Every Hidden Thing

  * * *

  It was with relief that Ari finally found himself hurrying across the Boulevard St Michel and entering the park through the gate in the rue des Medicis a bit earlier than was arranged. He thought that he would prefer to be in position when the man arrived. Briefly he thought of the possibility that this could be a trap, but he realised that if anyone had wanted to do away with him, they probably wouldn’t chose such a public place to do the deed.

  There were not many people in the park. He spotted two chairs that had been moved together under a leafless tree just in front of the statue of Mary Stuart, as his caller had described, but he was dismayed to find that one of them was already occupied. A small bird-like apparition in black sat there, head bowed. Ari slowed down and thought for a moment. This might be a problem if his caller thought that the woman was with him. He did not want to make the man wary about approaching him. He edged closer and sat down on the other chair. Then he cleared his throat. The woman turned her head and he nodded to her with a brief salutation on his lips which was never expressed. The misery on the white face was dreadful. Tears were welling up in her shadowed eyes and running unheeded down her shrunken cheeks.

  ‘Madame.’ He nodded again and moved to stand up, thinking that he should leave her to her grief.

  ‘Monsieur Mayer, wait.’

  He stared at her as though she had bitten him. He sat down again. ‘Who are you, Madame? How do you know my name?’

  ‘Do not move. Do not look in my direction. We may be being watched. I am Isabelle Picon. My husband Philippe phoned you last night.’

  ‘But Madame,’ he whispered, studiously looking at the top of the distant Eiffel tower that was thrusting into the autumn sky above the trees, ‘Where is your husband? He said he had something for me.’

  She began to cry again and he was rather glad that he had been forbidden to look at her. He squinted in the pale sunshine looking anywhere but at her. When she had mastered herself sufficiently, she cleared her throat loudly and blew her nose. ‘Philippe is dead.’

  Ari was stunned. He could hear the sounds of children laughing excitedly as they ran passed in a game; lovers careless of the cold wind, sat entwined on a bench close by and strollers walked their dogs, but the whole scene could have been a sequence in a silent movie.

  ‘Dead!’ he said softly after a few moments, ‘But we spoke only last night . . . how is that possible?’

  ‘Someone broke into our apartment last night and killed him. I was at the neighbour and I heard noises in our place and as I came onto the landing some men rushed out of our door and down to the street. I went into the apartment and found, and found . . .’ she stopped. He mouth quivered as she struggled to make it do what she wanted it to, ‘I found him lying in a pool of blood. He had been shot several times and our apartment had been turned into a scrap heap!’ Her voice rose with anger at this violation. Sympathy stirred in Ari; he knew what it felt like, to have thieves break in and wreck the place. She was still for a moment as she contemplated this outrage.

  ‘Philippe knew something was going to happen. Some while after he phoned you, he received a call. When he hung up, he seemed to panic but wouldn’t tell me who it had been on the phone. I am afraid I responded angrily. He tried to tell me before I went to the neighbour to watch television. Ours is broken and I wanted to see my program. I’m sorry. That doesn’t matter to you, Monsieur. We had a terrible argument in the evening and I had to get out of the apartment or it would only have grown worse.

  ‘Before I left, he gave me a letter and a key on a key-ring. The letter was addressed to me, but I was in a hurry and I didn’t open it. Philippe has been acting very strangely lately and I thought this was just some of his usual nonsense.’

  Ari looked sidelong at her. She had a packet on her lap which she fiddled with nervously.

  ‘This packet is a decoy. I am going to leave it next to this chair when I go. Do not pick it up. I have put a red supermarket packet in the dustbin down the way over to your right, with the letter and the key. Go and wander around the park and come back this way. If this packet is still here then it will be safe to take the other packet out of the dustbin. I don’t know if I am being watched. After last night, anything could happen. They might pick up this one, thinking it has some value. In his letter, Philippe impressed on me that the whole thing is very important and that the man who made his life a misery will be exposed because of this evidence. He wanted me to bring them to you. He must have known for a couple of days that they would be coming for him and that he would have to flee for his life. I imagine that his other secret life would have continued here in Paris if he hadn’t done . . . what he did . . .’ her voice faded, her mouth working as she tried to control the tremble in her voice. She continued bleakly,

  ‘The letter is private, but his foolish life doesn’t matter now. I have no wish to read it ever again. You will have to work out where the key is for. The key ring was one he bought for me when we went to Greece on holiday once . . . it seems odd to me that he would give away that one . . . he must have gone through my things to find it.’ Her voice shook and she stopped speaking as she covered her mouth with her handkerchief.

