A Season in Hell, page 15
It was just before seven when the airport taxi turned into rue de la Forge and stopped outside a large double-fronted shop. The windows were lit, revealing a selection of antiques behind security grilles. The sign above the door in gold and black simply said, “Pierre Dupont.”
They got out and Shelley paid the driver off with a handful of francs. “Bonne chance, my old son,” he said as the taxi disappeared. “Well, this is it.” He looked up at the sign. “Pierre Dupont, antique dealer extraordinaire, amongst other things,” he commented.
“He certainly knows his antiques,” Sarah said, looking in the window.
“There’s nothing this bloke doesn’t know. Here, this way.” Shelley led them into an alley at the side of the shop and pressed a bell at a door halfway along. “When he was a kid he was a gunman with the Union Corse, that’s a kind of French Mafia that operates in Marseilles. Then he got smart. Realized he had a brain, know what I mean?”
There was a security voice box. Someone said, “Qui est là?”
“Jack Shelley, you old bastard.”
The door opened. The man who stood there was quite small, with a heavily tanned face, clipped moustache, dark wavy hair. He wore a black velvet evening jacket and trousers in the same color.
“Jack. You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been too long. Far too long.” His English was excellent. “You look wonderful.” He embraced Shelley, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Here, none of that frog nonsense,” Shelley said. “And you know what I think about garlic. This is my nephew, Sean, and Mrs. Talbot.”
Dupont took her hand. “A great pleasure, madame.”
“You’ll have to watch him,” Shelley told her. “I’ve never known anyone have so much trouble with his trousers round women.”
They moved on through the shop’s interior, an Aladdin’s cave, everything from authentic Samurai swords to Louis-Quatorze furniture.
“How come you look younger than when I last saw you ten years ago?” Shelley asked as they entered an elegant sitting room which doubled as an office.
“Oh, the tanning salons play their part, and I must confess my hair now owes more to the chemical manufacturers than it does to nature. But to business. What exactly are your requirements?”
“A motor, for starters.”
“There’s a Citroën in the garage you may use.”
“And the boy and me need tooling up. The thing is, we need to have a serious business discussion with some of your compatriots, and I don’t think poking two fingers through my pocket’s likely to convince them.”
“No problem.” Dupont pulled an oil painting back on the wall, revealing a safe. He quickly twirled the combination dial and opened it, rummaging inside. When he turned, he was holding two handguns, which he put on the desk. “All right?”
Shelley picked up the first, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. “Perfect. I always did like playing Cowboys and Indians. What’s this piece of tin?”
Egan picked up the black metaled automatic. “Makarov. It’s a standard-issue weapon in most Eastern European armies. Not much stopping power, but it does the job.”
“Right.” Shelley slipped the revolver in his raincoat pocket.
“This way.” Dupont took them through the kitchen and down a few steps to a basement garage. It contained a Renault and a black Citroën. “Do you want me to come with you, Jack?”
“No, you stay out of it. Hold the fort. That sort of thing.” He turned to Sarah. “No good asking you to stay, I suppose?”
“What do you think?”
He shrugged. “Okay, but stay back and don’t interfere.” He opened the rear door of the Citroën for her. “This is serious business, Mrs. Talbot. When you go in, you go in hard. You don’t play patty-fingers. Understand?”
“I get the point, Mr. Shelley.”
“I hope you do.” He nodded to Sean. “Let’s get moving.”
They left the Citroën on the other side of the small quay and walked across to La Belle Aurore. Light spilled out from the windows across the damp cobbles. When they peered inside, the place was empty except for fat Marie sitting behind the bar.
Shelley said, “Right, in we go, and don’t forget what I said, Mrs. Talbot. You behave yourself.”
He opened the door and led the way in. “Evening.” He nodded, and Sarah and Egan sat on bar stools. “You do speak English, madame?”
“But yes, monsieur.”
“Yeh, well, I think that should be an essential requirement for Europeans, now we’re all in the Common Market, and while you’re considering that piece of wisdom you can pour us three Pernods and listen to what my friends here have got to say.”
