The Other Side of Silence

I went to the front desk, where a man with a pimp mustache and a blue bow tie was reading the latest on the Tour de France in L’Equipe, although his girth told me it had been a long time since he’d ridden a racing bicycle. We knew each other. His name was Henri and, according to Spinola, he’d been in the Resistance, which was an organization that seemed to be growing all the time. Certainly it was twice the size it had ever been throughout the war.

“That’s the newspaper that believed Captain Dreyfus was guilty of selling us secrets, isn’t it?” I said.

Henri shrugged. “These days, there’s no politics in it. Just cycling.”

“In France? That is politics.”

“You know, sometimes you are very French, for a German.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. So is there another German here? Monsieur Hebel?”

“He’s in room 28,” said Henri. “Second floor. You’re to go straight up, Monsieur Wolf.”

I nodded. “You know Robin Maugham, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“How well does he know Monsieur Hebel?”

“Well enough to have a drink with him.”

“Once? Or more than once?”

“More than once, I should say.”

I paused for a moment, wondering if I should tell him about Spinola, and then rejected the idea. I wasn’t in the mood to field a lot of questions to which I had no answers. All I wanted was to get the negative and the photographs and then leave without any complications.

“I suppose you heard about poor Spinola?” he said.

“Yes. The cops came to see me at the Grand, asking about our game tomorrow night.”

“He was a nice man and a good customer. I’ll miss him.”

“Me, too. How did you hear?”

“I have a friend in Marechal Foch.”

The Avenue Marechal Foch was where the Nice Commissariat of Police was headquartered.

“He’s an inspector in the Police Judiciaire. He seems to think there was a woman involved.”

“According to all your best writers, there usually is. But did he say why?”

“No. Only this and the fact that he was shot. With a small-caliber pistol.”

“Maybe that’s what makes them think it was a woman. The small-caliber pistol, I suppose.”

“Monsieur, small or large, it makes little difference when the bullet goes straight through your heart. There was almost five liters of blood on the floor where they found him.” Henri shrugged in that Gallic way, which is as eloquent as anything ever written by Voltaire or Montaigne. “I suppose that this is the end of your weekly bridge games with Mr. and Mrs. Rose. Pity. I shall miss you all.”

I shrugged. “You know, Henri, there’s an unwritten rule in bridge that when your partner gets killed you’re supposed to try and find out who did it.”

“Sounds more like the Mafia.”

“It just makes it easier to replace a partner if you can find out why the previous one was killed. No one likes to take the seat of someone who’s been shot.”

“I can imagine.”

“What I’m saying is that if your friend in the PJ finds out any more about what happened to Spinola, then I’d like to know about it. You know? For old times’ sake. Italy and Germany. The Axis.”

“And perhaps to even the score?”

“That was yesterday. Today, I’d just like to help, if I can. But to help, I need more information.”

He nodded. “This I can understand. Sure. I’ll ask him.”

“Discreetly. I wouldn’t like his answers to turn into awkward questions for you or me, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Of course. And you can trust me. During the war we used to say that deliberation is the work of many, but action of one man alone.”

“It’s been a while since I saw myself in that light. But I am qualified in one respect. I am a man alone.”

THIRTEEN

I took the stairs and walked along the thickly carpeted hall to room 28, where I knocked and waited patiently, although anyone observing the scene might have thought differently because of the gun I was holding in my hand-Hebel’s gun. It was pointed straight at the door handle, a last-minute decision that was calculated to try and put an end to the blackmail right then and there.

The smile he was wearing as he opened up flickered for a moment as he backed away with his hands rising slowly behind his neatly combed head.

“No need for guns. What is this?”

“It’s your gun. That’s what this is.” I kicked the room door shut behind me and tossed the Pan Am flight bag on the bed. “I thought you might recognize it.”

“My gun?”

“Yes. It was in your drawer next to the note for me.”

“Did you read it?”

“No. There’s nothing you have to say that’s of any interest to me.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. This is not what you think, at all. I intend to search your room and make sure that I get the negative and all the prints-not to mention any other items you might be saving so you can squeeze the lemon again. That’s just good business.” I pointed the hole in the end of the gun at the carpet. “On your knees. It’s been a while since I shot anyone just to wound them and I certainly wouldn’t like to answer for the present state of my marksmanship, so you’d better not try anything.”

Hebel knelt down at the edge of the bed and started to relax a little.