  ‘I am so sorry, madam. It may sound trite, but I do know how you feel.’

  ‘You cannot possibly know the depths of what I feel at this moment; the betrayal of my marriage, the horror . . .’ she spat the words. He waited, feeling uncomfortable and somewhat rebuked.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ He didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘I am going to my sister in St Malo when the funeral is over. I cannot stay here. Even my apartment is no longer my home after this violation. Some friends in the parish will help me to pack up the things that were not broken and I will leave this all behind.’ She gestured with her chin. ‘I am going now. Do not follow me, but wait until I have disappeared from sight. Please, for your sake as well as mine. Your life is in danger, judging from what Philippe wrote in that letter.’

  Ari was still staring woodenly at the balustrade across the pathway in front of him as she got up and walked past him. He longed to run after her, to ask her more, but he knew that she was right. He was learning that it was wise to be overly cautious and mistrust every shadow.

  Finally he got up and strolled aimlessly towards some men who were playing pétanque. He marvelled at how they had the time in the day, just to play old man’s marbles. Vaguely he thought that one day, if he survived long enough to retire, he would join them. He leaned over the parapet for a while and watched some children sailing boats in the pond and then resumed his promenade. He was heedless of the glorious colours of the trees around him as his feet crackled through the fallen leaves; his thoughts were fixed on that packet by the chairs. Finally he could contain himself no longer; turning back, he was reassured to see it still in place. He almost ran up to the dustbin and pulled out the folded red supermarket packet. Other passers-by had already thrown garbage into the bin and with a grimace he shook off the greasy remains of someone’s lunch, before wrapping the packet in his handkerchief and slipping it into his coat pocket. He turned up his collar against the chill breeze and slowly headed for the park gate.

  Ari had to control himself not to run all the way home. He walked slowly out of the park and bought himself a packet of hot chestnuts from a vendor on the corner. Glad of the warmth of these in his hands, he ambled home, stopping now and then to look in shop windows, or to peel another chestnut. He did not see anyone obviously following him, but thought it would be wise to remain alert as he neared his street.

  When he went through his local street market, he bought some fish and stopped at a boulangerie to buy a fresh baguette. He pulled out his pocket watch and was surprised to see that it was already four o’clock, but he forced himself to walk slowly. When he was quite sure he was not being shadowed, he scurried home, and clomped up the stairs to find the lanky figure of Dougie sitting on the step outside his door. Ari’s heart sank.


  ‘Hello, young man.’ How was he going to get rid of him?

  ‘May I come in, Prof?’

  Reluctantly Ari led the way into the apartment, hung up his things on the hat stand and took his parcels to the small kitchen.

  ‘I’m just going to have my lunch, Dougie . . . Is there anything in particular you wanted to see me about?’

  The young man didn’t take the hint, ‘Yes, sir . . .’ and he began asking Ari about some problem he was having with an essay.

  ‘That essay is only due next week, can’t it wait?’

  ‘Well I have other assignments that I’m late for as well and seeing as . . .’ his voice tailed off. Dougie leaned his shoulder on the door-jamb as he watched Ari bustle about the small kitchen. He felt sure something momentous had happened. There was a suppressed excitement in the older man. His curiosity was piqued and he wondered how he could get him to tell him what had happened. ‘That smells very good, Prof. What are you making?’

  ‘Didn’t you have any lunch?’

  Dougie shook his head. Ari realised that the skinny young man always looked starved and he finally said grudgingly

  ‘Do you want to have something to eat?’

