Night Sky (4 page)

‘It’s a private call. Do you mind?’

The old man smiled. ‘Of course, of course.’ He disappeared into the bar and closed the connecting door.

Vasson thought carefully. There was a second extension in the bar itself, but he would know immediately if anyone listened in because of the noise. It was possible there was another extension upstairs, but doubtful. Hamid was a careful businessman. He wouldn’t spend money on luxuries like that.

He raised the receiver and asked for the number he’d been given. There was a long silence and for a moment Vasson was worried in case he’d memorised the wrong number. But then there was a voice on the line, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Have you any news?’

‘Yes, ten tonight, at a warehouse named Laborde et Fils, behind L’Entrepôt du Midi, on the other side of the harbour.’

‘Got it.’

‘And the other address?’

‘When you deliver what you owe me.’

There was a silence. ‘All right. A briefcase will be delivered to you at the corner of Rue Caisserie and Rue Roger at exactly ten-thirty. Make sure you have that address written on a piece of paper ready to hand to the driver. Goodbye.’

Vasson replaced the receiver. He moved round to the other side of the desk and found a pencil and a piece of clean paper under the piles of till receipts. In block capitals he carefully wrote the address of the heroin processing laboratory that the
Patron
maintained in a quiet suburb on the south side of the city, beyond the hill of Notre-Dame de la Garde. He had delivered some stuff there once. They had told him it was only a safe house, but he had checked on it. He had gone back and watched the place: two men arrived at eight and left at four on the first day. And the second day. And the third. Regular little workers, they were.

He had followed one home. A garrulous neighbour had informed him that the worker was a chemist who used to work for a big pharmaceutical company somewhere. No one was sure where he worked now. Vasson hadn’t bothered to check on the second worker: he knew he’d found the laboratory.

He put the piece of paper in his back pocket and went through into the bar. Jojo had obviously been watching the door: as Vasson looked round he found the other man staring at him. Vasson smiled and waved. But something else was expected. Of course: he smacked his hand in the crook of his elbow in the age-old obscene gesture.

Jojo laughed and shouted, ‘Lucky devil!’

Yes, thought Vasson, how right you are.

Vasson peered up and down both streets again. Occasionally the headlights of a car came sweeping up the Rue Caisserie, but none of them slowed down. He felt sure it must be after ten-thirty, but without a watch he couldn’t be positive. He had left Hamid’s just before nine and gone to a strange bar in the north of the Quarter until just before ten. Since then he’d been walking the streets for at least half an hour. He decided a watch was one of the first things he was going to buy with the money. He rather liked the new metal Rolexes: smart yet practical.

He’d never had real money before, but he knew exactly what he was going to do with it. There would be a small rented apartment in the 18th Arrondissement, a D8SS Delage – though he probably wouldn’t be able to afford a new one – and a nice little business. A club probably, with high-class girls and some expensive décor. But whatever the business, he would work hard at it and it would be a success. He couldn’t understand people who spent wildly instead of investing for the future. There was no way he was going to be caught in
that
trap. Apart from the Delage which would have to be bought for cash, he was going to invest every penny.

There was still no sign of a car. Vasson began to feel nervous. They must come soon; they needed that address.

Suddenly a terrible thought came to him. Suppose … suppose they had got the address out of Jojo …

He felt sick and groaned.
Of course
. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? If Jojo had talked … then they wouldn’t turn up in a million years.
And they wouldn’t bring the money
.

Oh God, please don’t let it be true, please.

He leant back against the wall and stared through the darkness at the building opposite. The thought of not having the money was so appalling that he couldn’t imagine it. The money was everything …

He stayed immobile against the wall, as if by freezing his body he could postpone the moment of truth.

The time must be at least a quarter to eleven.

There was a sudden flash of light and he looked up. A long low car was sliding into the kerb. He stared at it uncomprehendingly.

A car …
The car
…

Oh dear God, thank you,
thank you
. He stepped forward, half-chuckling, half-crying.

The rear door opened and a voice called, ‘Get in!’

Vasson stood by the open door. ‘No, I’d rather not.’ Through his elation he thought: I’m not going to be caught by that old trick.

The voice said, ‘I thought you’d want to count the money.’

Vasson considered. They were right, of course. But it was still too risky to get in; he would take a quick look at the cash and he’d soon know if there was a lot missing. ‘No, just hand it over.’

‘You have the address ready?’

An old attaché case appeared from inside the car and Vasson crouched on the pavement to open it. In the dim light of the street lamp he saw piles of clean new bank notes. ‘They’re new! I asked for old!’

‘They’re straight out of the bank. Clean as a whistle.’

‘But how do I know they’re not hot?’

‘They’re not pinched, if that’s what you mean.’

Vasson cursed, but he knew he was beaten. He’d have to accept the new notes and like it. He thrust the piece of paper into the car and a hand reached out to close the door. Vasson leapt for the door and held it open. ‘Stop! You promised! You promised to tell me what happened.’ He clung on to the door. No-one was going to close it until he had an answer.

There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘Okay, okay. We gave the news of the pick-up to our friends at the commissariat.’

‘Why? Why
them
?’

‘We owe them a favour. Anyway we want them to get the odd conviction; it keeps everyone happy.’

So, it was prison for Jojo. He’d got off lightly then. Vasson was glad: he’d quite liked the guy.

The voice had fallen silent. Vasson prompted. ‘Well? What about the
Patron
?’

‘We’ve already dealt with him. He had … a little accident, about half an hour ago. And the laboratory, the technicians – we’ll be taking them over ourselves.’ There was a pause, then the voice said mockingly, ‘Does all this meet with your satisfaction?’

