The Widow by Nicolas Freeling Page B

err, I’ll have a whisky.’ Not a beer man or a pastis man. Petty bourgeois-man drinks whisky even if he loathes the taste: a Correct drink.
    â€˜You smoke?’ Packet of Camels, another affectation. Well-built enough. Shoulders a bit round, when he took his coat off. Tallish, quite a good head, brown hair, nice blue eyes when he made his mind up to take off the sunglasses. He rummaged in the pockets of a business suit for a lighter. Completely normal looking. A small tic puckered the bridge of his nose and between the eyes, giving him a moment’s puzzled glare every few seconds, but it was nothing disturbing.
    â€˜D’you mind telling me your real name?’
    â€˜Demazis, Albert Demazis, it doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll give you a card; I take you into my confidence, but disregard these addresses and numbers will you? I’d rather you didn’t contact me at home either.’ He had to recover male superiority. ‘This must remain confidential.’
    â€˜You have my word. If that wasn’t good I wouldn’t be in business.’
    â€˜And how long have you been in this uh, business?’
    â€˜I was a police officer’s wife, Monsieur Demazis, for twenty years.’
    â€˜Oh. Um – that’s no longer so?’
    â€˜He died. I settled here. I remarried. Liberal profession.’ Always let them know you’ve a man, as Corinne recommended. And as Arthur said dryly, always say liberal profession, there’snothing the French respect more. Top of the earnings’ ladder. Say a professor, and sociology at that, they start looking for the holes in your socks.
    â€˜I see. I beg your pardon.’ She seemed established as bona fide, though even if reassured Monsieur Demazis was not at ease. Smoking in a greedy way, putting the cigarette in the centre of a fleshy mouth and sucking hard, getting the most out of each puff; fidgeting with his glass. And the eyes roamed. What was this idiot Dupont act anyhow? What harm could it do to say your name?
    The café was peaceful enough. A couple of groups of students guffawing round cups of cold coffee; two or three old men ritually enjoying their usuals: a workman or two having a quick one at the bar and prolonging it with gossip. The patronne languidly rubbing at chrome on the coffee machine and the boy, probably her son, gazing vacantly. All present looked innocent: any KGB men were well under cover.
    â€˜Now what about fees?’ businesslike. A piece of patter she had not yet practised.
    â€˜You haven’t told me what you want. I made it clear, I think, that this costs you nothing. Thereafter the same rate as any specialist consultation. I do nothing financial, so no percentage. If it’s something needing research or enquiry we can agree a daily rate. The usual expenses, travel or whatever.’
    â€˜That’s um, reasonable,’ stubbing his cigarette and taking at once a fresh one. ‘Waiter – same again. This … is difficult, very delicate. Concerns too my wife …’
    â€˜You realize I’m not a lawyer? If you want to stop a divorce I might be able to help. If you’re looking for one, I’d suggest the usual enquiry bureau.’
    â€˜No, no – nothing like that.’
    â€˜You must give me something to go on, you know.’ The waiter brought his drink and looked at Arlette, who shook her head.
    â€˜I’m being menaced,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve reason to believe my life’s in danger.’ Oh dear. One of those. She felt let down. Wasting her time, here. Still, one must play fair.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I’ve had messages,’ unwillingly. ‘Nothing written that would leave a trace. Peculiar telephone calls.’
    â€˜Anybody you know?’
    â€˜Perfect strangers. I don’t like it at all.’
    â€˜You mentioned your wife – how is she concerned?’
    â€˜She’s been acting oddly – saying