The Twentieth Day of January

CHAPTER 2

The empty plates had been pushed to one side, and Nolan and MacKay sat facing each other at the long table in Nolan’s office.

“How about you cover Dempsey’s girlfriend and I cover Dempsey and Kleppe?”

“I’d need to go to Paris.”

“How long would you need?”

“A day each way and probably two days there. Maybe three.”

“Can you spare the time?”

“I’ll have to fix things with Magnusson first.”

“D’you want to get Harper to do that?”

“That could help.”

Nolan walked across the room and into the small hallway. MacKay could hear Nolan’s voice as he spoke on the phone, but he couldn’t hear the words. He realized that Nolan had been very cautious in dividing up the responsibilities. They didn’t want a foreigner investigating American citizens so he got the girl. On the other hand it was better that way. They didn’t have his contacts in Paris, and he didn’t know his way around the United States for that matter.

Nolan walked back and nodded as he sat down.

“That’s OK. He’s contacting your guy himself. Unless we hear in the next half hour, it’s OK. D’you want to travel overnight or have a night in a hotel?”

“What flights are there?”

“There’s an Air France flight in two hours’ time.”

“Book me on that, then.”

Nolan came back. He’d booked a first-class seat so that there was a chance for MacKay to sleep. MacKay yawned at the thought before he spoke.

“What do you think Harper thinks of all this?”

Nolan shrugged. “I’d say interested but cool at the moment.”

“Maybe I’m wasting your time?”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No. What about you?”

“The same as you. Instinct, training, experience tell me there’s something odd. Maybe it’s something that doesn’t matter. But we’d better find out.”

Nolan drove him to Dulles and waited with him until the flight was called.

The Air-France overnight flight landed at de Gaulle in the morning darkness and it was 8.30 before MacKay had cleared customs and immigration.

He booked in at a small hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines and bathed and shaved. As he waited for a taxi there was a gleam of sun piercing the November grey but by the time he arrived at the rue Soufflot there was a thin drizzle of rain. He looked at his watch. There was just about time for a coffee.

He wondered what her reaction would be. He had not kept in touch with her but unless she had changed that wouldn’t matter. When he had checked in the telephone directory he had felt that it was typical of her that she still lived in the same studio. She was beautiful and warm-hearted, and in the old days she would have these great passions that barely lasted a week. Nobody would see her in that week and then she would return to her circle, not sad or grief-stricken, but calm and serene. He knew that she relied on him in those days not to sink into the whirlpool with her. He had slept with her sometimes but he refused to join her in the torrent. And she was grateful, he knew, that he stayed on dry land and could reach out his hand to save her from the next emotional flood. He paid for the coffee and left.

It was almost eleven o’clock when he walked up the rue Mouffetard. They were putting fresh trays in the windows of the pâtisserie. Eclairs, mille-feuilles, meringues, and strawberry tarts with smooth, glazed surfaces.

As he crossed the road he glanced up at the house. It still looked much the same. Even the shutters were the same blue. He pressed the bell and stood waiting, with one foot on the bottom step, looking down the hill. It was a stinking, sleazy street but he hadn’t noticed that in the old days, and even now it had a raffish, attractive air in the pale winter light.

Then the door opened and the same brown eyes looked at him, one fragile hand pushing the dark hair from the side of her face. A moment’s perplexity, and then she recognized him.

“Jimmy. My God, what’s the matter?”

“Adèle. Nothing. Why should there be?” He smiled.

Her long slender fingers touched her cheek as she laughed.

“It’s so long ago. I must have been back in those times.” She stood aside. “Come in, chéri. Have you eaten?”

He closed the door behind him and followed her up the stairs. At the landing he could see the room beyond the open door. Still clinically white and antiseptic. Canvases leaning against the wall and the smell of turpentine and linseed. The massive mahogany easel still dominating the light from the big window. She was wearing an orange towelling bath-robe and she stood smiling in the centre of the room, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I didn’t know until late last night and I’ve been flying through the night.”

“Coffee?”

“That’d be great.”

He walked with her into the small kitchen and pulled out one of the tall stools. She looked much the same. There were some wrinkles, but only at her eyes and mouth, where she smiled. When the coffee had percolated she poured out two cups and sat looking at him. “How long ago was it, Jimmy? Ten years?”

“About that. And how are things with you?”

“I heard that you were a policeman or some such thing now.”

“Not me, my love.”

She sipped her coffee, her brown eyes studying his face.

“You look more of a loner than you used to.”

“Older, maybe.”

“Yes. But surer…” She put down her cup and sat with her hands on her knees. “Tell me why you came, chéri.”

“I wanted to talk to you about two people we knew in the old days.”

“Who?”

“Andrew Dempsey is one.”

She laughed. “He was just like you, Jimmy. Handsome, charming, some talent, kind, and amused at us foreigners with our funny ways.”

