‘We can find such a shop,’ she said. ‘As for entry to the apartment, did you notice, he does not have a burglar alarm?’
‘I didn’t notice, no.’
She nodded. ‘And only two locks on the door. It shouldn’t be difficult. After all, I got into your hotel room, didn’t I?’
‘I thought you said ... ?’
‘The manager? No, he told me your room number. I went upstairs to see if you were in. You weren’t, so I opened your door.’
‘Where did you learn tricks like that? Part of the training?’
She shook her head. ‘My father taught me,’ she said quietly. ‘A long time ago.’
One phone call to a friend who was a ‘buff, and Dominique had the address she needed. The shop was a wonderland of chips and processors and wiring and tools. The assistant was helpful too, even though Dominique had trouble translating some of Barclay’s requests into French. She wasn’t sure what a soldering-iron was, or what it might be in French. But eventually Barclay had just about everything he needed. It wouldn’t be craftsmanship, but it would do the job. ‘And maybe some computer disks too,’ he said. He inspected the available stock and picked out the type he needed. ‘A couple of these, I think.’
They returned to Dominique’s apartment where the spare bedroom was handed over for his use.
‘My very own workshop,’ he said, getting down to work. Work stopped quite quickly when he found they’d forgotten to buy a plug for the soldering-iron. He removed the two-pin plug from the room’s bedside lamp and attached it to the soldering-iron. Then he had to borrow a pair of tweezers from Dominique, and a small magnifyixig-glass (which she used for reading) from Madame Herault.
As he worked, he could hear Dominique and her mother talking in the living-room. Whenever Madame Herault spoke too loudly, her daughter would ‘shush’ her, and their voices would drop to a whisper again. It was as if he were the surgeon and this some particularly difficult operation. It wasn’t really. It was the sort of stuff any teenage kid could accomplish with the aid either of inspiration or the plans from a hobby magazine. It took Barclay just over an hour. The wire he was using was no thicker than thread. He feared it would snap. Using runs of shorter than a centimetre, he dropped countless pieces and then couldn’t find them, so had to cut more tiny lengths.
‘A kid would have a steadier hand,’ he muttered. But at last he was finished. He washed his face, splashing water into his bleary eyes, then had tea with Dominique and her mother. Then, with Dominique in her room and Barclay outside the front door, they tested the two small devices. Their range was not great. He hoped it would be enough. A neighbour passed him as he was standing in the stairwell with the receiver. He smiled at her, and received a mighty and quizzical frown in return.
‘All right,’ he said at last, after Dominique had hugged him briefly for being a genius, ‘now it’s your turn.’
But before they left, he tried telephoning Dominic Elder at his London hotel. He didn’t know why exactly. Maybe he just wanted the assurance he felt Elder would give. But Elder wasn’t there.
They drove back to Separt’s block and squeezed the car into a parking space, then Dominique went to the phone-box on the corner and tried Separt’s number. She returned quickly.
‘An answering-machine,’ she said. ‘And I don’t see his car anywhere.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s out. He may just be working. Did you see his car when we were here earlier?’
‘To be honest, no. It may be parked in another street.’
‘So what now?’
‘We’ll have to try the intercom. If he answers, that’s too bad.’ So they walked to the front door and tried the intercom. There was no reply. ‘So now we know he’s out,’ she said.
‘Which doesn’t get us in.’
He looked up and down the street. A woman was heading in their direction, pausing now and again to chastise her poodle about something it either had or had not done. ‘Back to the car,’ he said. They sat in the car and waited. ‘When I call you, don’t come,’ he ordered. While Dominique puzzled over this, the woman stopped finally at the front door to the block, and then opened the door. Barclay sprang from the car and held the door open for the woman, who was having trouble persuading her poodle to enter the building.
‘Merci, madame,’ Barclay said. Then he called towards the car: ‘Dominique, ici! Vite!’ Dominique sat still and looked at him. She had changed, back at her apartment, into faded denims and T-shirt, and she was wearing her lipstick again. She now checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, ignoring his calls.
Barclay made an exasperated sound and shrugged to the woman. But now the woman was inside the building and making for the lift. ‘Ici, Dominique!’ Barclay glanced behind him, saw the lift doors close with the woman and her dog inside, and now gestured for Dominique to join him. She lifted the plastic bag from the back seat and got out of the car. He gestured her through the door, and it locked behind them. They waited for ages while the lift took its cargo to the third floor, paused, then started down towards them. After their own ascent, the lift opened on to Separt’s private floor. There were two doors, one unmarked, the other belonging to Separt’s apartment. Dominique got busy on this door. She had brought some old-fashioned-looking lockpicks with her from her apartment. No doubt they had belonged to her father before her. Barclay had his doubts whether they would be up to handling modern-day locks. But within two minutes, the door was open.
‘Brilliant,’ he said.
‘Quick, in you go.’
In he went. It was his job now. Hers was to stand by the lift. If it was called for, if it started back up from ground level, then she’d call to him and he’d clear out. What they would do after that was unclear to him. ‘We’ll think of something,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t worry.’
