Chapter 8

A day of hanging around the dirty little bars of La Chapelle and the surrounding area had brought only a thin slip of information to Detective-Inspector Raimond. Dressed in his blues, he listened to Arabs chatting, had sometimes chatted with them himself in French, assuming a broad, lower-Parisian accent.

Nobody had recognized him as a flic. He was able to gauge all reactions to himself by simply listening to the remarks in Arabic which interspersed any conversation he had with any Algerians, none of whom assumed that he could understand.

It was simply by standing at an almost empty bar listening that he got the little scrap of information he now intended to use for what it was worth. And, certainly, the assassination of the superintendent in what one would have thought of as impossible circumstances enlarged the value of any bit of information which might give the slightest lead.

He was walking casually along the centre pavement which divided the dual carriageway. He was looking for the next hotel and appearing not to. Already he had called at four and each time had drawn a blank. There had been no Ahmed ben Lulla and nobody had heard of him and nobody sounded as if they'd admit it even if they had, harmless though the inspector looked in his workingman's clothes.

It was an hour ago that he'd picked up the name. There had been just himself and two Arabs standing at the comptoir with the patron away in a backroom for most of the time.

He had listened to them quietly discussing the latest political moves in the French political switchback and then his ears had spread wide when he heard mention of somebody who had almost refused to pay his "contribution" but had changed his mind at the last minute.

With quiet, expressive gestures one of the men had explained to the other what his nodding acquaintance, Ahmed ben Lulla, had narrowly missed becoming-a corpse in a back street.

Pierre Raimond had made up his mind immediately that this would be followed up. Vainly he listened for information on the whereabouts of the Algerian whose name he'd heard mentioned, but all he'd been able to gather was that it was in a side street off the main boulevard that his hotel was located.

He was tired of this area; almost beginning to feel that he was one of the lonely, helpless, misfit Arabs who lived here. He wanted some action and he was determined to wring whatever he possibly could from this tiny and perhaps dead-end clue.

He crossed the road, dodging the fast-moving traffic and headed into the next side-street. like most of the others he'd been in it gave an impression of movement just under a dark facade-rather like the sensed movement of fish in murky water. There were prostitutes in doorways who whispered invitations at him as he passed-each trying to outdo the last in offers of what exquisite or peculiar pleasures were in store for him if he cared to entrust himself to her imagination.

He tried the first two grimy hotels without any luck. He could sense the inevitable repetition. The street was full of uneven doorways leading blackly off the pavement, with battered signs swaying over some, nothing but a street number over others.

The third one was even grimier than the others. There were two whores sitting on the stairway and they both looked at him in startled expectancy and one of them got up and smoothed her sweater over her breasts.

He looked in at the office, which was less an office than a dismal little room where the hotel manager lived and hung his dirty clothes in a pile over a clotheshorse and stacked his dirty plates on a table as if he were never going to wash them up but just wait until the room was full and then move out.

The prostitute reached him as he knocked on the door and invited him upstairs, catching hold of his hand in encouragement.

"I just want to see someone here," he said, grinning pleasantly, "that's all."

"I'm the only person worth seeing here," she said and placed his hand on her big breast as if that proved what she said.

Raimond removed his hand after giving her teat an appreciative squeeze.

"I really only want to see this fellow," he said. "Some other time."

He knocked on the door again. There didn't seem to be anyone at home. The girl beside him moved back a pace and pulled her skirt up to the tops of her thighs to show him how beautiful her legs were. They weren't bad at all.

"Isn't anyone ever here?" he asked.

"He went out an hour ago," the girl said. "He's in the bar down the street."

She put her hand down between the inspector's legs and felt for his penis, pressing her thigh against him.

"You can have anything you want for a thousand francs, " she said. "All my openings are available."

"Is there anyone called Ahmed ben Lulla here?" he asked.

She gave his prick, which responded a little even if he was on business, a hearty squeeze and thrust her breasts into his chest.

"He won't go away," she said. "You'll have time to see him after. I'll give you a quick suck for 500 francs."

"He lives here, then," Raimond said, trying to keep the quick interest out of his voice. "Which room is he in?"

"How would I know," she said. "He's too poor to invite me in. You needn't go afterwards-I'll let you have an hour for a thousand francs. You could make it three times in that."

"You tell me which room he's in and I'll give you 500 francs just for the information," he said.

She looked at him suspiciously.

"Let me see the money," she said.

"I'm in a hurry to find him," he said, "otherwise I wouldn't be throwing away tomorrow's dinner money."

He pulled out a note from a suitably battered purse and held it towards her.

"It's room 38 on the fourth," she said. "You must want to see him bad."

She took the money and smiled up at him suddenly, as if she had only just believed he was really going to give it to her.

She patted him on the bottom as he walked past her.

"If you want to see me on the way down," she said. "You've got 500 francs credit."

The other whore made way for him on the stairs. She was wearing a blouse with nothing underneath and she'd undone enough buttons for the whole of her left breast to show. She thrust it towards him.

"If she hasn't got what you want-I have," she said.

He patted her on the bottom to even up the pattings and felt her little animal buttocks bridle against his hand and then he was going up the stairs two at a time. He heard them laughing down below him.

Ahmed ben Lulla had not yet made up his mind what to do when the second knock of the night sounded on his door. He stiffened, like a dog seeing some phantom thing in an empty room. Nervously his mind ticked over. He hadn't yet been out. He could have done nothing to offend them. Had they had second thoughts?

He moved up close to the door and listened. Then he said unsteadily :

"Who's there?"

"A friend," said a voice in French. "Who are you?"

There was a second's silence and then the voice said:

"I can help you if you let me speak to you."

