The Stiff Upper Lip (10 page)

“The big bonnets, yes. The trouble is that this takes time, time and effort, lengthy investigations which often lead us outside the confines of the hexagon. Unfortunately, our counterparts elsewhere aren't always as cooperative as they might be.”

This was the same old song I used to hear in the States: We could close down the dope trade in a week if we only had a little help from——(Thais) (Turks) (French) (Mexicans) choose one.

“Tell me,” I said. “Is Dédé Delatour a big-enough bonnet?”

“For example,” Bobet continued, “we know that Grimes was involved in the traffic. We knew it for some time, but we decided not to intervene. We hoped he might lead us further. Now his death has precluded that possibility and complicated the situation.”

“By which you mean that Monsieur le Commissaire here needs a murderer?” I glanced at Frèrejean, but if he resented the allusion, he didn't show it “If so, I've got a pretty solid candidate.”

“We also have reason to believe that Hadley was involved,” Bobet said, “a conclusion justified by several proven facts in our possession. In addition, they were teammates and they traveled a great deal together, not only inside but outside the hexagon. We even have one specific instance: a flight from Charles de Gaulle to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, less than two weeks ago. Grimes and Hadley were known to be carrying a considerable sum of liquid French currency. We know where they took it, and to whom it was paid.”

I didn't ask him how they knew, but he made it official by quoting the figures out of a notebook of his own. The sum was indeed considerable.

Bobet put the notebook away and looked at me, dark eyes in a long, lean face.

“The point is this, Monsieur,” he said. “We are obliged to move quickly now, and it is imperative that we talk to Hadley. In exchange we are ready, formally, to concede his innocence in the Grimes killing.”

“Who is we?”

“Myself and Monsieur le Commissaire Frèrejean, on behalf of our respective services. We are furthermore willing, if we are unable to guarantee total immunity from other prosecution, to take into consideration any cooperation he gives us.”

Where I came from, this was called plea bargaining. A tricky business at best, because it puts you in the position of trusting the Law.

“What about other kinds of immunity?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, say from Dédé Delatour, for instance.”

The other times I'd mentioned Delatour, the conversation bad gone right on. It was obviously a no-no, like farting in public. But this time: silence.

Finally it was Bobet, with a glance at Frèrejean, who broke it:

“All right. Perhaps you had better tell us about your relations with Monsieur Delatour.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” I said.

I laid it on them then, with all the trimmings. The Glenfiddich helped. I mean, in hindsight I might have hesitated over certain details, because even if the man in question hadn't bragged about it, it would have been obvious that a Mafioso of Delatour's visibility would be plugged into the Law. In Paris, he would virtually have to be. But the forget-me-nots, you could say, were too fresh. I put it all in, then, including Delatour's American connection, and while I was at it, I even offered up the candidacy of Jeannot, the wimp, for the murder of Odessa Grimes. Then, when I was done, I refilled my glass and lifted it in a toast:

“If Delatour isn't a big bonnet in the dope trade, Messieurs, may pure malt whiskey turn to milk.”

Again: silence.

Again Bobet, with a glance at Frèrejean, found something to say:

“The drug traffic in France isn't organized by any one person, Monsieur.”

Sure, I thought, and you can grow grass in a window box.

“You've made some serious charges, Monsieur,” Frèrejean cut in. “Unfortunately, there's not a one of them that would stand up before a court. Now, if Adlay is willing to cooperate with us, we will grant time full police protection.”

“Full police protection,” I said. “For how long? For the rest of his life?”

“For as long as is necessary.”

“And Mlle. Merchadier?”

“Mile. Merchadier too.”

“And what about me?”

“Yourself as well.”

I wasn't overly impressed. “You haven't done much of a job of protecting me so far, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

“You haven't asked us, Monsieur.”

If this was an attempt at irony, you'd never have known it from his expression.

“And you still expect me to be able to deliver Hadley?” I said.

Frèrejean shrugged.

