Mrs Persson, too, was gone. The four metatemporal detectives met that afternoon in Lapointe’s rather grand offices overlooking the Seine.

‘She was last seen visiting Caron’s print shop, in that section of the arcades known as La Galerie de I’Horloge. Three men, their faces obscured by wide-brimmed hats and turned-up collars, followed her in about ten minutes later. But she was never seen emerging. Two of our fellows entered on a pretext just as old Caron was closing for lunch. The shop is small. It has long been suspected as a place of illegal assignations concerning the Bourse and the arms trade. There is an even smaller room behind it. Neither Mrs Persson nor the trio of men were to be found. My chaps did, however, discover a good excuse for our making a further visit to Caron’s. He also specialises, it appears, in a particularly unsavoury form of pornography, in which Nazi insurgents are portrayed in acts of torture or worse with their victims. The photographs are almost certainly authentic. Caron made an error. He omitted to hide the photographs in his office when our men entered. So, although they pretended to notice nothing, it will be possible for us to stage a raid, ostensibly by that of the regular vice department, to see what else we can discover. Would you and Dr Sinclair care to accompany us?’

‘I would be unable to resist such an invitation,’ said Begg, while Sinclair assented by lowering his magnificent head.

’I think you are right, old friend, in your interpretation of Monsieur Zenith’s communication,’ added Lapointe. ‘Not only will Hitler’s plot be realised in a crowded part of Paris, it will occur before next Sunday.’

’So he suggested. But whether Mrs Persson is party to this plot, we still do not know. The sooner we can question her, I think, the better.’

’Precisely!’ Lapointe inspected his watch. ’Come, gentlemen, there is a powerful car awaiting us! Her batteries are charged and ready!’

So it was that the four men, accompanied by two uniformed sergeants, arrived at the Galerie de I’Horloge with its magnificent glass and wrought-iron roofs and ornate gas lamps, its rows of small shops on either side, and crowded into M. Caron’s little establishment carrying a search warrant, on the excuse that he was known to be selling forbidden material.

Begg felt almost sorry for the little plump, grey-haired print-seller, who visibly shivered in terror at the understanding he was threatened with arrest. When, however, the material which was the excuse for the raid was revealed, Begg’s sympathy disappeared. These were almost certainly pictures taken from the infamous Stadelheim fortress, where prisoners had been tortured, humiliated and subjected to unmentionable sexual horrors. Caron swore that he was not responsible for the material being in his office. ‘It was the woman, I assure you, gentlemen. The Englishwoman. She knows… she…’ And the little man broke down, weeping.

It did not take long to elicit from the print-shop proprietor the secret of Mrs Persson’s ability to vanish. Behind a large cabinet of prints, he revealed another door, with steps leading down into dank darkness which echoed as if into the infinite cosmos. ‘She… she insisted, Messieurs. She knew my shop had once been a gate into the labyrinth. It is by no means the only one leading from the arcades. As I am sure you are aware, the labyrinth has long served as a sanctuary for those who do not wish to be apprehended, for a variety of reasons. I wanted nothing to do with it, thus the cabinet pushed against the wall, but the Englishwoman – she knew what was hidden. She demanded to be shown the gate.’ Again he began to weep. ‘She knew about my – little business. She threatened to expose me. The photographs… I was greedy. I should have known not to trust such degenerates.’