Bamboo and blood

5

M. Beret looked disappointed when he came close enough for me to see his face. "A pity, I wanted a picture of the two of you together." He pointed a small flashlight down the street and clicked it on and off once. "Family portraits are always precious when we get older, don't you think, Inspector?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't feel like chatting. I'm soaked to the skin from this damp air. It's the second time today I've been soaked, and there isn't a lot of heat in my hotel room. Not much soap, either. Do you know they gave me one little bar and want it to last the entire week? I thought the West was supposed to be overflowing with creature comforts."

M. Beret's laughter bounced across the paving stones. A light went on in the closest house; someone opened the window and shouted. M. Beret stood up and shouted back.

"That sounded rude," I said.

"The old man told me to be quiet or he would call the police."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I was the police." M. Beret reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll. "Hungry?"

"Yes, actually. I haven't eaten all day. But then why tell you that? You already know."

"Annoying, isn't it, Inspector? I should think you'd be used to it, where you come from."

"Hunger?"

"No, being watched."

"Believe me, we'd never approach anything like what you're doing. Much too much trouble. Eats up manpower. Not really necessary, anyway. No one could actually get lost for very long where I come from, at least, that's how it used to be."

"Now?"

"Changing circumstances, you might say. New winds blowing."

"True enough, following someone is a lot of work. Easier just to bring them in, I suppose." He was thoughtful. Then he remembered the roll in his hand; he tore it in half. "Don't ever let it be said we Swiss are not hospitable, soap notwithstanding. I don't want you to have a bad impression of my country, Inspector. I just don't want you ever to come back." He took a small bite. "I could order you out, but that would cause a diplomatic incident. Besides, then I'd be forced to order the whole pack out. We'd have to rent a bus or something." He reached into another pocket and pulled out my watch. He thumped the face once, held it up to his ear, and then handed it to me. "You forgot this. It's waterproof, but it isn't Swiss. It's counterfeit."

"Surprise," I said.

"Why don't you go across the border into France? Or Italy? Then we could deny you reentry."

"I don't think I want to do that."

"No, I didn't suppose you would. Incidentally, your mission is looking for you." He watched me put the half of the roll in my pocket. "Saving that for later?"

"Since when does the mission use you to pass phone messages?"

"If they don't start paying their phone bill, they'll have to use semaphores." He unzipped a small bag he was carrying over his shoulder and took out a book. "I bought something for you. It's in English, I hope you don't mind."

I took the book and read the title aloud. "The Great Depression."

"These are difficult times in your country, I know. I apologize for waving that fact in front of your face this afternoon in the cafe. But many countries have gone through tough times. The hope is that they come out better, maybe learn from their mistakes. Do you know what I mean?"

"This is kind of you. I'll make sure the younger ones in the office read it." I was thinking of the girl who liked Rachmaninoff; maybe she would enjoy a book on the America her hero had missed seeing. During the Depression, he had been in Switzerland, of all places.

"You won't get in trouble, bringing that back?"

"Why would I get in trouble?"

"No reason, I suppose." He zipped up the bag and put it back over his shoulder.

"What did the mission want to tell me?"

"Inspector, I never pass on confidential diplomatic traffic; I would be betraying a sacred trust. You'll have to call them up and find out. By the way, you wouldn't have any Latin friends, would you?"

"Latin?"

"I'd watch my back if I were you."

"If you were me." I put the book under my shirt so it wouldn't get wet from the mist, which had deepened. "I'll read this tonight while I eat dinner. Could you preorder for me? That way I won't have to wait when I get to the restaurant, the one near the hotel."

"It was closed by the public health inspectors this evening. Something about Asian flu." M. Beret dug around in his pocket. "Oh, and this is for you, too. One of my men picked it up." He handed me a small piece of wood. "Do you know what it is?"

It was too dark to see and too wet to have any distinguishing feel. But I could guess. "Sure, it's beech."

M. Beret grunted. "You really are good, aren't you? Well, sleep soundly, Inspector. Please lock your door."

"I always do."

"You do? Someone told me that they don't lock hotel doors in your country."

"Really, I am disappointed. You of all people, I would have thought, wouldn't believe everything you heard. I don't suppose you have anything else for me."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. This seems to be your evening to make a pitch. First my watch, then half a roll; then a book; and finally a piece of wood. The going rate these days must be pretty cheap for my category. Please remember, I'm not a whore, not at any price and certainly not for you."

"I repeat, Inspector, please lock your door." M. Beret bowed to me slightly. "Au revoir," he said and walked briskly in the direction of his wheezing car.