Anything Considered (6 page)

“Luckily, it hasn’t come to that yet. But you do need to lay a fairly conspicuous trail—restaurant bills, parking tickets, receipts from service stations, dry cleaners, wine merchants, that kind of thing—and you need to run up a healthy phone bill. You know how the French authorities love phone bills. In other words, you need to establish a permanent paper presence.”

“Ah,” said Bennett.

“I see the penny’s dropped.”

“I think so. You want me to be you.”

“On paper. For the next six months, and then we’ll see how we go from there. I’ll pay you in cash every month, which will avoid any tax problems for you. Of course, you’ll live in my apartment in Monaco. You’ll drive my car, set up accounts in my name with the local tradesmen and two or three restaurants, sign for everything. I’ll give you a specimen signature. You’ll find it’s easier to fake if you turn it upside down. You’ll get the hang of it in a few
hours.” Poe grinned at Bennett and spread his hands wide. “Not too taxing, is it? I think that’s the appropriate word.”

Bennett finished his brandy, resisted the temptation to have another one, and tried to conceal his excitement at the prospect of being paid to live like a millionaire. Of course it was a scam, but it was a scam with a deserving victim.

Poe sabotaged Bennett’s good intentions by pouring another tot of brandy into his glass. “How does that appeal to you? Questions? Reservations?”

“Well, I must admit there are one or two. I mean, you’ve only just met me, and here you are making me an accomplice in a tax dodge.”

“Does that bother you? You said yourself that everybody cheats. Is this really going to affect anyone except you and me? Will France collapse? Will old pensioners be thrown out of their homes? Will hospitals close down? Will there be nationwide suffering, and a run on the franc? Will the president of the Republic have to give up his four-course lunches at Lipp, or wherever he goes nowadays?”

“No,” said Bennett. “Put like that, I suppose not.”

“So if we assume that our social conscience is clear, what else should we worry about? The risk of discovery?”

“There’s always that chance.”

“Minimal,” said Poe. “Unless, of course, one of us is indiscreet.” An eyebrow went up, and he smiled. “I can promise you it won’t be me.”

“But supposing—just supposing, only a hypothetical possibility in a situation like this—
I
turned out to be less than discreet. In fact”—Bennett was by now made bold by brandy—“supposing I did the six months and then … well, screwed you. Blackmailed you, or something. How could you trust me not to do that?”

Poe sighed, as if explaining a simple concept to a dense child. “Business dealings should never be dependent on trust, as I’m afraid you learned with your friend Brynford-Smith.” He looked at Bennett for a moment, letting the thought sink in. “I know we’re talking hypothetically, so you mustn’t take this personally. But if you were to do anything … embarrassing, I would deny ever having met you, and sue you for forgery, theft, and criminal impersonation. It would be tedious for me, but much worse for you. My lawyers are not kindly people, and French prisons are extremely disagreeable. Or so I’m told.”

Bennett blinked. “I could skip the country.”

“And I could find you. Or rather, Shimo could find you. He’s a very resourceful man.”

Bennett had a sudden mental picture of what the noiseless Japanese would do to him, and it wouldn’t be to give him a glass of champagne. He looked at Poe’s amiable, relaxed expression. The man had a friendly, understated way of imparting a threat that Bennett found infinitely more believable than bluster.

Poe laughed, and came across to clap Bennett on the shoulder. “But let’s not spoil a pleasant evening. This can
be our little secret, an arrangement of mutual convenience. Think about it. You will spend the summer in great comfort, with money in your pocket; I shall stay here, which is where I want to be. The only one to suffer will be the taxman, and I feel we’ve both been more than generous to him in the past.” Poe took a final puff of his cigar and tossed the butt into the fire. “And who knows? I might be able to help you find your vanishing sailor friend. I know a few people in the Caribbean.”

Bennett could see himself in Monaco—solvent, well fed, with time on his hands to work out the rest of his life. What were the alternatives? An office job, if he could find one. Driving a Saudi prince up and down the Croisette. Or another summer of living from hand to mouth in the Lubéron. Shit. Wasn’t this the kind of chance he’d hoped for when he ran the ad? Why not take it? Why not live soft for a change?

He looked up at Poe. “OK. I’ll do it.”

