Dog Will Have His Day (2 page)

‘See that guy?’ Marthe said. ‘Should have seen him thirty years ago. I won’t tell you his name, I don’t do that.’

‘I know who he is,’ Louis said, with a smile.

‘Hey, Ludwig, I hope you haven’t been poking your nose into my address book. You know I respect professional secrecy.’

‘And I hope you’re just
saying
that, but you don’t mean it.’

‘No, I don’t mean it.’

‘All the same, Marthe, your address book could be very interesting for someone less scrupulous than me. You ought to destroy it, I’ve told you that a hundred times.’

‘Too many memories. All the high and mighty who used to come knocking at my door. Just think –’

‘Destroy it, I’m telling you. It’s dangerous.’

‘Get along with you! All those famous names, they’re old now. Who’d be interested in a lot of has-beens?’

‘Plenty of people. And it isn’t just a list of names, is it, Marthe, you have your little comments, don’t you?’

‘And you don’t have some little comments written down somewhere yourself, Ludwig?’

‘Marthe, keep your voice down, we’re not out in the country.’ Marthe had always spoken too loudly.

‘Eh? Little notebooks? Reports? Souvenirs of cases? You’ve thrown them out, have you, since you got the sack? You
did
get the sack, didn’t you, is that official?’

‘Apparently. But I’ve kept a few contacts. They’ll have a job to get me out entirely. See, take a fly for instance.’

‘If you like, but look, I’m dead beat. Can you just tell me, what’s that damn river in Russia, keeps coming up in crosswords, two letters, know what that is?’

‘The Ob, Marthe, I’ve told you that a hundred times too.’

Kehlweiler dropped Marthe off at her place, listened as she climbed the stairs, and then went into a cafe on the avenue. It was almost one in the morning, and there weren’t many customers. A few nighthawks like himself. He knew them all. He had a thirsty memory for names and faces, perpetually unsatisfied and eager for more. Which had been a cause of some anxiety in the Ministry.

Just a beer, and then he wouldn’t worry his head any more about Sonia. He could have told her about his grand army too, about the hundred or so men and women on whom he could count, a representative in every
département
of France and a score in Paris, you can’t do everything yourself in the bomb disposal business. Sonia might have stayed then, perhaps. Oh, let it go.

Anyway, back to the fly. This fly comes into the house and it’s irritating everyone. Beating its wings, hundreds of times per second. A persistent little creature, a fly, but really annoying. It buzzes everywhere, walks on the ceiling, no special equipment needed, goes places it shouldn’t, and in particular it zooms in on every single spot of honey lying around. Public enemy number one. Exactly like him. He used to find honey in places people thought they’d cleaned up so well no trace would remain. Honey – or shit, of course, because to a fly it’s all the same. And what’s the dumb reaction? Shoo the fly outside. Big mistake. Because what’ll the fly do, once it’s outside?

Louis Kehlweiler paid for his beer, said goodnight to everyone and left the bar. He didn’t want to go home. He’d go and sit on bench 102. When he’d started this, he’d had four benches, and now there were 137, plus sixty-four trees. What with the benches and the chestnut trees, he’d picked up masses of stuff. He could have told her about that too; he’d resisted. And now it was pouring with rain.

So, what’ll the fly do, once it’s outside? It bombs around for a few minutes, naturally, then it copulates. Then it lays eggs. Now there are thousands of little flies growing up, bombing about and copulating in turn. So there’s nothing more illogical than getting rid of a fly by shooing it out of doors. It just multiplies the fly, to the power of x. You should let it stay inside, doing its fly-type things, and have patience, until age catches up with it and it gets tired. Whereas a fly outside is dangerous, a real menace. And those cretins had shooed him outdoors. As if, once he was there, he’d give up. But no. It would be worse. And obviously they couldn’t swat him with a tea cloth like you can a fly.

The rain was torrential as Kehlweiler came within sight of bench 102. It was a good lookout post, opposite the home of the nephew of a notably discreet politician. Kehlweiler knew how to look like a tramp, it came naturally to him, and people weren’t suspicious of a large man, if he was lolling on a bench. Not even when the large man slowly started to shadow someone.

