The Other Side of Silence

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded. “Jack drinks a lot. He doesn’t notice very much at all. Except the cards he’s been dealt. Somehow he always manages to pay attention to them.”

“What happened to the gun?”

“I still have it upstairs. And there is blood on the dress, you’re right.”

“Go and get the gun and the dress. Oh, and Spinola’s apartment key if you still have it.”

“Are you going to turn me in to the police?”

“Why? It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But I feel so guilty that it’s almost like I meant to do it. That I really am a murderer.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“I feel sick. They still send people to the guillotine in France, don’t they?”

“Yes, but that’s not going to happen in this case. Look, if you can keep your head about this, then you can keep your head, I promise. Now, go and get those things like I told you.”

She went out of the room and returned with a small Beretta and her green dress in a carrier bag. She handed me the key, which had a small paper label on it that helpfully read “Spinola,” and I slipped it into my pocket.

“What are you going to do with those?”

“The gun and the key I’ll throw in the sea, probably. The dress I’ll burn in the incinerator at the hotel.”

“I suppose you want something for your silence. Is that how this works?”

“You think I’m going to blackmail you?” I smiled and shook my head. “I am not going to blackmail you, Julia. Most murderers only ever do it once, but blackmailers do it all the time. Which is why blackmail is a worse crime than murder. This is the first and last time we’ll ever speak of this, Julia. The next time we see each other we won’t even mention this evening.”

“But why? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? I don’t understand. We’re acquaintances. But we’re not really friends. I’ve never even thought that you liked me very much. You don’t owe me a thing.”

“You’re no murderer, Julia. I knew it the minute I looked in your eyes. Take it from one who knows about these things. Besides, the law of murder doesn’t mean the same as it used to. Not since murder became the continuation of politics by other means. That’s von Clausewitz. Well, it is since nineteen forty-five. Nothing would be gained by sending you to prison. And certainly not in France. And it won’t bring back my bridge partner, either.”

“What about the police?” she asked.

“The police? Listen to me, Julia. The police are just ordinary men. It’s only with the gun and the dress and the key that the impossible becomes possible and the possible probable, and the probable ever stands up in court. Not even the police can perform miracles, no matter how long you wait to see one. They need evidence. Without evidence there’s nothing. Nietzsche said that. Clearly he wasn’t nearly as mad as a lot of people make out.”

TWENTY

Somerset Maugham is being blackmailed,” I told Anne French over a late dinner at her house. “And not for the first time, I think. Previously it was just a few injudicious love letters. But this is much more serious. There’s an old photograph of him and various naked men, some of them now quite well known, I believe. And a tape recording. I can’t give you any details but it’s all very compromising to the old man. There’s a lot of money involved, too.”

“And what’s your role in this affair?” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking. Because, I’ll be honest, this sounds to me to be a little beyond the duties of a normal hotel concierge. Whatever they are. I’m never all that sure.”

“I’m not so sure myself. Mostly I just answer stupid questions. Steal the occasional piece of lingerie from a guest’s room. Throw away a room key now and then. Look after a gun or two. Dispose of a bloodstained dress. The usual stuff. But now and then I try to help people out.”

I’d spent the evening doing quite a bit of that already. Julia Rose’s gun and the key to Spinola’s apartment were safely in my jacket pocket, and as soon as Julia’s green dress was in the hotel incinerator, she’d be in the clear. I wasn’t even looking for a tip.

“Is that what you’d call your role here? Helping out?”

“Sure. I’m a sort of go-between. A human fender, like you see dangling off one of those nice white boats in the harbor down the hill, to stop the paintwork getting scratched against the dockside pontoon or another boat. Only I’m hanging between Maugham and the blackmailer.”

“How did you get that job?”

“I answered an ad in the Nice-Matin. Wanted: Dumb German. Look, it doesn’t matter. But years ago, in Berlin, I was a cop. So this kind of thing isn’t exactly new to me. People have been disappointing me for a long, long time.”

“You certainly give that impression.”

“It’s my face, I know. I worry I’m on my way to looking like Somerset Maugham.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why, but I feel sorry for the old man. Almost everyone around him is looking out for themselves and their bank accounts.”

“And you’re not?”

“No more than is normal for a guy like me.”

“Is he going to pay the blackmailer?”