Don’t worry!
Well, after all, what was there to worry about? He was only bugging someone’s private home, having broken into it. That was all. And in foreign territory, too. And without permission from Joyce Parry. That was all. It was a breeze ...
The telephone was on the floor beside the desks, next to the answering-machine. He unscrewed the receiver and fixed the small transmitter in place, screwing the receiver shut again and shaking it to check it didn’t rattle before replacing it in its cradle. Then he placed another transmitter down at the other end of the room, stuck to the underside of the sofa. Recalling how Separt liked to sit on the floor, he slouched on the floor himself. No, the bug wasn’t visible. He’d no way of knowing if either bug would work. In theory they would, but in practice? And as for getting them out again afterwards ...
Now he went to the computer. It was switched on, which saved a bit of time, but also indicated that Separt wouldn’t be gone for long. He opened the box of computer disks beside the terminal. There were half a dozen disks, none bearing helpful markings. He pulled his own disks out of his pocket. The shop assistant had formatted them already, and Dominique had given him some French computer commands. The keyboard was slightly different from British models, but not so different. It didn’t take long to copy a couple of Separt’s disks.
A hiss from Dominique at the open door. ‘Lift’s coming!’
He closed the disk box and checked the screen display. There was no indication that he’d accessed the computer. Dominique was calling out floor numbers as he took a last look around. It might be another resident. The lift might stop before the penthouse. But it didn’t look like it was stopping.
‘Two ... three ...’
He was out now. She closed the door and did what she had to do with her picklock. Just the one lock needed reworking, the other being a Yale-type which had locked itself on closing.
He looked at the lift. ‘Four,’ he said. ‘Five. Christ, Dominique, it’s this floor next!’
She swivelled from the door and pushed him backwards. His back hit the landing’s other door, which opened, and suddenly he was on the emergency stairwell, his kidneys colliding with
the banister. He gasped while Dominique pushed the door closed again, just as the ping of a bell from the landing signalled the arrival of the lift. They both held their breath and listened as Separt unlocked his door. He closed it behind him, and all was quiet again.
‘He didn’t notice anything,’ she hissed, leaning her head against Barclay’s shoulder. ‘He’s gone inside. Come on.’
They crept stealthily down one flight of stairs, entered the fifth floor landing, and summoned the lift from the floor above to take them to ground level. Back in the 2CV they smiled at one another, releasing the tension.
‘That was too close,’ Barclay said.
Dominique shrugged. ‘I have been in tighter places.’
‘Tighter spots,’ Barclay corrected. But when she asked him what was wrong with the way she’d phrased it, he couldn’t think of an answer.
Then came the moment of truth. He switched on the receivers. There were two, each with its own local frequency. One would pick up the telephone, one the bug under the sofa. They might jam or feed back on one another, but he didn’t think so. A more real problem was that they might pick up other frequency-users: local taxis, CB radios ... The signal was weak. A hiss, nothing more. Then the sound of a cough. Dominique thumped him on the shoulder in triumph.
‘That’s him!’ she said. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth. Barclay laughed.
‘He can’t hear you, don’t worry,’ he said. Now came the sound of music. Classical music. Separt hummed along to it. Actually, it occurred to Barclay that there was a chance Separt could hear them if he happened to put his ear close enough to the microphones while they were talking: these things had a way of working in both directions. Headphones were microphones, too.
‘Now,’ Dominique was saying, ‘all we can do is wait.’
‘And hope,’ added Barclay.
‘Hope?’
‘That he doesn’t find the bugs.’
She was dismissive. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘If he finds them, we’ll ...’
‘I know, I know: we’ll think of something.’ He turned to her. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you know there were stairs behind that door?’
She smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘You might have—’
‘Warned you? Yes, I forgot. Pardon me.’
‘I’m not sure I can,’ said Barclay. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. He hadn’t really noticed before. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw lipstick on his cheek. He smiled, and did not wipe it off.
After an hour, Dominique got bored. ‘Nothing’s happening,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re not a cricket fan.’
‘Cricket? You mean the English game?’
‘Surveillance requires patience,’ he said.
Well, so he would guess at any rate. He’d never actually been on a proper surveillance operation, had never been active ‘in the field’. He’d always been what could be called a backroom boy. But he’d read about ‘the field’ in novels. He supposed the novelists must know. Besides, he was quite enjoying the music Separt was playing. Ravel.
Dominique opened her door. ‘I’ll get us some coffee and a sandwich,’ she said.
‘What happens if there’s some action while you’re away?’
‘You’ll still be here.’
‘Yes, but I don’t understand French. If anyone telephones ...’
She thought about this, then collapsed back into her seat with an exasperated sound and slammed shut her door.
‘I’ll fetch us something to drink if you like?’
She gripped the steering-wheel. ‘I’d get even more bored on my own. Besides, I’m not really thirsty.’ Her pout turned her into a teenager again. What was her age? ‘Listen,’ she said suddenly, springing forward. Separt’s phone was ringing. Barclay sat up straight in his seat. This was his bug’s first trial. The music was being turned down. Barclay placed a finger to his lips, warning Dominique not to speak. The phone stopped ringing.