“What else?”

“Rich daddy, money no problem, girl-struck. What else can there be for a young man?”

“Do you remember when he was arrested?”

“Oh, God, yes. I was standing quite near him. They’d smashed his nose, and his clothes were covered with blood. He was unconscious when they threw him in the van. You were there. You were with me. Have you seen him again?”

“No. How long was he inside?”

“He was in Fresnes. It was a long time for something so little. Two months maybe. They let them both out at the same time. Him and Halenka.”

“Who got them out?”

“An American. I don’t remember his name.”

“What happened to Halenka?”

“She went back to Moscow. She’s done terribly well, you know.”

“At what?”

“Painting. She had shows in Leningrad, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw. All over. She’s very good.”

“I can remember that she was very pretty. What was she like?”

“A sweetie. Very gentle and sensitive. I think she and Andy would have married if they hadn’t sent her back to Moscow.”

“Was Andy a Party member?”

She looked at him carefully and then averted her eyes.

“You are a policeman, aren’t you?”

“Kind of.” He half smiled and shrugged.

She stood up, folding her arms in that defensive move that all interrogators recognize.

“What happened to Andy?”

“He’s a politician. A leading man in Powell’s election team.”

“Powell’s the man they say is going to win, isn’t he?”

“They say so.”

“And somebody wants to stab Andy in the back with his membership card. I thought that had all finished with McCarthy.”

“It did.”

“So why the questions now?”

“So why no answer?”

She smiled and shrugged. “I expect you know the answer anyway. Yes, he was a member. So was I. So was Halenka, and she was the only reason he joined. He loved her desperately.”

“Did she love him?”

“Oh yes, she adored him. They were like lovers from a book.”

“I can’t remember, did they live together?”

“Yes. They had a place by the Musée de Cluny.”

“Now tell me about you.”

She shrugged amiably. “I do quite well. Two one-man shows. One here in Paris and one in Düsseldorf. I’ve got a cottage near Honfleur. I get by nicely.”

“No grand passion?”

“Why so sure?”

“Because you look contented and level.”

“Touché.” She laughed. “And you?”

“Much the same as I used to be.”

“You haven’t lost your French, anyway.”

“How about we have lunch together?”

“OK. I’ll get dressed. Help yourself to a drink while you’re waiting.”

He sorted through the pile of old 78s and it was still there. He put it on the player and sat in the wicker chair listening. It was Charles Trenet singing “Il pleut dans ma chambre.” He wondered if she might come back into the room when she heard it. She didn’t.

They held hands as they walked down the hill to find a taxi, and lunched at le Petit Bedou in the rue Pergolese. There had been a tension at first, but slowly she relaxed so that he was encouraged to ask her to dinner that evening. When she left she blew him a kiss from the taxi as it turned to cross the bridge.

He phoned the embassy and waited in the Ritz bar for his SIS contact. He came in twenty minutes later.

“Hayles. What can I do for you?”

“MacKay. I need a check on the records of Fresnes, May, June, July 1968.”

“What’s the prisoner’s name?”

“There’s two. One’s an American named Andrew Dempsey, the other’s a girl; Halenka Tcharkova.”

“What were they in for?”

“The student demonstrations.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Most students were released after a couple of days. These two were held for nearly two months. I’d like to know why. And I’d like to know if anyone used influence to keep them in or get them out.”

“Was the girl Russian?”

“Yes.”

“How long have I got?”

“As soon as you can. Two days at most.”

“Where can I contact you?”

“Hotel du Nord. Boulevard des Capucines.”

“See you.”

“Thanks.”

MacKay was impressed. He liked men who didn’t need the social flim-flam but just got on with the job.

The hotel lobby called him in his room to announce that a Mr. Hayles was in attendance. He asked them to send him up.

Hayles was opening his notebook as he sat down. He glanced quickly at MacKay and then started reading from his notes.

“Andrew Joseph Dempsey. American citizen, born 1947. Arrested 9 May 1968 on charge of causing affray. Charge later altered to conspiracy with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 with surety from Viktor Kleppe United States passport number 917432, point of issue New York.

“Halenka Alexandrova Tcharkova, Soviet citizen, born 1949, passport issued Smolensk. Two-year French visa starting date August 1967. Arrested 9 May 1968 for conspiring with others to incite public violence. Released 14 July 1968 on medical grounds. Three months’ pregnant. Handed over to Soviet embassy officials 14 July and taken direct to Orly where she was put on Aeroflot flight 409 to Moscow at 18.30 hours local time.”

MacKay smiled. It was a real policeman’s report but he guessed that there would be more to come. Those were the facts but there would be some chit-chat.

“First-class, Mr. Hayles. Did you get any background stuff at all?”

