‘To the –?’ Joe said.

‘I think they loosed a tooth,’ Papadopoulos complained. His hand was on his cheek, massaging it. ‘Let me think.’

Joe waited. Daniel Papadopoulos was being very forthcoming – but then, men who had been beaten up were sometimes eager not to repeat the experience. Though he sensed there was strength in the man, a conviction behind the pale watery eyes that would not be easy to scrub off. He drew on the cigarette. There was an ashtray on the low coffee-table, a brass plate with a brass girl reclining on it with her legs wide open. The stub of a cigar was resting between her thighs. Joe ashed on the carpet instead.

‘CPD,’ the man said. ‘I think. I think that’s what he said. They had to report back to the CPD.’

‘What’s the CPD?’ Joe said, and the fat man shrugged and said, ‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Where is Longshott?’ Joe said.

‘Longshott, Longshott,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said and grimaced. ‘I wish I’d never heard the name. Nothing but trouble.’

‘And the books?’

The fat man brightened. ‘Sell like, how you say? Like hot cakes. Better than Slut, even.’

‘I see.’

‘Though Countess Szu Szu does sell better overall.’

‘I’m sure she does.’

‘Still, very profitable, those ridiculous stories. Always start with a big explosion! Boom! Poof!’ he brought his hands together in a loud clap. ‘Mike Longshott. What a ridiculous name.’

‘So who is he?’

Daniel Papadopoulos shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know?’ he said.

‘You don’t know who he is?’

The fat man shook his head. ‘Never met him. Don’t imagine Mike Longshott’s his real name, either.’

Joe said, ‘Mr. Papadopoulos –’

‘Call me Daniel. Please.’

‘Daniel. I’m confused.’

‘The world does that to you,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said sympathetically. Joe sighed. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You are Mr. Longshott’s publisher. Surely you’ve met the man?’

The fat man looked amused. ‘What on earth for?’ he said. ‘I never have any contact with writers. If I do, they just keep pestering me about getting paid.’ He shrugged, said, ‘Look. Couple of years back I get an envelope in the mail. A manuscript submission. I get several a week. It was called Assignment: Africa. Good title. I read it, I thought I could sell a few copies, I wrote back to him, sent him a cheque…that’s it. Never met the man. Every six months or so, I get a new manuscript in the post. More explosions, collapsing buildings, crashed planes, dead people. He has a busy imagination.’

‘So,’ Joe said, ‘you have an address for Mr. Longshott.’

‘Well, yes,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said. ‘And he’s very prompt at cashing the cheques, too.’

‘Can you tell me what the address is, Mr. Papadopoulos?’ Joe said.

The fat man regarded him for a long moment. ‘Why?’ he said at last.

‘Because I need to find him,’ Joe said.

‘Other people want to find him too,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said.

‘And did you give them the address?’

‘They’ve been after me,’ the fat man said, ignoring the question. ‘Not just the government people. Others, too. Like you. I have to be careful with Medusa Press anyhow – a lot of people don’t like some of the titles –’

‘Like Slut?’

‘Well…’ Daniel Papadopoulos shrugged. ‘Small-minded,’ he said. ‘So I only use that post box on Hausmann, and this little system of mine, but it doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference, in the end. Everyone can be found if you try hard enough.’

‘Even Mike Longshott?’

The fat man suddenly smiled. ‘That I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Did you give them the address?’

‘No.’

Joe looked at the fat man. ‘Will you give it to me?’ he said. ‘Please?’

‘Why?’ the fat man said again. His eyes were on Joe’s face, looking at him, not quite seeing him. ‘Ghosts,’ he said. His voice war faraway. ‘I have nothing against ghosts. But I don’t like being haunted.’

‘Mr. Papadopoulos,’ Joe said patiently, ‘I don’t wish Mr. Longshott any harm. I am merely trying to locate him. Please.’

The fat man’s eyes focused again, and he smiled. ‘No threats, ha?’ he said. ‘It makes a change.’ He went over to the drinks cabinet and replenished his glass. He didn’t offer the bottle to Joe. ‘To be honest with you, I’m a bit curious myself. And you’re a private detective…’

‘I can only take on one client at a time,’ Joe said. The fat man shrugged. He looked suddenly tired, the animation gone out of him. His face was blotchy, his eyes bruised. ‘If you find him, will you let me know?’

He had nothing to lose. He needed the publisher’s help. He said, ‘If I can, yes.’

The fat man laid down his glass on the small coffee-table. ‘Let me write it down. I want you to get out.’ He was visibly shaking now, and the glass when he put it down had bumped against the table with some force. The fat man located a piece of paper and a pen on one of the bookcases and scribbled a couple of lines. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Now get out. Close the door behind you.’

‘Thank you,’ Joe said, but the fat man was no longer listening to him. As Joe was leaving, he could not resist a final look: peering through the doorway, he saw the fat man reaching for a high shelf and bringing down a large, leather-bound volume. When he opened the book, Joe had seen enough. He left and closed the door behind him.

The book had been hollow, and he had recognised the paraphernalia inside.

dead-end

——

Back in the Montmarte hotel, Joe washed, the water warm and rust-coloured, spluttering out of the ancient shower-head. A lone cockroach scuttled as far away from the water as possible. Joe’s body hurt. After he had dried himself and pattered back across the dark hallway to his room, he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Stains that had no definite shape stared back at him, and his tired mind tried to impose order on them, the non-shapes forming through the filter of his mind into definite ones: planes, and trains, and collapsing buildings. He had recognised the smell in the publisher’s rooms, at last; should have recognised it sooner; the same smell that clung to his friend Alfred, the smell of processed poppies, but he didn’t know what it meant, if the fact had significance. He stared at the scribbled note from Papadopoulos. Paris had been – not a dead-end, no, not quite – it had been merely a dead-letter box. Longshott wasn’t there: only his books were.

There were questions he had to ask, but again he did not feel the urge to ask them. Yet he would follow the trail. There was nothing left for him in Paris now, but for the disquieting, niggling sense as of a fading dream, that he had once been to Monceau, that there was a girl with him then. It was a spring day and they had eaten at a nearby brasserie and, bursting, had taken the walk and gone to the park and sat together on a bench: nothing more. He shook his head on the hard pillow and got up and decided it was time for a drink after all. Somewhere it was always time for a drink. Outside he could hear children shouting and the slap-slap-slap sound of running sandaled feet against the hard surface of the road and as he stared out of the window the three card man was still there, still enticing passers-by to find the lady. He realised that the hat he had bought on his first day was still in the room, had been hanging on the dresser, and he put it on, fitting it at an angle, and left the room. As he walked towards Pigalle he checked his reflection in the shops’ windows and for a moment thought he’d seen a man with black shoes following behind him, but when he turned could see nothing beyond the milling crowds and anyway he didn’t care. Paris was a maze of streets that led nowhere, a map whose directions led elsewhere, a confusion of chalked arrows all pointing to a dead-end. The bar he went to could have been one he had been to before or it may have been a different one, he really couldn’t say and didn’t care. It was quiet and he ordered scotch and didn’t bother about the ice. Later, he went back to the hotel and got his things and checked out. The sun was setting over the city as he walked down crowded streets towards the Gare du Nord. It was as he approached the great building of the station, its arches and turrets framed against the darkening sky, that he saw the girl from the bar again.