  It was what Dougie had been fishing for. His quarterly student allowance from his grandmother was almost used up and he was very hungry, and maybe he could get Ari to talk to him about what had happened. So Ari melted some butter in a pan and floured and quickly fried the wonderfully fresh whiting he had just bought, popping them onto hot plates with just a simple garnish of parsley and a lemon slice. He then proceeded to make a green salad with a vinaigrette sauce. Before long they were sitting with drinks at their elbows, their mouths too full for talk. Finally, when they had mopped up the last delicious juices with the baguette, Ari thought of the letter in his jacket pocket.

  By now he was almost afraid to read it. While he was cooking the meal, he was distracted by his conversation with Dougie, but when they had finished eating his conversation with Mme Picon came flooding back.

  ‘I’m going out now, if you will excuse me,’ said Ari abruptly. He had a favourite place on the Boulevard St. Michel, and he often liked to end an evening in the comfort of this place. He stood up and put on his overcoat and scarf, then opened the front door hoping that Dougie would go away, but he wouldn’t take the hint. It was all Dougie could do to keep up with Ari as he almost bounded down the several flights of stairs to the courtyard and into the blustery twilight of the autumn afternoon. With the pace at which they were walking, there was no breath left for conversation.

  In no time they were there. There were very few customers as yet. In a corner two men were playing chess, oblivious of anyone else, and an invisible television was blaring out commentary on a soccer match somewhere. It was still early so they were able to secure a place next to the open fire that blazed on a low platform in the middle of the room, with a central chimney over it. Around this, cosy sofas were arranged and when they had given their order, Ari settled back and pulled out the letter. Dougie’s presence was forgotten.

  There were three closely written pages. Some of the words were smudged and Ari could believe that the widow’s tears had fallen on the page. It began simply enough.

  Dear Hélène,

  By the time you read this, I will have gone. I am leaving France tonight. I feel it is only fair to tell you what has caused this. I assure you that it has nothing to do with you, but I have been very stupid and weak and now my actions are catching up with me.

  For many years I have been involved in a relationship with a man. I am sorry to let you know in this way, but I could not bear to see your face when I told you. Although I love you, this man has been the love of my life and yet I could not leave you either to go to him. As I said, I am weak, and if this had got out it would have meant that I would have lost face and probably my job at the Ministry.

  Unfortunately Victor Dubois found out and has been blackmailing me. I have been forced to do many humiliating things in order to raise money to pay him what he asked. I have had enough of this and now I am preparing to flee the country with Thierry. I can no longer live a double life and I apologise to you.

  There were a few paragraphs of instructions regarding policies and other personal matters. At the end came what interested Ari:

  Recently I discovered something that would turn the tables on that bastard. The other day when I took some things from the Ministry to Dubois for storage, he showed me into his storeroom. I had a few minutes alone there as I had to re-stack some filing boxes to make way for the new stuff. He was called away to the phone. One of the boxes dropped and the contents fell out. As I gathered it all up to stuff back into its container I realised how explosive it was. I had an opportunity and I grasped it. I have stolen something that has incriminating evidence that will put him away for the rest of his damned life. I have hidden it somewhere other than at the apartment because I know that he will soon realise that I have taken it and will try to find it. I am sure his thugs will start in the most logical place.

  Please give the key to a man called Aristide Mayer. He will meet you on the chairs near our friend Mary Stuart in the Luxembourg gardens. You remember where we always used to meet? He will be there at 2 pm tomorrow afternoon. He has been looking for information to prove Dubois’ Nazi affiliations and hopefully Mayer will be able to use this stuff to good effect. Tell him to be very careful. His life could be in danger.

  Give him the key on this Greek key ring. I will send him instructions of where to find the parcel when I reach my destination. If by some chance I do not get an opportunity to do this, I am sure that Mayer will understand the joke.

  Goodbye my dear Hélène. I pray that you will be able to forgive me one day.

  Yours,

  Philippe.

  Ari grunted when he had finished reading. Revulsion at what he had just read tasted bitter in his mouth. That poor woman. This selfish letter was all about Philippe. No thought or care for the sensibilities of the woman who had been married to him for so many years. In fact, she was well rid of such a creature. He sat there staring into space, realising that the betrayal of her marriage was almost worse than finding him dead amongst the chaos of her home. The man had given no thought to the fact that his wife would have to face angry ruffians when they came to search the apartment as he expected them to. He needed another coffee and called the waiter.

