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‘Th
e monsieur wonders if you would care to join him for a glass of champagne,’ whispered the barman, and regarded him archly.
The Jackal put down his whisky.
‘Tell the monsieur,’ he said clearly, so the pansies round the bar could hear, ‘that he does not attract me.’
There were gasps of horror, and several of the flick-knife-thin young men slipped off their bar-stools to come nearer so that they would not miss a word. The barman’s eyes opened wide with horror.
‘He’s offering you champagne, darling. We know him, he’s absolutely loaded. You’ve made a hit.’
For reply the Jackal slid off his bar-stool, took his glass of whisky and sauntered over to the other old queen.
‘Would you permit that I sit here?’ he asked. ‘One is embarrassing me.’
The arty one almost fainted with pleasure. A few minutes later the fat man, still glowering from the insult, left the bar, while his rival, his bony old hand indolently placed across that of the young American at his table, told his new-found friend what absolutely absolutely shocking manners some people had.
The Jackal and his escort left the bar after one o’clock. Several minutes before, the queer, whose name was Jules Bernard, had asked the Jackal where he was staying. With a show of shamefacedness the Jackal admitted that he had nowhere to stay, and that he was flat broke, a student down on his luck. As for Bernard, he could hardly believe his good fortune. As chance would have it, he told his young friend, he had a beautiful flat, very nicely decorated, and quite quiet. He lived alone, no one ever disturbed him and he never had anything to do with the neighbours in the block, because in the past they had been terribly, terribly rude. He would be delighted if young Martin would stay with him while he was in Paris. With another show, this time of intense gratitude, the Jackal had accepted. Just before they left the bar he had slipped into the lavatory (there was only one) and had emerged a few minutes later with his eyes heavily mascara’ed, powder on his cheeks, and lipstick on his mouth. Bernard looked very put out, but concealed it while they were still in the bar.
Outside on the pavement he protested, ‘I don’t like you in that stuff. It makes you look like all those nasty pansies back in there. You’re a very good-looking young boy. You don’t need all that stuff.’
‘Sorry, Jules, I thought it would improve things for you. I’ll wipe it all off when we get home.’
Slightly mollified, Bernard led the way to his car. He agreed to drive his new friend first to the Gare d’Austerlitz to pick up his bags, before going home. At the first cross-roads a policeman stepped into the road and flagged them down. As the policeman’s head came down to the driver’s side window, the Jackal flicked the inside light on. The policeman stared for a minute, then his face drew back with an expression of revulsion.
‘Allez,’ he commanded without further ado. As the car rolled away he muttered, ‘Sales pédés.’
There was one more stop, just before the station, and the policeman asked for papers. The Jackal giggled seductively.
‘Is that all you want?’ he asked archly.
‘Sod off,’ said the policeman and withdrew.
‘Don’t annoy them like that,’ protested Bernard sotto voce. ‘You’ll get us arrested.’
The Jackal withdrew his two suitcases from the left-luggage office without more than a disgusted glance from the clerk in charge; and hefted them into the back of Bernard’s car.
There was one more stop on the way to Bernard’s flat. This time it was by two CRS men, one a sergeant and the other a private, who flagged them down at a street junction a few hundred metres from where Bernard lived. The private came round to the passenger door and stared into the Jackal’s face. Then he recoiled.
‘Oh my God. Where are you two going?’ he growled.
The Jackal pouted.
‘Where do you think, duckie?’
The CRS man screwed up his face in disgust.
‘You bloody pooves make me sick. Move on.’
‘You should have asked to see their identity papers,’ said the sergeant to the private as the tail-lights of Bernard’s car disappeared down the street.
‘Oh, come on, Sarge,’ protested the private, ‘we’re looking for a fellow who screwed the arse off a Baroness and did her in, not a couple of raving nances.’
Bernard and the Jackal were inside the flat by two o’clock. The Jackal insisted on spending the night on the studio couch in the drawing room and Bernard quelled his objections, although he peeked through the bedroom door as the young American undressed. It was evidently going to be a delicate but exciting chase to seduce the iron-muscled student from New York.
In the night the Jackal checked the fridge in the well-appointed and effeminately decorated kitchen, and decided there was enough food for one person for three days, but not for two. In the morning Bernard wanted to go out for fresh milk, but the Jackal detained him, insisting that he preferred tinned milk in his coffee. So they spent the morning indoors talking. The Jackal insisted on seeing the midday television news.
The first item concerned the hunt for the killer of Madame la Baronne de la Chalonnière forty-eight hours earlier. Jules Bernard squealed with horror.