Vasson ignored the sarcasm and grinned, ‘Oh yes, oh yes!’

The car revved up. ‘You won’t be staying around, will you? The Algerian doesn’t think it’ll be very healthy for you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going on a long trip. To Algeria.’

As the car drove off, Vasson laughed. To Algeria. He liked that. Very neat.

He walked rapidly, the attaché case swinging in his hand. God, what a coup! What a strike! Perfect – the whole thing had gone perfectly.

And it felt so good!
Sweet
– yes! That’s how it felt.

He had only one regret: that he hadn’t been able to see the
Patron
’s expression when he realised he’d been outmanoeuvred. The bastard, that would teach him.

Vasson paused near the house. The place seemed quiet. If possible he wanted to get to his room without meeting any of the girls.

He crept up to the doorway and into the hall. No-one. He ran lightly up the stairs to the landing outside his room. He put his ear to the door and listened carefully.

There was no sound; nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be all right.

He put the key into the lock and in that instant he knew that it had all gone dreadfully wrong.

The door was already unlocked.

As it swung open he saw the bottom drawer gaping at him. The lock had been broken. He stared stupidly at it until a slight movement caught his eye.

There was someone in the room.

It was Jojo’s woman.

She was staring at him, her eyes wide and angry.

For a moment neither of them moved. Vasson noticed that the woman was panting heavily. Slowly he looked round the room and understood why. The bitch had been through the place. Magazines spilled off the shelves; his new suit lay in a crumpled ball on the floor. The beautiful white silk shirt hung off the side of the bed, a smear of dirt showing grey on its sleeve.

He thought: God, why did she have to
spoil
everything? Why couldn’t she have left me
alone
?

Then he saw the money. The thirty thousand francs advance payment lay neatly stacked on top of the chest. Next to it were some papers.

Oh God. The papers
.

He closed the door slowly behind him and faced her. ‘Why? Why did you come here?’

‘You bastard! You shopped Jojo! You bastard!’ She started to scream at him.

Vasson thought: Damn, damn. He had to think clearly but it was impossible while she was still yelling. ‘Shut up!’ he shouted.

Her mouth closed in surprise.

Quickly he said, ‘What gave you that idea? That I shopped Jojo?’

‘Oh, I
know
you did! My friend told me, my
Inspector
friend.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Oh he didn’t
say
it was you.’ She was beginning to scream again. ‘But as soon as he told me someone had, I knew it
had
to be you. And what do I find, eh?
All this!
’ She picked up the money and shook it at him.

He thought: Perhaps she hasn’t seen the papers, perhaps it’s all right after all. But then he realised she
must
have, when she took them out of the drawer.

She had seen the papers.

She knew his new name
.

He took a step forward and said quietly, ‘Give me the money.’ She started to move to one side and he saw her glance at the door. God, she was stupid. He took a step sideways and cut her off.

She stared at him defiantly. ‘You bastard, take your bloody money!’ She threw the notes at him and they fluttered down to the floor.

She’s done it again, he thought. Dirtied everything unnecessarily, spoilt it all.

He reached for her and saw the fear leap into her eyes. He would have to be quick otherwise she’d scream. He grabbed at her but she pulled free and ran for the door. Even before she got to it, he knew he would be able to catch her and he felt a surge of power. She was grappling with the handle. He came up behind her and got a hand round first one arm then the other. Then he thought: God, what do I do next?

She was kicking backwards at him and he pulled her closer so that her legs would lose their momentum. She started to yell and he suddenly realised what he would have to do. He put an arm round her throat and as her hand shot up to pull it away, he raised his other arm. After that it was a simple matter to slide his hands on to her neck.

He squeezed and the yelling stopped. Her breathing changed to a series of loud agonising rasps. It was too noisy: he would have to squeeze harder. The noise changed to a gurgle and he thought: That’s better. Then she started to fight, writhing her body from side to side and kicking her legs again. It occurred to him that it would be much easier on the floor.

He twisted her round and started to push her down. At the sight of his face she went for his eyes and he felt her nails digging into his skin. Panicking he squeezed harder and she grasped desperately at his hands again. Her eyes began to pop and he stared at them, amazed at the enormous size of the human eye.

He wondered how much longer it would take. He was running out of strength. It was much more difficult than he’d thought: she was so strong. He looked down at her. She was purple now and her tongue was protruding from her mouth. The sight was disgusting and he closed his eyes.

At last he looked again. Her eyes were staring blankly and the obscene tongue was hanging swollen from the mouth. Tentatively he let go. The head lolled back. The body lay still.

He backed away on hands and knees and crouched, crying quietly. God, what a stupid bitch. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

His stomach heaved and he lurched to the basin to throw up. Afterwards he dipped a cloth in the water jug and washed his face for a long time.

Eventually he realised it was late. The last night train left in half an hour. He picked up his crumpled clothes from the floor and began to change. By facing towards the basin all the time he could avoid looking at the body. When he had changed he picked the money up from the floor, leaving only one note which was protruding from under the woman’s head. He packed the money into the money belt along with the notes from the attaché case. The new identity papers went into his jacket pocket.

At last he was ready. The clothes didn’t look too bad, though the shirt was dreadfully creased. He would have it dry-cleaned when he got to Paris.

He looked in the mirror. He looked just the same but he didn’t feel it. He would never
feel
the same again. That woman had tainted him with her dirt. It must never happen again. He would make sure of that.

Thank God at least for the money, the sweet, beautiful money. That made him feel clean again.