She frowned warily, but produced three glasses, a water jug and a bottle of Pernod. “I don’t understand, monsieur.”
Sarah said, “The other week the body of a young Englishman was found in the Seine nearby. In the coroner’s report, the night patrolman said that he’d seen him coming in here.”
Egan said, “When interviewed, you told the police that the boy seemed ill and that he was looking for a bed for the night. You gave him a drink and a couple of addresses and sent him on his way.”
“That’s true, monsieur, a great tragedy. I remember it vividly.” She shrugged. “But I told the police all I knew.”
“Interesting,” Egan said. “I saw the police report indicating everything found in his possession. There were no addresses. I find that strange.” He turned to Shelley. “Don’t you find that strange?”
“No,” Shelley said. “Not strange. I find it fucking unbelievable. I mean, here’s this kid at midnight, on drugs and so sick you give him a free drink. He asks you to suggest where he might get a bed and you expect me to believe you wouldn’t write it down?”
“Please, monsieur,” she stammered.
“Added to which you failed to mention to the police the fact that the boy gave you a password,” Egan told her. “He said Mr. Smith had sent him and he wanted Agnés.”
“Agnés?” she whispered.
“That’s it,” Shelley said. “Very popular girl, Agnés. Much in demand, and now, we’d like to meet her.”
“I know no one of that name.”
Shelley took out the revolver and showed it to her. “I could tell you that if you don’t come clean on this Agnés slag in the next five seconds, I’ll put a bullet through your left knee, but ammunition’s expensive.” He put it back in his pocket. “So we’ll have to seek an alternative.”
He reached across, grabbed her by the hair and smashed the Pernod bottle on the edge of the bar. When he held it up, the shards of broken glass were inches from her face.
She screamed. “No, monsieur!”
Sarah Talbot tugged at his sleeve. “Mr. Shelley, for God’s sake!”
“You stay out of it!” he snarled.
Marie collapsed totally. “I’ll get her, monsieur. I’ll get her. She’s in the back room.”
“See what I mean?” Shelley appealed to Sarah and Egan as he put down the broken bottle. “All you have to do is be a little bit reasonable in this life.”
Valentin, behind the curtain at the rear, an arm about Agnés’s waist, whispered, as Marie approached, “You know what to do, chérie. Make it good. I’ll see you soon,” and he slipped out the side door.
Marie came through the curtain and stood there inquiringly. Agnés nodded. The older woman turned and went back into the bar and the girl followed her, a hand on her hip, a provocative enough figure in a miniskirt and black plastic raincoat.
“Monsieur?” she said to Shelley. “You wanted to see me?”
“You are Agnés?” Sarah asked.
“That’s right, madame.”
“One night the other week a young Englishman came here using the name George Walker.”
Agnés shrugged. “Perhaps—perhaps not. I can’t say I remember.”
“She’s been walking the pavement so long it’s addled her brains.” Shelley grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t fuck about with me, you little slag. He was told to say he was from Mr. Smith and ask for Agnés.”
Marie said quickly, “Tell him, chérie, for your own sake. He’s an animal, this one.”
“All right. Just let me go.” Agnés pulled away and nursed her bruised arm. “I don’t know who Mr. Smith is. I work for a pimp called Valentin. He told me to be here the night the boy came in. I was to send him to Valentin and that’s all I know.”
“Where?” Egan demanded.
“The other side of the quay, along the river a little. There’s an old flour mill. Fournier’s, it’s called. Valentin has an office there. Uses the place for business.”
“Such as?” Shelley asked.
“I don’t know. Hot cars sometimes.”
“Great.” He turned to Egan and Sarah. “So let’s go and see this creep, Valentin, and you, darling—” he grabbed Agnés’s arm—“can come along and see the fun.”