Again Ahmed's mind raced. If it was the NLF, he reasoned, there was no escaping them and he would merely antagonize them by being difficult.

He opened the door a little and saw a big lorry driver. It looked like a lorry driver. He opened the door farther.

"What do you want?"

The man pushed open the door and came into the room past him.

"Shut the door," he said, with an air of command which Ahmed mechanically obeyed.

The man sat down on the bed and looked at Ahmed pleasantly. He seemed completely at ease and his face was frank and determined. Ahmed felt relieved but wary.

"Who are you?" he said.

"How much do you pay the NLF?" his visitor countered.

Ahmed scrutinized him carefully and said nothing.

"I know you pay and I know you recently were unable to," the man went on. "I can help you if you help me."

"A flic," Ahmed said, as if to himself.

"I know how you're forced to pay," the man went on. "You have nothing to fear; you have only help to gain."

Ahmed sat on the bed and looked at his unexpected visitor. Various ideas were turning over in confusion in his head. If the man was a flic, as he was, he could get tough and Ahmed would have no recourse to the forces of law and order. Here was the force of law and order. At least here was the force. But could no dare to give any information. Who had seen this fellow come into the hotel? And what information had he to give, except perhaps a description or two? It was true that a description could be all-important.

"I know nothing," he said.

"You could give me any information about these men who collect the money from you-what they look like, when they come."

"It's more than my life is worth."

"If you give me information that leads to my getting hold of these men, you can be sure of police protection."

"Police protection," Ahmed said, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "For how long, against what reprisals." He pointed to the newspaper. "You saw what happened to the police superintendent. Nobody is safe."

Pierre Raimond looked down at his hands and then up into the eyes of the young Algerian.

"What sort of life do you have?" he asked. "Work?"

Ahmed shook his head.

"And you hand over money to these fanatics? That means you don't eat, you don't drink, you don't go to a cinema, you're in arrears with your hotel money. What sort of life is that?"

Ahmed shook his head again.

"It is nothing-but it is life," he said. "It is not death, which is the alternative if you refuse to pay or if you inform. There's no ... "

There was a light tap on the door and Ahmed stood up as if someone had jabbed him with a needle. He looked at the policeman on his bed in horror.

"They saw you come!" he whispered.

Pierre Raimond went to the door, motioned Ahmed back and, standing to one side, called: "Who's there?"

A woman's voice answered.

"If you think it's a joke climbing all these flights of stairs and me with bad legs and no money to see the doctor and willing to do a kindness even if it does waste my time and put me out and make my heart bad, as if it isn't weak enough already ... "

Gently Raimond opened the door. An old woman stood outside. She was carrying a tray of violets and she was red-faced and puffing so much that it was amazing that she could talk at the same time.

"What do you want here?" Ahmed asked from behind Raimond.

"Which of you gentlemen is Monsieur Ahmed ben

Lulla?" the old woman asked, peering shortsightedly at them.

Ahmed moved forward in front of Raimond. "I am," he said.

The old woman reached into a tattered pocked and fished out a small envelope with no name on it.

"Young lady stopped me in the street, gave me this for you," she said. .

Ahmed took the envelope. Raimond watched him open it, read it once quickly, pale and read it again more slowly.

"Where was she?" Ahmed said.

"Right near the mitro at Anvers," the old woman said. "Very nervous she was. Didn't explain nothing, but begged me so hard I couldn't say no."

"God," Ahmed said. "God!" He swayed away from the door and sank onto the bed. Raimond held out his hand for the note, knowing it would be given, and Ahmed handed it to him without a word.

The note said:

"Darling, oh darling, What have they done to you? Are you all right? I daren't come. They came to my hotel and did things to me and told me not to see you again. But I'm all right. Only we mustn't see each other for some time. Send back a note with the old woman and I'll get it from her, but don't try to see me or talk to me. I'm afraid for us both!'

The note was signed with an "F."

"Come in," Raimond said to the old woman. He turned to Ahmed, lying dazed on the bed. "Girl friend?" Ahmed nodded.

"They? Same people who came to see you?"

"Protection organization-same people."

"Oh-indeed." Raimond's mind was racing, putting facts together, drawing conclusions. Things were looking up, he decided.

"Will you help me now if I help you?" he said. Ahmed stood up and confronted the old woman. "How was she?" he said, intensely. "How was the girl who gave you the note."

"How was she."

"How did she seem."

"How did she seem?"

"Oh God," Ahmed snapped, his voice rising dangerously.

He stepped towards the old woman and Raimond caught hold of him. "Take it easy," he said and added to the old woman, "Did she have any sign of injury?"

"Oh no," the woman said, looking from one to the other, startled. "Oh no. She seemed very nervous, kept looking round and telling me not to let anyone see me with the note. Oh no-no injury. Least I couldn't see any."

Raimond looked down at Ahmed.

"Send her back a note," he said. "Telling her that a friend of yours will get in touch with her."

Obediently Ahmed look a pencil out of his pocket. Raimond found him a piece of paper from his wallet while the old woman continued to stare at both of them in wonderment.

"You will get in touch with her for me?" Ahmed asked. "Yes-tell her to give me any information I want."

"How will I know what information you want."

"It shouldn't worry you now."

After a second's hesitation, Ahmed began to scribble on the piece of paper and then handed it to Raimond, who read it rapidly and then handed it to the old woman, giving her 500 francs at the same time.

"You know where to find the young lady."

"She said she'd be watching out for me-but that I was to tell the gentleman not to try to see her."

"Right. Off you go."

Raimond closed the door behind her and looked at Ahmed, setting dejectedly on the bed. "Now let's hear what you have to say," he said.