“Don't forget, Monsieur Cage,” he said mildly, “you are here in Paris as a guest of France: This is a privilege which can be withdrawn at any moment.”

It was an old threat. His colleague Dedini had used it on me before, had even taken me as far as the airport with it. But Dedini had done it with style, gruesome as the style was, whereas Frèrejean came on like pure modern functionaries, with all the gray indiffference of their breed.

There it was, in any case. If I could find and produce Roscoe for them, then presumably I could go on living and working in Paris—under “full protection” to boot. Otherwise it was the airport at Roissy and a one-way ticket—if Delatour didn't get to me first.

Not much of a deal, but there it was.

Bobet, though, had something to add, and I was pretty sure Frèrejean was none too happy about it. Suddenly, in fact, I felt a tension between them.

“We're going to take you into our confidence, Monsieur,” Bobet said, “We will rely on your discretion. It would be highly damaging to our work if this were known prematurely—by the press, for instance—but our counterparts in Barcelona are holding a man called Atherton, William. He was arrested yesterday, disembarking from an Iberia flight, airport of embarkation: Charles de Gaulle.”

“With what?” I said. “Brown sugar in his luggage?”

“Cocaine, Monsieur,” he replied dryly. Then he referred to his notebook again. “Atherton, William, born ninth July 1955 at Fresno, California, U.S.A. Nationality: American. Residence permit issued by the Sixième Bureau, Préfecture of Police, Paris. Do you know him, Monsieur?”

“I know the name,” I said. “Another basketball player. Wasn't he one of the ones at the P.U.C. gym? When Grimes was killed?”

“No, he wasn't. But he is an athlete by profession, under contract to play professionally for a French sports club.”

“Don't tell me who owns the club,” I said. “Let me guess.”

Again, the farting-in-public reaction.

“Well,” I said, “at least your Spanish counterparts, as you call them, are on their toes.”

“They arrested Atherton,” Bobet replied, “only because we asked them to.”

“Oh? And how did you know to ask them?”

At this, Frèrejean started to interrupt, but Bobet waved him off.

“We have our sources of information,” he said calmly. “I haven't talked to Atherton yet—I am going to Barcelona this evening—but we are hopeful, under the circumstances, that he will agree to tell us some things we need to know.” He closed his notebook. “For reasons I won't go into, it is important we also talk to Hadley. Very important. From his point of view as well. We are counting on you, Monsieur, to convince him of this.”

“
If
I can find him,” I said.

Neither of them seemed worried about it. Then Bobet stood up, tall and gaunt and with a pointed forehead on which, to my surprise, I could make out small beads of sweat.

Frèrejean was on his feet too.

“We'll be with you at every turn, Monsieur,” he told me. “Right beside you. Don't try to elude us this time. You won't succeed. As of this moment, you are under constant surveillance.”

“I hope so,” I answered.

After they left, I sat down to wait. Maybe that was a funny thing to do when the people who were counting on me on both sides of the Law were already out there beating the bushes, but it was the only idea that came to mind—
under the circumstances
, as Bobet would have said. I opened the windows to air the place out, and I waited, with the Glenfiddich for company, and I made a couple of long-distance calls, which only confirmed what I already knew.

Until, that is, the telephone rang of its own accord, late, and it was time for me to go to the movies.

8

If I've left out the background to those long-distance calls, it's because they added up to nothing. The fact is that even before Odessa Grimes got killed, I'd started fishing the California waters in regard to Roscoe Hadley, or Jimmie Cleever, as he was remembered out there. I'd been handicapped from the start, though, by the loss of my major source of information on the West Coast scene. Freddy Schwartz, a scholarly old rummy of a Jew who'd once worked on the
Times
, had given up the ghost and gone on to hacks' heaven.

Lacking Freddy Schwartz, I'd called two people. One was a private investigator I used to know in Van Nuys who had pretty fair mob connections. The other was a one-time Assistant District Attorney. The onetime Assistant District Attorney had since gone on to better things in Sacramento, but he'd built a political career on the headlines he'd made in the Southland as a “Fearless Young Prosecutor.”

