Bannerman nodded slowly, ‘More or less.’
Platt stared at him, his face flushed with excitement. ‘But how...?’
‘How about that drink?’
The big clock on the wall behind the counter at the Café Auguste showed eleven forty-five. The press conference had lasted a remarkably short time. It had seemed longer. And the walk from the offices of the Judicial Police to the café in the Boulevard de Waterloo had taken only a few minutes.
Platt wore a battered old checked hat well back on his head, and a dark blue Burberry that had seen better days. He sat uncomfortably in a chair opposite Bannerman and began chewing dirty fingernails. Bannerman infuriated him. He had said nothing during their walk from the Rue des Quatre Bras and now he was toying abstractly with the remains of his cigar. No doubt he would say what he had to say in his own good time. But Platt did not have time. His second edition deadline was pressing. By now his news desk would know about the Minister’s statement from other sources. There had probably been bulletins on the radio already. He was going to get his ear chewed when he finally called in. Jacques approached their table and nodded at Bannerman. ‘Monsieur?’
‘Two whiskies.’
‘I am sorry, Monsieur, it is forbidden to sell spirits in cafés.’
Bannerman raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘But you served me whisky last night.’
Jacques permitted himself a stiff smile. It did not suit him. ‘Last night, Monsieur, you were drinking with the Inspector. Today you are not.’
Bannerman looked at Platt. ‘Beer?’ The other nodded, a smile dawning on his fat lips. ‘Two beers.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur. I am sorry, Monsieur.’
Platt watched Jacques go and then he smiled more broadly. ‘So you were drinking with the Inspector last night. Du Maurier?’ Bannerman made no reply, which Platt took to mean yes. ‘And that’s how you knew what the Minister would say today. And what else did the Inspector tell you?’
Bannerman sat staring at the chewed end of his cigar. He was annoyed that Platt should have discovered so easily that he was getting information from du Maurier. Finally he looked up and said in a low voice, ‘Quite a bit, Platt, quite a bit.’ Then he leaned forward on the table. ‘But that’s confidential, you understand?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You’re being too damned clever for your own good, Platt. You know nothing except that a policeman tipped me off that the Minister for the Interior was going to announce that the case had been closed. Hardly headline news.’ He paused. ‘The only reason that I’m talking to you at all is because I need someone who knows this city and the people who make it tick.’
‘In return for...?’
‘A share of the story. If I can make it stand up.’ He sat back as Jacques delivered the beers. Platt was containing himself with difficulty. He took a gulp of beer and waited for Bannerman to go on. But Bannerman said nothing, enjoying the other’s discomfort.
‘Well?’ Platt barked. He was like a dog anticipating walkies.
‘Well what?’
‘What’s the story?’
‘Ah, well, that’s between me and me.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Platt grabbed his glass, spilling beer on the table, and half-emptied it. ‘What do you mean, between you and you?’ he spluttered, glancing anxiously at the clock.
Bannerman lifted his beer and took several long, slow pulls. He had regained the upper hand. ‘When’s your edition time?’ he asked.
Platt’s face was a mixture of misery and frustration. ‘Twelve,’ he said and glanced again at the clock. It was ten to twelve.
‘I’ll make it brief, then,’ Bannerman said. But he was in no hurry. He took out a cigar, peeled off the cellophane, part of the ritual of his smoking habit, and got it lit and smoking well. Finally he said, ‘You work in the dark until I start putting things together. I will need certain information on certain individuals. The facilities you have here and your knowledge of Brussels could save me a great deal of time. If and when the story stands up I’ll consider sharing it with you — if you have contributed anything of value.
Platt glared at him angrily. ‘What kind of deal is that?’
‘The only kind of deal I’m prepared to make. If I levelled with you, what would there be to prevent you from jumping me on publication? It’s not that I don’t trust you personally, you understand. I make a habit of not trusting anyone.’
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. Suppose I provide you with all this information.’ He glanced again at the clock. ‘What’s to stop you from forgetting to let me in on all your little secrets. I’m supposed to trust you I take it?’
Bannerman smiled. ‘I don’t know anyone else I would rather trust.’
Platt gulped down some more beer then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His hat seemed to have slipped even further back on his head. ‘No deal,’ he said emphatically.
Bannerman stood up. ‘Be seeing you.’
‘No, hold on! Wait a minute!’ The reporter was lost in an agony of indecision and the imminence of his midday deadline. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake.’ Bannerman sat down. ‘All right. Okay. You’re a bastard, Bannerman. You really know how to screw a guy.’ He hesitated and stole yet another glance at the clock. It was now two minutes before twelve.
Bannerman drew on his cigar. ‘You’re going to hold up your second edition.’
‘Get on with it!’
‘All right. I want to know all about a man called René Jansen. Anything and everything you can get. Personal life, business interests. Also a man called Michel Lapointe. Give me a call first thing tomorrow at the IPC building.’
Platt was confused, curious, but also conscious of the time, anticipating the fury of his news editor. He swilled the last of his beer and stood up. He looked hard at Bannerman, nodded curtly and hurried off to find a telephone. Bannerman finished his beer slowly, stubbed his cigar in the ashtray then settled up with Jacques.
When he stepped out into the boulevard the sun was no longer shining. Dark clouds had rolled in from the east, heavy with the threat of more snow.
II
Mademoiselle Ricain looked up from her typing and smiled primly when Bannerman came in. Bannerman wondered what it was she always seemed to be typing. Palin was slumped at his desk, still with his coat on, going through his shorthand notes. He had not been at the Rue des Quatres Bras and must just have got in from the midday press conference at the Salle de Presse. Palin glanced up when he came in, then buried his head again in his notes. Bannerman sat down and threw his notebook on the desk.
‘Your editor telephoned,’ Mademoiselle Ricain said. ‘Just a few minutes ago, from the airport. His flight had been delayed and he said for you not to expect him before one.’
Bannerman looked at his watch. It was a little after twelve thirty. ‘Fine. Thank you.’ He went through his pockets, not finding what he was looking for. ‘Damn. I seem to have forgotten to get cigars. I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, do you think you could...’
‘Of course,’ she said and stood up, apparently happy to run an errand for him. ‘There’s a place just across the road. What brand?’
Bannerman shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. A fistful of the best they’ve got.’ He drew out a thousand franc note. ‘Thanks,’ he said. She took the note, smiled again, still primly, and breezed past him. She was wearing perfume today, he noticed, and frowned a little.
He sat for a full minute after she had left and then took out a cigar and lit it. Palin looked up, hesitated, then said, ‘I thought you’d run out.’