He stopped and pulled a face. A dog had made a mess on his territory. Right there, on the metal grid round the base of a plane tree, alongside the bench. Louis Kehlweiler didn’t like his lookout posts to be fouled up. He almost turned on his heel. But the world was full of horrors and bloodshed, he wasn’t going to give up just because some passing dog had dumped its wretched excrement there.

At midday, everything had been OK, he had eaten his lunch sitting on this selfsame bench: the surroundings were perfectly clean. And tonight, a woman had walked out on him, a pathetic note had been left on the bed, he’d only managed a moderate score on the pinball machine, and his territory had been crapped on, a vague despair was setting in.

Too much beer this evening, perhaps that was true, he wasn’t going to claim the contrary. And there was nobody on the streets, with this drenching rain coming down, which would at least wash the pavements, the metal grid and lookout post 102. It might wash his troubles out of his head as well. If Vincent had been correct, the politician’s nephew had been receiving at his house an obscure person who interested Louis. He wanted to take a look. But this evening, there was no light in the windows, no sign of life.

He sheltered himself with his jacket, and wrote a few lines in his notebook. Marthe really ought to get rid of
her
book. It would be doing her a favour to take it away from her by force. Marthe, although you wouldn’t think it now, had once been the most beautiful taxi girl on the Left Bank, according to what he’d been told. Kehlweiler glanced at the grid again. He wanted to go home. Not that he was giving up, but this was enough for tonight. He was sleepy. Of course, he
could
say he’d be there tomorrow morning at dawn. People were always telling him how beautiful the dawn was, but Kehlweiler liked his sleep. And when he was sleepy, there were very few pressures that could prevail against it. Sometimes, even if the world was full of horrors and bloodshed, he was still sleepy. That was how it was, he was neither proud nor ashamed of it, although, well, that wasn’t quite true, he couldn’t help it, indeed it had got him into quite a lot of trouble, and even some massive failures. He had paid a price for his beauty sleep. The future belongs to those who get up early, he’d been told. Stupid, because the future is also watched over by those who get up late. He could be back here by eleven in the morning.

KILLING LIKE THAT,
not many people could have done it. Watch
out, though. Now’s the time when it’s important to be clever, precise, excellent indeed, for the next stage of the operation. The secret is to be discreet while being excellent. You wouldn’t believe how pathetic people can be. Georges is a good example, well, I say Georges, there are others. Still, what a waste of space!

But as I say, just an example.

Careful, don’t smile more than usual, practise, pay attention to detail. The method worked fine before, all you have to do is apply it strictly. Relax the jaw, let your cheeks go slack, eyes blank. Perfect detachment from ordinary life, under cover of being normal but a bit tired. Not so easy when you’re feeling pleased with yourself. And last night, it was more than feeling pleased, it was close to ecstasy – and quite right too. Pity not to be able to enjoy it, don’t get that many chances. But no, absolutely not, not that stupid. When some halfwit’s in love, you can tell at once, and when a murderer is satisfied, you can see it from their body language. Next day the police notice, and it’s all over. To kill, you’ve got to be the opposite of a halfwit, that’s the secret. Training, attention to detail, discipline, and people won’t notice a thing. You’ll get the right to celebrate, take advantage of it later, but a year from now, and discreetly.

You’ve just got to cultivate detachment, hide the pleasure. Killing someone like that, on the rocks, quick as a flash, no witnesses, how many people could have done that? The old woman never knew what hit her. Excellent in its simplicity. People will tell you murderers want everyone to know that it’s them. ‘They can’t help making themselves known, that’s how they get their kicks.’ And it’s supposed to make them feel worse, if someone else gets arrested instead of them, an old trick to tempt them out of their hole. ‘They can’t bear anyone else to steal the credit for their murder.’ That’s what people say! Bollocks! Maybe there are some pathetic losers like that. But not this one, oh no, not that stupid. You could arrest twenty other people, and it wouldn’t make this one lift an eyebrow. That’s the secret. But they won’t arrest anybody, they won’t even think it was a murder!