Both had left messages while I was a guest at Dédé Delatour's. Now, for want of anything better to do, I called them back. And got the same answer twice: the Jimmie Cleever affair was ancient history, buried by several years' worth of fresher scandals. According to the private eye, the “interested party” we'd talked about couldn't care less about it. Unless, that is, somebody was trying to revive it? Somebody like me, for instance? The onetime Assistant D.A. said he thought the statute of limitations had expired in the Cleever case. There might be ways around that, he agreed, but nobody'd he'd sounded out on the side of the Law, either in Sacramento or Los Angeles, saw potential in reopening it. Unless, that is, I could tie it to something current?

I told them both I'd be in touch. The private eye started to bargain about his fee. I told him to send me a bill.

I'd already gotten the same news through Delatour: nobody in California gave a royal fuck about Roscoe Hadley. This meant that either Roscoe himself had been lying or somebody had sold him a bill of goods. I leaned toward the bill of goods, and for the somebody I voted for Odessa Grimes. The laylight faded into darkness, and I toasted the late Brother Grimes on having won the election. Then I toasted myself for having voted for the winner.

Only why would Brother Grimes have laid the spooks of the past onto his alleged soul- and teammate?

The calls, in any case, proved one thing. I heard the telltale clicking both times, and it wasn't ice cubes, and knowing the Police Judiciaire's predilection for overkill, it wouldn't have surprised me had they plugged into the whole hotel switchboard. So that when the phone rang, several toasts later on, and I picked up the receiver, I answered in English, saying:

“Whoever you are, if you can't be good, be careful. This is a party line.”

“
Comment, Monsieur
?” It was the evening hotel operator. She had an incoming call for me.

Who was it? I wanted to know.

The lady wouldn't give her name, the operator said. All she knew was that the call was from outside Paris.

I told her to put it through. Then, when I heard the clicking: “Be careful what you say, honey chile. Dis heah's a
party
line.”

“Is that you, Cage?”

“No, Ma'am. Massah Cage is gone out. Dis is dah butlah speaking.”

“What is it, Cage? That's you, isn't it? Have you got someone with you?”

“With me?” I said, in what sounded like my normal voice. More or less. “No, not right now. I'm expecting some of the boys up later for gin rummy. Roscoe said he'd come by, and …”

“For God's sake, are you drunk?”

“Drunk?” I hadn't thought about it that way. I thought about it. “No, I'm not drunk. Just a little fuzzy around the rims.”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure I'm all right. The last time I counted, I had two good legs, two good arms. Just one good eye, but who needs two? The nostrils are hanging in there. If you hold on, I'll go count again. All I got is a broken …”

“Stop it, Cage.”

“… a broken heart. I guess it's the parties. I guess I've been to too many stag parties lately. I was up all night at Dédé's. You know Dédé Delatour, don't you? He throws a mean party, does Dédé Too bad you missed it, you'd've had a …”

“I said
stop
it!”

I liked to think I heard hysteria in her voice then. Just a touch, but genuine.

Time passed. Not a lot of it.

“Are you still there, Cage?”

“I'm still here, baby,” I said, semi-soberly.

“Did they hurt you bad?”

“Only when I laughed,” I said. “Where are you?”

“It doesn't matter. But tomorrow morning, ten o'clock, I'll be in St. Quentin.”

“St. Quentin? Isn't that some kind of cheese?”

“I'm not joking, for God's sake. It's a city.”

“Sure it is. Where is it?”

“Look on the map.”

“If I've got a map.”

“You have a map. Just follow the Autoroute du Nord.”

“All right. And how am I supposed to find you when I get there?”

“Look for a white 504.” I started to laugh then. Like how many white 504's did she suppose they turned out at Peugeot? “It'll be parked somewhere near the railroad station. Ten o'clock. The license number is 995 BCD 75. Have you got that?”

“I've got it.”

“Did you write it down?”

“I don't have to. If I forget, the guys listening in will remind me.”

“Never mind that. Repeat it”