Jago, watching in the shadows outside, had seen Valentin emerge from the side door of La Belle Aurore and hurry away across the quay.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “That wasn’t in the script.” When the others emerged, Shelley clutching Agnés by the arm, and set off in the same direction, he shook his head, waited a moment, then went after them. So he was being double-crossed, but then, he’d budgeted for that.
“Poor old Valentin,” he said softly, “what a stupid man you are.”
A river taxi moved past, festooned with colored lights, laughter drifting across the water. The old Fournier mill was eight stories high and in an advanced state of dilapidation, windows boarded up, paint peeling. It had a vaguely menacing air.
Shelley said to Egan, “I’ve been thinking. All a bit easy, know what I mean?” He turned to Agnés. “It’s just possible this little cow is playing naughty girls.”
“No, monsieur, I swear it,” Agnés told him fearfully.
“All right, I’ll take it from the rear.” Egan turned to Sarah. “If Jack’s right, it might be better if you waited here.”
“On the other hand, if I do go in,” she said, “I would think it would make whoever is in there feel more secure.”
“I told you she was a smart lady, my son. Now, on your bike.” Shelley, pushing Agnés in front of him, crossed the street to the entrance.
There was a small Judas gate set in the larger one, the kind used by workers for easy access. It opened to Agnés’s hand and he went after her, followed by Sarah.
Egan moved up the alley at the side and pulled down a counterbalanced fire ladder. He went up quickly, finding a broken window on the third level. He felt inside, sprang the catch and climbed in. Jago, from the shadows of the alley, watched him go and then followed.
Egan was in a large storeroom filled with packing cases. He crossed to the door, opened it and moved along a dusty passageway. Below, the central hall was illuminated by a single bulb. There were several motorcars down there, and a ladder climbed up to a glass office in which Valentin sat writing at a desk.
Shelley and the two women appeared in the patch of light, and at the same moment, Egan heard a whisper, a hint of a movement in the shadows of the gallery on the floor below. He turned, went down the stairs quickly and paused. Someone whispered, “Get ready, Jules.”
Agnés called, “Valentin, are you there?”
There were two men on the gallery. One of them was holding an Uzi submachine gun, the other a pump-action shotgun. Egan slipped up behind the one with the Uzi and chopped him very hard across the back of the neck. The man went down with a groan.
The other said, “Jules, are you there?”
Egan made a slight noise, but said nothing and then, when the man was close enough, kicked him in the crotch and lifted a knee in his face.
Jago, in the darkness of the landing above, but on the other side of the central hall, had observed everything. “Very good, old man,” he whispered. “Excellent technique.”
Below, Valentin came out of his office and down the steps. “And what have we here?” he demanded, tickling Agnés under the chin. “What have you been up to?”
“What we have here, you flyblown ponce,” Shelley told him, “is a number of things which I require your assistance in sorting, such as Agnés here, and a gentleman named Mr. Smith, and a young English boy calling himself George Walker who Agnés tells me she passed on to you.”
Valentin patted her face. “You’ve been a bad girl again, chérie. I’ll have to discuss that with you later.”
“The only person you discuss anything with is me,” Shelley told him. “Me and my friend here.” And he took the Smith & Wesson from his pocket.
Valentin laughed. “You have it wrong, monsieur. It is I who give the orders here, not you. My friends and I, to be more exact.” He looked up and whistled. “Jules? Charles?”
Egan appeared from the shadows and crossed the hall. “I think he means the two men he had up there with the Uzi and the shotgun. They’re taking a nap at the moment.”
Valentin turned and started up the stairs and Shelley grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him down. “Scumbag!” he snarled and put the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson to Valentin’s back. “Smith, who is he? Tell me or I’ll blow your spine out.”
“No, monsieur!” Agnés screamed. “Please don’t. He doesn’t know who Smith is. Neither of us do. We deal with Jago. Only with Jago.”
“Who’s Jago?” Egan demanded.
“The devil, monsieur. He always acts for Smith.”
And then Egan had a wild idea. “He’s very English—right? Good-looking? Scar down the side of his face?”
“That’s right, monsieur.”
