 |
| (Sessue Hayakawa.) |
Louis Shalako
They knew a little bit about him and he patiently told
them some more. The gentleman was calm, cool and sophisticated. He was
well-educated, and a man of the world.
Blaine Sauve was another columnist. His work appeared
in a prominent Paris daily and was syndicated all over France. He wrote reviews
on commission for various theatrical magazines all over the world, and was
well-known in the industry. Half of what he said was pure promotional tour. The
other half was pure bullshit.
He probably couldn’t help it, conceded Andre.
It was in the nature of the beast.
He was giving them more or less the same sort of
runaround that Dax had. He was most definitely passing the buck, reluctant to
cough up too many more names. He wasn’t disagreeing with the ones they already
had. He specifically mentioned Banzini’s agent, more than once, just in
passing…like yeah, talk to anyone but me.
For one thing it was just gossip, for another, he didn’t have direct
knowledge, and yet it was probably true. To know
it was to accept some kind of responsibility or something.
No one likes to be the rat. The trouble was that he
was dependent upon the industry he wrote about.
Dax was just starting out and arguably had a lot less
to lose by being helpful.
Unlike Dax’s cubicle, Sauve worked from home. His
office was large, airy and bright, looking out onto the rear garden of a tall,
narrow house. Outside there was either a white-spotted black dog or a
black-spotted white dog, roaming around. There was a gnarly old apple tree,
looking bare and forlorn in the stark grey light of another overcast day, the
ground around it littered with rotting, frozen red apples of large calibre.
Judging by the surroundings, he and his stringy-looking wife seemed to be doing
okay.
“I’m not saying there weren’t stories about Largo, who
was a bit of a friend of mine—insofar as such things can go. We got along very
well at parties and awards ceremonies and public appearances. He was the
professional in that sense, and so am I. Largo was charming. He was a funny,
witty man, a real entertainer in every sense of the world. So much of that was
public performance. There’s always something of the real person inside, of
course. No matter how talented, some people just can’t do it. But yes, rumours
have gone around from time to time. Quite frankly, a professional friendship.
It’s a hell of a lot better than feuding with your subjects…” He pulled the
pipe out of his mouth and examined it intently as such men were wont to do when
pressed for an original thought. “There was someone else. Yeah, that was kind
of weird. An odd-ball fellow, claimed to be a police inspector from Hong Kong.
He was asking a lot of questions about Banzini, and this was, ah, not too long
before his rather unfortunate demise.”
“Oh, really. Got a name for us?”
If true, it had to be an unofficial visit, or they should
have heard about it by now.
“Yes, he called me on the phone—for what that’s worth."
The columnist sat back in his chair, having put his pipe down unlit.
He had taken up nibbling on the end of a yellow HB
pencil. This was a bit of an odd note for an otherwise composed individual.
“So you have no idea what he looks like?”
Those eyes came up and locked on.
“That would appear to be the point…I think that is
what you’re getting at.”
His hands seemed to be all over the place. It took him
a while to find a pen. Andre wondered if he had the palsy or something, it was
that bad.
“He said his name was Guan Fu. Apparently some sort of
big-wig from the police out there.”
“Any idea of where he was staying?”
“Ah…not really. No.”
That would appear to be that.
***
 |
| (Detail. 1928 Citroen Six. Jean Marie Ribier, Wiki.) |
Once the chill got into you, it was with you for the day.
It would take some time to really thaw out again.
“Lord, love a duck.” It was getting pretty damned dark
outside, low clouds scudding past, and the snow was falling faster and faster,
slanting past on a stiff northwest wind.
They sat in the warm vehicle, engine running. The
heater fan was going full blast and the cop-radio was turned down to barely
audible.
Levain, hand on the gear lever, foot on the brake,
turned.
“I guess we should talk to Vice. Work up a list of
high-class brothels—child and otherwise.”
Maintenon nodded absently. The classical theory was,
that in the absence of any other clues, concentrate on the victim. Their
habits, their likes and their dislikes, their relationships above all else.
There was barely enough time in the day to get going,
and then it was over and it seemed like you hadn’t gotten anything done.
“We can check around all the hotels, looking for this
Guan Fu boy.”
“Yes, yes, whatever.”
This was no random killing.
To kill Banzini like that, with all the attendant
publicity, meant something. It meant a lot—to the killer.
“Someone else has been asking about Largo Banzini.” Hmn.
In the absence of any real direction from Gilles,
Andre let out the clutch.
They might as well head back to the Quai, if not,
surely Gilles would say something…
Sooner
rather than later.
“There will be a million reports to read, and someone
has to have an overview of the case.”
Levain was quoting the book.
Gilles nodded. It sure beat directing traffic all day
long.
Which both of them had done.
Which both of them had done.
“Hmn. I would like to know who this Guan Fu is.” The
Inspector chewed on his lip. “Other than the actual killing, it’s the most
interesting thing we’ve seen so far.”