“Two items that might be of use. A warder from the prison was sent to check at Orly that the girl was actually put on the plane. There was a scene. The girl and Dempsey were very distressed and the girl had to be forcibly removed by Soviet embassy officials. Dempsey was restrained by the man Kleppe. The warder’s not certain but he had the impression that the Russians knew Kleppe well, and also that when Kleppe got angry at the scene he shouted at them in Russian.

“The other thing is that Kleppe was having an affair with a Dutch girl, also at art school here in Paris. It was generally known that he was very wealthy and a dealer in diamonds in New York. That’s all, I’m afraid.”

“Would you like a drink now, Mr. Hayles?”

“No thanks. I’ve got things to do. By the way, I’d guess that they changed the charge against Dempsey to keep him inside longer.”

They dined at Châtaigner and he took advantage of being her host to ask a few more questions, and she replied without discernible resentment.

“Yes, I remember several people saying that Halenka was pregnant, but I think it was just putting two and two together because she lived with Andy.”

“Did you ever meet a man named Kleppe?”

“Not that I can recall. What was he taking?”

“He wasn’t a student. But he had a student girlfriend. A Dutch girl.”

“Was his name Viktor?”

“Yes. D’you remember him?”

“No. I never met him. Just heard about him. Rich American. Some people said he was a crook or a gangster.”

“What was his girlfriend’s name?”

“Marijke something or other—van Aker or some name like that. A good painter. I’ve seen notices of her stuff in Figaro. I think she lives in Amsterdam. She paints the kind of stuff you used to like. Realistic.” She grinned. “Drops of water on rose petals and highlights on pewter jugs.”

“Maybe she’ll grow out of it.”

She reached across and touched his hand.

“I said something this morning that sounded all wrong. I want to apologize.”

“What was it?”

“I said for you to have a drink while you were waiting for me to dress. It sounded as if I were saying keep out of my bedroom. I didn’t mean that. It wasn’t warning you off. It was just what I said. Nothing more.”

“My love, you only think that it could sound like that because you’re an artist. You notice what other people never see, you hear what other people never hear.”

“But you played that Charles Trenet song, and I thought maybe I had made you sad.”

“No. Just me and Proust ‘A la recherche du temps perdu.’”

“Are you sure?”

“It was ten years ago, my love. Kindness, happiness, some loving and a lot of talking are not a permanent credit card for bed. You are the only person I could ask these questions.”

“Will you walk me back?”

“I’d love to.”

He had used his SIS identity card to make contact with CIA at the embassy, and the tall Texan had made him welcome in one of the reception rooms.

“What can I do for you, Mr. MacKay?”

“I’m checking on a Russian girl who was here about ten years ago. She was an art student, and was put in prison during the student demonstrations. I’ve heard that an American student who was also jailed tried to help her, and asked for help from the embassy. I wondered if you have any record of that.”

“What were the names?”

“Halenka Tcharkova was the girl, and I believe the boy’s name was Dempsey. Andrew Dempsey.”

“I can check the records. Would you care to wait or shall I contact you later?”

“I’ll wait if that’s OK.”

“Sure. There’s magazines on the table.”

A secretary brought him coffee and cream, and he browsed through a small pile of New Yorkers. It was fifteen minutes before the CIA man came back. He was holding a thin file.

He sat down, looking speculatively at MacKay.

“Are you working with Langley?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I didn’t say that I think it. I’m just asking.”

“Let’s say I’m not.”

“Then let’s say I can’t help you. There’s nothing on the records.”

“You wouldn’t say that in Building 13.”

The Texan laughed. “OK, but there’s not very much.”

Building 13 was where CIA employees took their lie-detector tests.

He opened the file and turned back a couple of pages. He looked up.

“This guy Dempsey wrote a letter to the embassy asking the ambassador to get him and the Tcharkova girl out of jail. Seems he was in for conspiring with others, etcetera, etcetera. There’s a minute from our guy saying no, and there’s a reference to our local index. Dempsey was a member of the Communist Party. The branch that caters for students in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The girl was a member too, and she was on a Party grant as a student.”

“Is that enough to warrant no assistance?”

The Texan shrugged. “I guess it was, in those days.”

“Anything else?”

“Are you working with Nolan?”

“He’s a friend of mine.”

“Is that so. He queried this record a couple of days ago.”

“About the girl?”

“No, about the guy. I did some cross-checking with the French. It seems they were got out of jail by an American named Kleppe. The Soviet embassy came into it. Seems like they leaned on the French for both of them to be released into Kleppe’s custody. The girl to go straight back to Moscow. No restrictions on Dempsey, but Kleppe had to bail him for about a thousand bucks. The French have put a permanent visa block on Kleppe. I asked them why, but I didn’t get a satisfactory answer. Referred me to the Quai d’Orsay. They referred me to SDECE. And they gave me a vague story about suspect diamond deals. Kleppe’s a diamond dealer.”