Sarah said, “The man from the subway.”
“And All Hallows. It seems we’ve been well covered.” He turned to Agnés. “What happened to the boy?”
She hesitated. Shelley rammed the barrel of his gun under her chin. “Tell him or you’ll be making your excuses to Saint Peter.”
Terrified, she told the truth for once in her life. “Valentin drowned him in the Seine.”
“After drugging him? The special drug?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Sarah turned away. Egan said, “And there were others?”
She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, several.”
Shelley said, “I’ve got a good mind to scramble his brains right now,” and he turned his gun to Valentin.
“Please, monsieur, don’t harm him. If you spare him I can tell you something very interesting.”
“What’s that?” Egan asked.
“We used to have to ring a funeral firm in Kent called Hartley Brothers.”
“It was phony,” Egan said.
“I know, monsieur, but once, the answering machine was on in the background while our man spoke to us. Valentin heard it say ‘Deepdene Garden of Rest.’ ” She opened her handbag and took out a piece of paper. “See, monsieur, I wrote it down and the number.”
The weapon Jago balanced across the rail was a Colt Woodsman target pistol. It was only .22-caliber, but that was quite enough in the hands of an expert marksman. He shot Valentin in the right temple, killing him instantly.
Egan knocked Agnes down and pushed Sarah Talbot back into the shadows. Shelley fired wildly up into the darkness, crouching.
Jago said softly, “Just a little nick, old stick. Teach you your manners.” He took careful aim and shot him in the left shoulder.
Shelley lost his balance and fell back into the shadows. He put a hand inside his jacket and brought it out, covered with blood. “Jesus, Sean, I’ve been shot!” he said in wonderment.
“Out!” Egan ordered. “We’ve got what we came for.” He pulled Shelley up and pushed him toward the door. “Go on, Sarah.”
He turned and clutched at Agnes, and she pushed him away. “No, leave me.”
She crawled to Valentin and crouched over him, moaning. Egan slipped through the Judas gate and followed the others to the Citroën. Sarah had put Shelley into the back. Egan got behind the wheel and drove away.
“Where to?” he demanded.
“Dupont’s place,” Shelley told him. “I need patching. Then we get our arses up to Charles de Gaulle and back to London.” He winced. “Christ, it hurts.”
“It always does,” Egan told him.
Sarah said, “Do you think it was this man Jago?”
“It could be,” Egan said. “I’ll get Alan Crowther to do some checking when we get back. I’d really like to know who the gentleman is.”
There were steps approaching across the floor and Agnés looked up to see Jago appear, the Colt in his right hand, at his side.
“You killed him,” she said.
“Never mind that. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie, sweetie. I heard Egan say, ‘We’ve got what we came for.’ ” He shook his head. “Now don’t be stupid.”
She said, “It wasn’t me, it was Valentin. When he spoke to the man at Hartley Brothers he heard one of those message tapes in the background. It said it was Deepdene Garden of Rest.”
“And you told them?”
She nodded. “I thought he was going to kill Valentin.” She looked up at him. “Instead, you did.”
“Yes, well, that’s how it goes. You shouldn’t have joined.” He started to walk away and paused. “I was forgetting.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
As she looked up, he shot her twice in the heart. She fell back across Valentin. Jago slipped the Woodsman into his Burberry pocket.
“Poor silly little bitch,” he said, turned and stepped out through the Judas gate.
The doctor Dupont had summoned cut away Shelley’s bloodstained shirt and did what he could. Finally he shook his head. “To retrieve the bullet would require an operating theater, monsieur.”
“No way. You patch me up and give me another injection for the pain. Surgery can wait until I get to London. I know a good doctor. An Indian named Aziz. Has a clinic for posh alcoholics in Bell Street. He’ll handle this for me.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Shelley?” Sarah asked.
“All I want to do is get back to London, girl.” He grinned. “Never liked frog doctors. They give you the pills up your backside. Now find me a clean shirt and jacket, Pierre, and get us out of here.”
