“That was too close,” Barclay said.
Dominique shrugged. “I have been in tighter places.”
“Tighter spots,” Barclay corrected. But when she asked him what was wrong with the way she’d phrased it, he couldn’t think of an answer.
Then came the moment of truth. He switched on the receivers. There were two, each with its own local frequency. One would pick up the telephone, one the bug under the sofa. They might jam or feed back on each other, but he didn’t think so. A more real problem was that they might pick up other frequency users: local taxis, CB radios... The signal was weak. A hiss, nothing more. Then the sound of a cough. Dominique thumped him on the shoulder in triumph.
“That’s him!” she said. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth. Barclay laughed.
“He can’t hear you, don’t worry,” he said. Now came the sound of music. Classical music. Separt hummed along to it. Actually, it occurred to Barclay that there was a chance Separt could hear them if he happened to put his ear close enough to the microphones while they were talking: these things had a way of working in both directions. Headphones were microphones, too.
“Now,” Dominique was saying, “all we can do is wait.”
“And hope,” added Barclay.
“Hope?”
“That he doesn’t find the bugs.”
She was dismissive. “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “If he finds them, we’ll...”
“I know, I know: we’ll think of something.” He turned to her. “Tell me,” he said, “did you know there were stairs behind that door?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“You might have —”
“Warned you? Yes, I forgot. Pardon me.”
“I’m not sure I can,” said Barclay. She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. He hadn’t really noticed before. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw lipstick on his cheek. He smiled, and did not wipe it off.
After an hour, Dominique got bored. “Nothing’s happening,” she said.
“I can see you’re not a cricket fan.”
“Cricket? You mean the English game?”
“Surveillance requires patience,” he said.
Well, so he would guess at any rate. He’d never actually been on a proper surveillance operation, had never been active “in the field.” He’d always been what could be called a backroom boy. But he’d read about “the field” in novels. He supposed the novelists must know. Besides, he was quite enjoying the music Separt was playing. Ravel.
Dominique opened her door. “I’ll get us some coffee and a sandwich,” she said.
“What happens if there’s some action while you’re away?”
“You’ll still be here.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand French. If anyone telephones...”
She thought about this, then collapsed back into her seat with an exasperated sound and slammed shut her door.
“I’ll fetch us something to drink if you like?”
She gripped the steering wheel. “I’d get even more bored on my own. Besides, I’m not really thirsty.” Her pout turned her into a teenager again. What was her age? “Listen,” she said suddenly, springing forward. Separt’s phone was ringing. Barclay sat up straight in his seat. This was his bug’s first trial. The music was being turned down. Barclay placed a finger to his lips, warning Dominique not to speak. The phone stopped ringing.
“Allo?” Separt’s voice.
“C’est Jean-Pierre.” The caller was loud and clear — much to Barclay’s relief. Dominique was listening intently to the conversation, mouthing the words silently as though learning them off by heart. She signaled for a pen and paper. He took his pen and diary from his inside pocket and handed them over. She opened the diary at November and began to write. After a few minutes of pretty well one-sided conversation, the call was terminated. But Dominique wrote on for another minute or so, reaching December, then read back through what she’d written, altering some words, adding others.
“Eh bien,” she said. “That was lucky.”
“How?”
“When Separt went out, he was trying to find the caller. But the caller was not at home, so he merely left a message asking him to call back. This he has done.”
“And?”
She smiled. “I don’t think we fooled him completely. He wanted to tell the caller all about us. Why would the police do such a survey? What could it mean? The caller was very interested.”
“Did they say anything specific about Witch?”
“Do not rush me. No, nothing about Witch. They were very... careful. A care that is learned over years. You might even say a professional care. They talked around the subject, like two friends, one merely telling his story to the other.”
“You think Separt knows about the bug?”
She shook her head. “If he knew, he would have warned the caller, and the caller would not have given away his location.”
“You know where he is?”
She nodded. “Pretty well. He said Separt had just missed him. He’d been across the street in Janetta’s.”
“Janetta’s?”
“It sounds like a bar, yes? Perhaps Janetta’s is not the name of the bar but of the woman who runs the bar. We will find out, but it might take some time. I think this Jean-Pierre knows something.”
“Such as?”
“Monsieur Separt reported his car missing after the assassin landed in England. I think someone persuaded him to... to turn the other cheek while the car was taken. He was not ill. He was waiting until it was safe to report the vehicle stolen. Why do you smile?”
“You mean turn a blind eye, not turn the other cheek.”
“Do I?”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, so now we track down Janetta’s.” He paused, wriggling in his seat. “Or do you want to stick around here?”
“No.” She checked her watch and turned towards him. “Tonight, you will sleep with me.” The look on Barclay’s face alerted her. “I mean,” she said quickly, “you will sleep at the apartment. Mama will insist that we dine with her. Don’t worry, she is a very good cook. And after dinner...”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you will show me your file on Witch. We are partners now after all, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are,” said Barclay, wondering what he would elect to tell Joyce Parry about all of this. She’d be expecting him back soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow morning. He’d have to think up a story to tell her, something convincing. Dominique seemed to read his mind.
“Your employers will allow you another day in Paris?” she asked.
Barclay slapped a confident look onto his face and said nonchalantly, “Oh, yes.”
But inside, he couldn’t help wondering.
Friday 12 June
Elder telephoned Joyce Parry just before breakfast. Smells of bacon fat and frying tomatoes wafted up to his room as he made the call.
“Joyce? Dominic here.”
“Who else would have the... consideration to call at this hour?”
She sounded sleepy. “Sorry,” he said, “did I wake you?”
“Just give me the news.”
He wondered idly whether she’d spent the night alone, as he had. “I’ve been sent a note,” he said.
“From whom?”
“Witch.”
“What?”
“Not what, who: Witch.”
“Don’t get smart, Dominic. Tell me.”
“Just that. A note warning me to stay away.”
“You personally?”
“Me personally.”