The snow hitting the vehicle at fifty or sixty
kilometres an hour was a bit like someone dropping sand from the sky.
It was abrasive, and yet at the same time, kind of
soothing.
***
Rather than devote another half-dozen men and women to
the phones, Levain used a few of those alleged little grey cells of his—pulp
novels being a bit of a thing with him. He sat there and tried to put his mind
into the head of a visiting, senior police official from another country.
An Asian gentleman in Paris, asking about Banzini.
If the department was paying, he’d be on a pretty
tight daily allowance. Hong Kong was a long ways away and this would have cost
them something already. If he was traveling privately, the real question was
why. A police inspector’s salary wasn’t that great—genteel middle-class poverty
was one good way of describing it, and so one must wonder where such a person
might be staying. Compared to France and a few other places—(police salaries in
the U.S. were outrageous), the pay in Hong Kong would be somewhat lower. Andre
didn’t know that for a fact, but it
was a pretty good guess.
“You know, Gilles, there are a few places in town run
by Chinese people.” The same might be said of any number of other
nationalities. “Shit. I’m wondering if he’s rented a flat. In which case we
might never find him. We could check and see if he’s got a driver’s license.
We’ll check on that passport.”
“Yes, yes, do all that. But this is grunt work, Andre.
Let somebody who really needs the experience do it.”
Andre grimaced on hearing that one.
“I suppose you’re right.”
Greeks, Russians, Lebanese, Chinese, Algerians, Dutch,
Poles, Americans, it was a big city and there were all kinds of people trying
to make a living.
Some of them must own hotels.
Gilles was smoking, skimming through file after file.
“I’ve got a better idea. Lunch—down at Kwok’s Grille.”
Levain tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” He hadn’t thought of that, but they could
always ask Burt.
He’d been helpful more than once.
Gilles looked at the clock.
“Before we go. Call the motor vehicle people about
that driver’s license. The odds are he doesn’t, though.”
***
Kwok’s was a tiny place, barely six or seven metres of
frontage on a street that was narrow, cobbled and winding. If you weren’t careful,
the food, based on the cuisine of Funnan province, would take the top of your
head off with its heavy reliance on chilis.
He did a mean beef soup, no doubt about it.
Nearby tables were occupied, which was a consideration
and a bar to communication. It was the usual long, skinny space, a row of
ceiling fans turning slowly, dimly lit and going back from a narrow storefront.
“Hey, Burt. What’s the special?”
“Okay, boys. We gonna start you off fairly
conservatively with home-made, juicy, deeply-flavoured steamed prawn dumplings.
Then we got the most original mushroom and pine-nut dumplings, and then some Chinese
ravioli filled with morsels of grilled chicken.”
“There’s more, right.” The special would have soup,
noodles, rice…a little bit of everything.
“Oh, yeah, there’s a lot more.” The meal came with
egg-drop soup, rolls and butter, and a salad with dressing. “You can have
tossed salad, coleslaw, cheeses. You like very much.”
Gilles looked at Andre.
“What do you think?”
“Shit, let’s do it. And Burt—”
“Yes, Andre?”
“Beer. Lots and lots of beer—”
Burt grinned, picking up the menus from the table
which had never even been opened, as they so rarely were in this particular
establishment.
“Oh, yeah, okay, I know you guys very well by now. I
think we can handle that.”
Levain waited until Burt had turned and made it back
to the kitchen. He’d only be there a minute to give the order. On the front
side of the kitchen wall was Burt’s small bar, and in front of that the boss’s
table.
Andre headed to the restrooms, which were on the right
side of the hallway leading to the kitchen and the emergency exit at the back
of the building. He’s always loved the décor in these places, the sheer
Oriental decadence of it. It was all deep red rugs, black-painted walls, red and
gold trim and little signs in two languages, those crazy alien characters in
gold lettering with black drop-shadows…
They said the food was sort of tuned to western tastes
and appetites, and that the food back home would be completely different. They
really didn’t get much meat over there, not the poor folks anyways.
In which case, more power to them, and he was looking
forward to that beer. They hadn’t done this in far too long—responsible police
officers that they undoubtedly were much of the time.
By the time he was done taking a leak, Burt would be
ensconced at his usual table, by the server’s station. His table would have its
scattering of French, English and Chinese newspapers, the day’s receipts and
the horoscope on the table top. Maintenon would have a cold beer to keep him
company.
At this time of day, there were only a handful of
other tables being served. In general, people in this part of town minded their
own business. Especially when the police were concerned.
It was funny how you always knew—
Hey,
everybody, them’s the cops…
***
After shaking it off and washing his hands, Andre
stepped out. He casually dropped into the red leather seat of the booth, right
beside Burt.
“Ah, so.”
“So.”
They sat silently for a moment.
“So. What you guys want?”
Under the table, Andre slipped him a hundred-franc
note.
END
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