The Long Glasgow Kiss

I nodded and smiled wearily. That was obviously the story Barnier had given them when he told them to call the cops. I pressed the damp towel to my cheek. The old hop disappeared back up the stairs and came down a minute later with ice wrapped in a napkin. I was impressed he could move so fast. I leaned against the porcelain tiled wall and held the ice to the side of my face. After a few minutes I tipped both the hop and the toilet attendant and headed back up the red-carpeted stairs to the lounge. When I got there, Barnier was at the front door talking to the two police constables. It was the tenor of the place that the uniforms had to stay at the front door, not even being allowed to conduct their interview in a staff room or office. Whatever it was that Barnier had said to them, they were clearly satisfied with it and they headed off back to the car without taking a statement from me. The one thing I noticed about Barnier was that there wasn’t a mark on him and the impeccable grey flannel was still impeccable. He came over to me, slapped me on the shoulder and grinned.

‘I think you could do with another cognac, no?’

‘I could do with another cognac, yes,’ I said.

We went back and sat at the same booth. ‘What did you say to get rid of the cops?’ I asked.

‘I told them that you were my cousin from Quebec and that you couldn’t speak a word of English. I told them that the two guys outside had tried to rob you and that I and the manager in here had seen the whole thing. I gave them a phoney description of the car and sent them on their way.’

‘They didn’t want to speak to me?’

‘I told them you spoke only French and that you were going home in a couple of days and that you did not want the complication of pressing charges or having to delay travelling.’

‘And they were satisfied with that?’

‘This is the police we are discussing, my friend. Dealing with a foreign national who is about to head off home is complicated. And if there is one thing I have learned about policemen the world over, it is that they do not like complications. Now, why not tell me what that was really all about. Has it some connection to young Mr Pollock’s disappearance?’

‘Yes. Or at least in a way. Sammy Pollock was hanging around with Paul Costello. He’s the son of Jimmy Costello. Have you heard of Jimmy Costello?’

Barnier gave another Gallic shrug and shook his head.

‘Costello is a crook and a thug. Small-time stuff, but he has a small gang. Our two dancing partners would be paid-up members. Costello also has a waster of a son. It takes something to be such a wash-out that you’re a disappointment to the underworld, but that’s what young Paul is. Anyway, he was hanging around with Sammy Pollock before he went missing. He also had a key for Sammy’s apartment. I took it from him and we had a frank exchange of views. So frank that I think I may have cracked the odd bone.’

‘And Papa Costello is not pleased?’

‘It would appear not. But, to be honest, I don’t think he gives a shit. That outside was him going through the motions. He maybe doesn’t really care about me giving his son a slap, but he has to be seen to take exception. Big people for appearances, our criminal fraternity chums …’

‘Well, I think you may receive a return visit from your friends. Or their colleagues.’ He arched an eyebrow.

‘Maybe I should hang around you. That was pretty fancy foot-work.’

‘Savate. French Foot Fighting. It is sometimes called the jeu Marseillais because it became very popular in Marseille in the last century. Sailors, you see. The idea is that if you are fighting on a ship at sea, then it is better to have a hand free to hang onto something if the ship is pitching.’

‘Yeah …’ I said. I’d heard of savate, but what I’d seen outside had been something more. ‘But I thought that savate was a type of street fighting. Dockers and sailors. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t strike me as someone who spent his youth brawling in the backstreets of Marseille.’

‘Do I not?’ Barnier replied. ‘Perhaps not. But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s that people are very seldom who we think they are. Anyway, savate has become a little gentrified over the years. A sport. Alexandre Dumas fils studied it.’ I watched the Frenchman’s cruel, handsome face. The smile he framed with the trimmed moustache and goatee beard had something knowing about it. And something melancholic. He struck me as a weary, sad Satan.

‘Well, whatever its origins,’ I said. ‘I was glad of it. Thanks for your help out there. And with the police.’

Barnier gave a small shrug.