“I’m delighted.” Another clap on the shoulder. “Leave your address, and I’ll send Shimo round in the morning with the details.” Poe stretched and yawned. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I need my eight hours.”

They walked out into the quiet chill of the night, the vast blackness of the sky pricked with stars. Bennett glanced back from his car and saw Poe’s figure framed in the lighted doorway, one hand raised in farewell. He drove out of the courtyard, and the great gates slid shut behind him. From start to finish, it had been a perfectly orchestrated evening, as all evenings were, Bennett imagined,
chez
Poe.

——

Shimo parked the big Citroën in the village square and walked up the street, his exotic appearance and formal black suit attracting undisguised stares from a group of women chatting outside the épicerie. They stopped talking as they watched to see where he was going, and nodded to each other when he turned up the alley that led to Bennett’s house. Later, they would ask Georgette what business such a visitor had with her Englishman. Shimo paid them no attention. He was used to being stared at in that impolite, gaijin way.

He knocked at the door. Bennett opened it, and the two men exchanged solemn inclinations of the head.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Bennett.”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Shimo.”

“Bonjour, bonjour.”
Georgette appeared from the kitchen, eyes bright with curiosity under the peak of her cap.
“Alors, un petit café?”
She returned to the kitchen and turned off the radio, the better to eavesdrop. Bennett scratched his head, while Shimo looked at him impassively. To have Georgette as an unofficial member of the meeting, and subsequent reporter to her friends in the village, would give the proceedings the secrecy of a news broadcast. Going down to the café would be almost as bad. Bennett decided to change languages.

“I seem to remember you speak English.”

The faintest shadow of a smile. “Of course. I speak all the European languages.”

Bennett grinned with relief. “We’ll speak English, then.” He nodded back toward the kitchen. “She can’t understand a word. Let’s sit over here.”

“You may wish to make notes,” Shimo said. “And before we start, I must ask you to give me the letter you received from our mutual friend.”

Bennett went to fetch a notepad and Poe’s letter, as Georgette came in with coffee, tried to engage Shimo in conversation, and retired in a huff when he thanked her in English.

“There you are.” Bennett slid the blue envelope across the table. Shimo checked that the letter was inside before putting it in his pocket, lit a cigarette, and began to speak in a low monotone.

“The address is the Residence Grimaldi, Avenue de Monte Carlo, just off the Place du Casino. The top two floors. The car is a dark-blue Mercedes 380 SL, with Monegasque plates. It was serviced last week. You’ll find it in the underground garage. There’s a spare place next to it for your car. Accounts have been opened at three restaurants—the Coupole, the Louis XV, and the Roger Vergé Café. Sign for your meals. When you receive the bills at the end of the month, call me with the amounts. Checks will be sent to you, which you will then mail from the Monaco post office. The same system with the phone and electricity bills, and with parking tickets. Be sure to get three or four of those a month. Are you clear so far?”

Bennett looked up from his scribbling. “It doesn’t
sound too arduous. Tell me, does anyone come into the apartment to clean?”

Shimo stubbed out his cigarette. “The
previous femme de ménage
has been sent back to the Philippines. You will hire another one.” He made a slight motion of his head toward the kitchen. “Not her. Pay in cash.”

“Ah,” said Bennett. “That’s the other thing I was going to ask you. I’m a little short at the moment. Bills to pay here …”

Shimo held up his hand, and Bennett noticed for the first time the pronounced bulge of the knuckles of his index and second fingers, and the ridge of hardened skin that ran like a carapace down the side of his palm. So useful for breaking bricks, or necks. “Twenty thousand francs will be delivered to the apartment on the fifteenth of every month.” He took a plain brown envelope from his pocket. “Here is the first payment. The keys to the car and the apartment are also in there, and our friend’s signature. I will call you in Monaco at eight tomorrow night to make sure you’ve settled in without any problems.” He looked at his watch. “Any questions?”

Bennett studied his notes for a moment, then shook his head. “No. It seems pretty straightforward.”

Shimo stood up, and Bennett followed him to the door. The Japanese turned and bowed. “I wish you a pleasant stay in Monaco.” He managed to make it sound like an order.

Coming back to the living room, Bennett found the inquisitor in the baseball cap, her feathers still ruffled,
putting the coffee cups on a tray and looking with disapproval at the mashed remains of Shimo’s cigarette. “So,” she said. “A Japanese. No doubt you had business with him.”