Feel the need to smile, enjoy the benefit? Yes, quite legitimate. But no, stop, absolutely not! Be clever. Relax the jaw, look calm. That’s the long and short of it. Think about the sea, for instance. One wave, another wave, tide comes in, goes out, and so on. Very soothing the sea, very regular. Much better than counting sheep to relax, that’s just for morons without a thought in their heads. Sheep number one, OK, jumps the gate and goes off to the left of your head. And where does the stupid creature go? Just hides in the left of your head, above your ear. And by the time the second sheep comes along, the game’s spoilt because there’s less room for it. You soon get the sheep piling up on the left of the gate, the later ones can’t jump it at all and the whole herd crashes, bleating away, might as well slaughter the lot to start with. The sea’s much better. In and out, never stops and all for nothing. Bloody stupid, the sea, actually. In the end, the sea’s irritating too, because it’s huge but useless. Pulled in and out by the moon, can’t even make its own mind up. Best of all would be to think about the murder. Just going back over it again in your head makes you laugh, and laughing’s good for everything. But no, not so stupid, big effort to forget, don’t think about the murder.

Work it out. They’ll start looking for the old woman tomorrow. By the time they find her body on the rocks, where nobody goes in November, that will probably give another day, perhaps two. By then they won’t be able to fix the time of death with any certainty. What with the wind, the rain, the tide coming in, not to mention the seagulls: perfect. Still smiling? Just don’t! And stop your hands clenching and unclenching, always that way after a murder. Murder’s got to come out through the fingers for, oh, about five or six weeks. So relax the hands too, as well as the jaw, no detail uncontrolled, discipline in all things. All those pathetic half-witted killers who give themselves away by nerves, tics, looking too pleased with themselves, being exhibitionist or too nonchalant, just weaklings, not even capable of self-control. Not so stupid. When they tell you about it, seem interested, even concerned. Let your arms swing naturally when you walk, act calmly. Let’s work it out. The gendarmes will start looking tomorrow, and volunteers will help them. Join the volunteers. No, not so stupid. Murderers join the volunteers all too often! Everyone knows that, even the most bone-headed gendarme knows that, they make lists of the volunteers.

Work hard at being excellent. Work as normal, smile as normal, keep your hands relaxed and ask what’s the news, that’s all. Correct that clenching of the fingers, it’s no time to get uncontrolled spasms, no, no, no, and anyway not your style, certainly not. Keep a watch on lips and hands, that’s the secret. Hands in pockets, or fold your arms, loosely. But not more than normal.

Watch what’s going on, watch other people, but look normal, not like those murderers who imagine every little thing is about them. But pay attention to little things all the same. Every precaution was taken, but there are always nosy parkers to reckon with. Always. Be aware that some damn nosy parker might have noticed something. Be prepared, that’s the secret. If someone takes it into their head to poke their nose into this business, they’ve had it. The fewer pathetic losers there are on this earth, the better it would be. Finito. Like the others. Think about that now.

LOUIS KEHLWEILER SAT
down on bench 102 at eleven in the morning.

Vincent was already there, leafing through a newspaper.

‘Nothing better to do today?’ Louis asked him.

‘Couple of articles on the way. If anything happens in
there
,’ Vincent said, without looking up at the building opposite, ‘can you let me report on it?’

‘Of course. But keep me posted.’

‘Of course.’

Kehlweiler took a book and some paper from a plastic carrier bag. The weather hadn’t been warm this autumn, and it was hard to find a comfortable position to work on the bench, still damp from the overnight rain.

‘What are you translating?’ Vincent asked.

‘Book on the Third Reich.’

‘Which way?’

‘German to French.’

‘That pay well?’

‘Not too bad. Will it bother you if I put Bufo on the bench?’

‘No, go ahead,’ said Vincent.

‘But don’t disturb him, he’s asleep.’

‘I’m not daft enough to start a conversation with a toad.’

‘People say that and then they do.’

‘You talk to him much yourself?’

‘All the time. Bufo knows everything, he’s a safe-deposit box, a living scandal. Tell me, have you seen anyone come to this bench this morning?’

‘Are you talking to me or your toad?’

‘My toad wasn’t here before me. So I’m talking to you.’

‘Right. No, haven’t seen anyone round here at all. Well, not since seven thirty. Except old Marthe, we exchanged a word or two, and she went off again.’