‘Not now. Now it’s our problem. There’s going to be another Korea out there, take my word for it. In the meantime, it’s chaos. And chaos is the best environment for someone like John Largo to operate in.’
‘But you don’t think Barnier’s directly involved?’
‘I didn’t say that. It could be that he doesn’t know what he’s shipping. Or it could be that, for all we know, Alain Barnier is John Largo.’
‘It’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘Barnier is established here. The other thing is he looks too much like an international criminal mastermind. The sharp clothes, the French accent and the goatee beard… I think John Largo would keep a lower profile.’
‘So don’t I,’ said Devereaux, then grinned at my puzzled expression. ‘You’ll have to learn Vermontese. It’s what we say when we mean “so do I”. You know the other thing it could be… maybe John Largo is like Robin Hood. A kind of composite character. Maybe John Largo is more an organization than a criminal. Maybe Barnier is part of John Largo.’
‘He has a partner. A guy called Claude Clement. Here…’ I took my notebook from the side pocket of my dinner jacket and copied the addresses onto a blank page, tore it out and handed it to Devereaux. ‘I found that when I was stealing paper clips. Maybe Barnier and Clement are in this together. So what now?’
‘I’ll get onto Washington, see if we’ve got anything on Barnier or this other guy. In the meantime I suggest you keep tabs on him. I also suggest you give me everything you get, as soon as you get it. Otherwise I might just offer McNab or Ferguson my professional insight into who clobbered their beat boy. And, remember, I’ve still got a thousand dollars if you lead me to Largo. Don’t hold out on me again, Lennox.’
‘There is one more thing,’ I said. I had just remembered it myself. Taking out my notebook again, I scribbled a second note and handed it to Devereaux. ‘That’s the address in New York the jade demons are being sent: Santorno Antiques and Curios.’
‘Thanks.’ He took the note and put it in his pocket without looking at it.
We didn’t talk much after that. I drove him back to his hotel and waited to make sure he got in; it was three in the morning and it took an age before an elderly night porter opened up for him. Devereaux turned and gave me a half wave, half salute and disappeared into the hotel. I sat for a moment, staring at the closed oak door. I had given Devereaux everything. Almost everything. I hadn’t mentioned the visit to the Free French naval monument. It probably wasn’t anything, but I needed to check it out for myself first. I was deep tired. Tired to the bone. There were so many thoughts buzzing about my head but my brain had pulled the shutters down and turned the sign around on the door.
Thinking would have to wait until morning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
First thing the next morning, I made another trip to the Mitchell Library. This time it wasn’t to meet with anyone. I was looking for a very specific piece of information.
I was aided in my search by a rather accommodating librarian who fell for my helpless hunk act. She was a brunette, about thirty, and was dressed in a vaguely bohemian way, or as bohemian as the formality of the city library would allow, with her dark hair loose. I had spotted her from across the main library. She had been supporting an impressive array of heavy reference books in her arms and in turn supporting an equally impressive bust on the books. She looked to me like a free-thinking type: I found an open-minded attitude an asset in a woman. We hit it off right away. It could, of course have been our shared bibliophilia, but my guess was it was more likely to be my very obvious and profound appreciation of her best assets.
In any case, her cooperation made my search faster and more efficient than if I’d stumbled around myself. It took me forty-five minutes to compile the newspaper articles, service reports and casualty lists that I needed. Of course, there were details that I couldn’t get to: Britain was a secretive state, and nearly ten years after the end of the war there were details of the conflict that remained locked away in Whitehall basements, where they would remain for another eighty years at least. But I found enough to be getting along with; I also managed to get the home address of my brunette research partner as well as very specific times I could calclass="underline" along with the vaguely bohemian dress, she wore a wedding band on her left hand. I guessed her husband was neither bohemian nor open-minded.
She left me at one of the desks with all of my research materials. I was focussed on one event and I spent two hours going through newspaper accounts and official reports on the disaster. But it was the casualty lists and service lists that interested me most. Finally, I found what I was looking for: Alain Barnier had been a junior officer on the Maille-Breze. It would explain the Frenchman’s attachment to this part of the world. It would also explain his visits to the memorial on Lyle Hill.
But, as I looked at Barnier’s name on the page, it left more unexplained than explained.
I read through back issues of the Greenock Telegraph, covering the earlier years of the war. There had been a lot of French sailors stationed in the area during the war and I scanned every mention of the French forces. They were mainly the usual flag-waving, forget-Napoleon-we’re-all-pals-now pieces. The Scots had a very different relationship with the French than the English had: there had been the Auld Alliance, the Franco-Scottish-Norwegian treaty that had preceded the British Act of Union, and to which the Scots romantically attached great importance. The relationship between the French sailors and the locals had been generally positive. There was certainly not going to be anything negative said about it in the wartime press.
But I did find something significant in the court records. Three Greenock dockyard workers, exempt from military service because of their reserved occupation, had appeared in the town’s sheriff court charged with breach of the peace, assault and police assault. Apparently the three locals had been involved in a melee in the town. The local police, and provosts of the Gendarmerie Maritime had had to break up a major brawl that had spilled out of a Greenock bar and into the streets. The date was significant: 5 July, 1940 — two days after the British Royal Navy had attacked the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir to stop the ships falling into German hands. Ten ships had been sunk and nearly 1300 French sailors killed. It had been a diplomatic disaster and had left the French asking ‘with friends like these…’
It didn’t take massive skills of deduction to work out that tensions had been high and some loudmouth must have said something to get a fight started between the French sailors and the locals. Of course, it didn’t need to be that. In the West of Scotland you didn’t need much of a reason for a fight, and seeing as many of the local girls had earned, with much enthusiasm, the epithet of matelots’ mattresses, the good old standards of sexual jealousy and booze were always available for the potentially pugnacious.
I was about to move on when a statement by one of the witnesses drew me back into the report. A group of French sailors had found themselves surrounded by a mob of locals. They were rescued by a group of local police and French naval provosts made up of naval gendarmes and Fusiliers Marins. The witness’s statement described how some of the French provosts had used ‘some kind of fancy foot-fighting’ to drive back the crowd.
I asked my librarian if she could photostat the report for me and, after a little gentle persuasion and much Lennox charm, she agreed. But I would have to pay for the materials and call back for the prints.
It was nearly lunchtime and I made my daily trip to see Davey at the hospital. His face was becoming slightly more recognizable but, if anything, he seemed less chipper than he had been right after the attack. After you’ve taken a beating, it takes a while for the pain to settle itself in, to find the little corners it wants to occupy; to soak itself deep into your muscle and bone. Usually it invites shock and depression as roommates. It was clear that young Davey Wallace’s broken body was now fully let.