Bennett thought for a second. “As a matter of fact, Georgette, I’m thinking of buying a car. A Toyota. Very good cars, Toyotas. Very reliable.”

“But not cheap.” Georgette cocked her head, waiting for further information.

Bennett took a deep breath. “Absolutely. But I’ll be doing this job for the next few months, a lot of traveling. In fact, I’ve got to leave tomorrow.” He saw Georgette’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll see that you get your money.”

“And who will take care of your clothes? Who will scrub and darn? Who will treat your shirts like babies? Eh?”

“Don’t you worry about that, either. I’ll be staying in hotels.”

Georgette blew an expressive gust of air through pursed lips. “Those barbarians. They use starch like jam. This I have been told.”

——

That evening, while Bennett was preparing for his extended absence, Georgette went into the Café Crillon for her daily dose of pastis and gossip. Monsieur Papin, as usual, was recovering at the bar from an exhausting day of
petty extortion and steaming open envelopes. Three of the village ladies had already told him about the foreigner who had paid a call on Bennett—most unusual, a
Japonais
in a suit—and he sidled up to stand beside Georgette, ready to gather intelligence.

“Et alors, ma belle
,
”
he whispered confidentially, as though he were proposing an assignation behind the café. “You had a visitation today?”

Georgette, not wishing to admit she knew nothing of what had been discussed, and particularly not to Papin, whom she detested, took her time before giving him a knowing, sideways look. “None of your business. Certain things are private.” She took a deep swallow of pastis, and shuddered with pleasure as it went down.

“The Japanese had a very important car.
Une grosse
Citroën. And a suit. He was obviously a serious man. A friend of Monsieur Bennett’s, perhaps?”

“Papin, this I will tell you, and no more. Monsieur Bennett is leaving the village tomorrow, for certain reasons. I am not permitted to say what they are.”

Papin nodded, and tapped the side of his nose. “He will want his letters forwarded.”

“Yes,” said Georgette. “To me. Unopened, if possible.” She emptied her glass, banged it on the bar, and left the café in a mood of considerable satisfaction. That little
salaud
, trying to poke his nose in her affairs. Well, not exactly her affairs, but almost.

GEORGETTE had insisted on taking charge of Bennett’s packing, putting each shoe in a separate plastic bag, swathing his shirts in tissue paper, arranging socks and underwear and ties just so, all the while muttering about the brutal incompetence of commercial laundries and the ever-present danger of voracious moths in strange, and doubtless poorly cleaned, hotel closets. Bennett wished he could take her with him. She had never been farther from the village than Avignon, an hour’s drive away, and a duplex in Monaco would seem like a different world to her.

“I’m going to miss you, Georgette.”

“Pouf.”

“No, really. But I’ll keep in touch. I’m sure I’ll get back from time to time.”

Georgette sniffed, smoothed a final layer of tissue paper over a trio of sweaters folded shoulder-to-shoulder, and closed the scuffed leather suitcase with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Voilà.”

Bennett checked his jacket pockets, feeling the reassuring
swell of cash. Keys. Passport, just in case. He was ready to go.

“Well,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

“And if someone should ask for you? What shall I tell them?”

“Say I’m traveling.” He picked up the suitcase. “I’ll send you a postcard. Lots of postcards.”

Georgette abandoned any further attempts to pry information from Bennett, sniffed again, and patted him roughly on the arm. “Remember to change your socks.”

——

Bennett kept his little car at a steady seventy-five on the autoroute, pulling over to let the BMWs and Mercedes hurtle past, with disdainful snorts from their exhaust pipes. Even this early in the season, cars with German and Swiss plates were plentiful, their drivers impatient to reach the sun after a long northern winter. A week, two weeks, and then they’d rush back, skins lightly toasted, to their Munich offices or their Geneva clinics, and start making plans to do it all over again in August. Bennett was beginning to appreciate the luxury of his own situation, and felt any misgivings about his decision to work for Poe melt away in the face of six months of paid sunshine. What had Poe called it?
A harmless deception. The only one to suffer will be the taxman
. It was a seductive argument, and to Bennett it was no worse a crime than many of the creative financial adjustments practiced every day by big corporations
in the sacred cause of increased dividends and satisfied shareholders.