  As he was getting his wallet out, the last page slipped onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up immediately as he was in the act of paying the waiter. Dougie dived after it and quickly scanned it. All he could see was the mention of Dubois’ Nazi affiliations and the instructions about some key. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. This seemed like the kind of information that Jean–Paul was waiting for! He continued to scan the page for a few seconds until Ari reached out and snatched it from him.

  ‘Did you get the key?’

  ‘Excuse me, Dougie! This is a private matter and is none of your business.’

  ‘I couldn’t help reading that bit. It seems odd that someone should give you a key for something and not tell you what it’s for. Is it important?’

  Ari did not reply, trying not to show his annoyance at Dougie’s behaviour. He took the key out of the packet and placed it carefully on the low table in front of them. He realised that his café crème was cooling at his elbow. He took a sip, then gulped it down and ordered another immediately. He wished suddenly that it was a double whisky.

  The key was quite an ordinary one. It looked like a key for a front door. Attached to it were two tags. One tag was a slightly crumpled cardboard parcel label had a number 69 scrawled on it, the other was a cheap oval souvenir key ring. It had a border that read “Mount Parnassus”, then some Greek letters, presumably saying the same, and in the middle was a lozenge engraved with a picture of some ruins.

  ‘Why not just wait until you hear from him?’

  Ari ignored the question and continued to stare at the key with its
labels. He felt his eyes would cross with the effort of looking at them. He took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Surely there was a clue here? Surely Picon would not have left it to chance that he would be able to contact Ari with the information? He did not know Ari, so how would he know if he would understand the joke?

  Why would he use precisely that key ring? What if the picture of pillars is the main clue? What if it is connected to something in Greece? It would be too far to go there and look. What if . . . he knew that the key was not for anything in Picon’s apartment, so he would have to think of somewhere that he might hide something where it is unlikely to be discovered. The waiter came and went, bringing a croque monsieur and more coffee for each of them while Ari worried the puzzle like a bone. Finally he sat back and mopped his forehead.

  ‘What is it Prof?’

  ‘I would like to spend some time alone on this project now, please Dougie. Would you mind leaving me here? I will settle the bill,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘Is it not something I can help you with Prof?’

  ‘Not at the moment thank you. I have to have some time to think. By myself.’

  Dougie was convinced that it would be something that would interest Jean-Paul, but there was no way that he could insist on staying when Mayer was equally insistent that he go. Grudgingly he took his leave. As he stood up and turned away, he was stopped by Ari’s voice.

  ‘Oh, and Dougie, I think you should know that the man who wrote the letter was murdered last night.’

  Dougie was shocked at the bald statement and wanted to ask him what had happened, but thought better of it. He just bowed slightly and left the restaurant, but he didn’t go far. He stood in a doorway across the street watching for Ari’s departure. Ari’s words about murder were still running through his mind. Finally he shrugged and pushed the thoughts away. It was none of his business. All he had to do was take the information to Jean-Paul. He could just see Ari through the window and finally his patience was rewarded. Ari came out of the restaurant not long afterwards, and walked rapidly into the busy street towards the Boulevard St. Germaine. For such a portly figure he could move quickly. Although Dougie ran after him, he could not see Ari who had disappeared into the strolling crowds and Dougie wasn’t sure of the direction the older man had taken.

  Dougie thought that he should phone Jean-Paul with this news and was shaken by the anger of the man at the other end of the line.

  ‘You fool. You should have kept that letter and taken the key from him, or insisted that you help him. Well, we will have to put a tail on him so that if he discovers what the key is for, we’ll be there to take delivery! Go back to your lodgings and wait. I will get instructions from Le Patron.’ The line went dead and Dougie hung up the receiver with a curiously sick feeling in his stomach. The usual friendly, encouraging tones he was used to had hardened. He sensed suddenly that things were no longer a game and it made him feel very uneasy.