‘Allo?’ Separt’s voice.
‘C’est Jean-Pierre.‘ The caller was loud and clear - much to Barclay’s relief. Dominique was listening intently to the conversation, mouthing the words silently as though learning them off by heart. She signalled for a pen and paper. He took his pen and diary from his inside pocket and handed them over. She opened the diary at November and began to write. After a few minutes of pretty well one-sided conversation, the call was terminated. But Dominique wrote on for another minute or so, reaching December, then read back through what she’d written, altering some words, adding others.
‘Eh bien,’ she said. ‘That was lucky.’
‘How?’
‘When Separt went out, he was trying to find the caller. But the caller was not at home, so he merely left a message asking him to call back. This he has done.’
‘And?’
She smiled. ‘I don’t think we fooled him completely. He wanted to tell the caller all about us. Why would the police do such a survey? What could it mean? The caller was very interested.’
‘Did they say anything specific about Witch?’
‘Do not rush me. No, nothing about Witch. They were very ... careful. A care that is learned over years. You might even say a professional care. They talked around the subject, like two friends, one merely telling his story to the other.’
‘You think Separt knows about the bug?’
She shook her head. ‘If he knew, he would have warned the caller, and the caller would not have given away his location.’
‘You know where he is?’
She nodded. ‘Pretty well. He said Separt had just missed him. He’d been across the street in Janetta’s.’
‘Janetta’s?’
‘It sounds like a bar, yes? Perhaps Janetta’s is not the name of the bar but of the woman who runs the bar. We will find out, but it might take some time. I think this Jean-Pierre knows something.’
‘Such as?’
‘Monsieur Separt reported his car missing after the assassin landed in England. I think someone persuaded him to ... to turn the other cheek while the car was taken. He was not ill. He was waiting until it was safe to report the vehicle stolen. Why do you smile?’
‘You mean turn a blind eye, not turn the other cheek.’
‘Do I?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Okay, so now we track down Janetta’s.’ He paused, wriggling in his seat. ‘Or do you want to stick around here?’
‘No.’ She checked her watch and turned towards him. ‘Tonight, you will sleep with me.’ The look on Barclay’s face alerted her. ‘I mean,’ she said quickly, ‘you will sleep at the apartment. Mama will insist that we dine with her. Don’t worry, she is a very good cook. And after dinner ...’
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe you will show me your file on Witch. We are partners now after all, aren’t we?’
‘I suppose we are,’ said Barclay, wondering what he would elect to tell Joyce Parry about all of this. She’d be expecting him back soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow morning. He’d have to think up a story to tell her, something convincing. Dominique seemed to read his mind.
‘Your employers will allow you another day in Paris?’ she asked.
Barclay slapped a confident look onto his face and said nonchalantly, ‘Oh, yes.’
But inside, he couldn’t help wondering.
Friday 12 June
Elder telephoned Joyce Parry just before breakfast. Smells of bacon-fat and frying tomatoes wafted up to his room as he made the call. ‘Joyce? Dominic here.’
‘Who else would have the ... consideration to call at this hour?’
She sounded sleepy. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘did I wake you?’
‘Just give me the news.’
He wondered idly whether she’d spent the night alone, as he had. ‘I’ve been sent a note,’ he said.
‘From whom?’
‘Witch.’
‘What?’
‘Not what, who: Witch.’
‘Don’t get smart, Dominic. Tell me.’
‘Just that. A note warning me to stay away.’
‘You personally?’
‘Me personally.’
‘Was it delivered?’
‘She left it at a pub, The Cat over the Broomstick.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the name of the pub. I think she left it on the off-chance.’
‘You don’t think she’s following you?’
‘No.’
‘But she knows you’re after her.’
‘I’m not even sure about that. Could just be a shrewd guess. She may not know I’ve retired.’
‘Have forensics had a—’
‘They’re checking it this morning. I don’t expect they’ll find anything. She left the note with a barman. Doyle and Greenleaf are interviewing him this morning. We had a word with him last night, but today they’re really going to put him through it. For what it’s worth.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she got him to write the note for her. Pretended her wrist was sprained.’
‘Clever girl.’ Joyce Parry almost purred the words.
‘Few more like her on our side,’ Elder conceded, ‘and we might still be an Empire.’
There was a choked sound as Joyce Parry stifled a yawn. ‘Description?’ she asked at last.
‘Come on, Joyce, wakey wakey. She could have changed her looks a dozen times since then. No description the barman can give is going to be valid.’
‘You sound disheartened.’ She almost sounded concerned.
‘Do I?’ He managed a smile. ‘Maybe it’s because I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘I thought you’d want to—’
‘And now I do know. So go and have your breakfast. And Dominic ... ?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t do too much. Rely on Greenleaf and Doyle, that’s what they’re there for.’
‘You mean I should ask them to push my bath-chair?’
‘I mean it isn’t all on your shoulders. You’re not a one-man band.’
‘I have a strange feeling of déjà vu ...’