“Nothing more about the girl?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Any known associates on the index for Dempsey?”

He opened the file again and turned over a buff card with a green diagonal stripe. He turned his head on one side to read the text.

“Two. D’you want to note them?”

“Thanks.”

“Pierre Benoit, 15 bis rue Jean de Beauvais and Jean-Paul Prouvost, 14 rue Lagrange. Both of them Party members in 1968.”

He ordered a meal in his hotel bedroom, and when he had finished eating he read again through his notes. He wondered what Morton Harper and Nolan were discovering, and he wondered, too, what their attitude was to him. There had been no congratulations on his revelation, and no hint of thanks. They must find it embarrassing and annoying that an outsider had spotted the flaw. On the other hand there had been no attempt to whitewash, no haste to send him packing, and none of the bland disclaimers they would have got in London if the positions had been reversed. By the time he got back to Washington they would probably have decided to close ranks and send him back to London, so that they could deal with the problem in their own sweet way, and without the inhibitions that came from being observed by an outsider. But Americans were an odd kind of people. If a similar problem had come up in London, Magnusson would have had a discreet word with the Foreign Secretary and all the efforts would have gone into sweeping it all under the carpet. But Americans never reacted that way. They ferreted away until they got at the truth and to hell with who got exposed. And they generally did it in public with the TV cameras letting you watch it happening. There would never be a Watergate in Britain. The axes would grind and there would be nods and winks among the knowing, a couple of D-notices and much waving of the Official Secrets Act. It would be interesting to see how the Americans dealt with this little can of worms.

MacKay took a taxi to the Place Maubert and then walked slowly down to find 14 rue Lagrange. It was a narrow building above an archway that led to a row of garages. There were six names against the bell-pushes and Prouvost was number 4. The front door was ajar and he walked inside. There was no elevator and the stairs were ill-lit, but everywhere was clean, and the heavy wooden doors gave an air of mild prosperity. Apartment 4 had a door with a stained-glass window and, after pressing the bell, MacKay heard footsteps inside.

When the door opened, a man in his middle thirties stood there smiling.

“I’m sorry but it’s already gone.”

“M’sieur Prouvost?”

“Yes. You came about the ’cello, yes?”

“I came to speak to you. My name is MacKay.”

The eyes behind the thick lenses were friendly but puzzled. But after a moment’s hesitation the man opened the door and waved MacKay inside. The narrow hallway led to a big room. It was more a workshop than a room. A heavy bench littered with woodworking tools ran along one wall, and on various tables lay stringed instruments and parts of instruments. Three old-fashioned armchairs were placed round a low table and the man waved MacKay to one of these and sat down himself. He looked expectantly at MacKay.

“If it’s insurance I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

MacKay smiled and shook his head. “No, m’sieur, I wanted to ask if you could remember two men who were students when you were a student.”

“Ah yes. It seems a long time ago but it was, how long—ten years perhaps. Who were these students?”

“One was Pierre Benoit.”

“And what did you want to know?”

“What kind of man was he?”

Prouvost leaned back smiling. “Hardly a man in those days, but certainly with talent. He could paint, no doubt about that. But not an artist. Too narrow, too derivative.” He shrugged. “He lacked originality, and inspiration. Mind you, he might have developed if he had been given time.”

“Given time? What happened?”

“He’s dead. Long ago. Five years, six it could be.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Killed himself. Gas. Money troubles and that ridiculous woman.”

“He was a member of the Communist Party, wasn’t he?”

Prouvost grinned. “Of course. We all were. Paid our dues. Even went to meetings if there was nothing better to do.”

“Are you still a Communist?”

“Well, I never resigned. You forget about these things when you’ve got work to do. Are you a policeman, my friend?”

“No. I just want to get the feel of those times. Research. The other man who interested me was a fellow named Dempsey. D’you remember him?”

“Oh yes. A lovely fellow. Had the painter’s eye but not a painter’s hand. Hopeless. Hopeless. But charming, delightful.”

“He joined the Party too?”

“I believe he did. He wasn’t really interested, of course. Too lazy, too happy. But his girl was Russian and I think he just joined to identify with her.”

“Did he ever discuss Communism?”

“Dempsey?” Prouvost laughed aloud. “He just laughed at them. Thought they were crazy.”

“Why did you join?”

Prouvost smiled and waved his arm at the violins and ’cellos scattered round the room.

“I joined because of Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Prokoviev, even Glazunov. I suppose even then I knew I couldn’t paint. Poor artist. Poor musician. But lots of feeling, lots of love.” He shrugged and smiled. “But they say I am good at all this.”

“Does it pay?”

“I eat. I drink. And I’m happy and respected. What more could a man want in these grim days?”