Soma Blues Read online

  “It does look like someone set Stanley up.”

  “It’s clear to me this thing probably has international ramifications. But this police inspector, this Fauchon, he’s not going to fly down to your island and try to run it down, is he?”

  “Of course not,” Hob said. “As yet there’s no reason to. But you can be sure he’ll make enquiries.”

  “Yes, I suppose he will. And the Spanish police will say we’ll look into it, mañana, and if anyone happens to wander into the station house and confesses to it, we’ll be happy to take him into custody, as long as it’s not siesta time. No, it’s simply not good enough. I want more done than that.”

  “What is it you want done?” Hob asked.

  “You’re a private detective. I want you to find his killer.”

  “All right, let’s talk about it,” Hob said. “First of all, given what little we know now, it might not be possible. Second, if by some stroke of luck I do find out who did it, that doesn’t mean I can prove it. What I’m saying is, even if I can find out who killed Stanley, an arrest may not be possible.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Timothy said. “I believe I understand the position. It may be a forlorn hope. But I feel one should do something.”

  “All right,” Hob said.

  Timothy took out his checkbook and a fountain pen and wrote Hob a check for five hundred pounds.

  “I’m by no means a wealthy man,” Timothy said. “That’s what I can afford. There won’t be any more. I’m sure you’ll do your best on it.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Hob said. “Where shall I send my reports? And do you want them telephoned as well as written?”

  “I don’t want any reports,” Timothy said. Hob could see that Timothy had made up his mind how to handle this probably on the flight over from London. “If and when you’ve brought his murderer to book, perhaps you’d be good enough to write me care of my club.” He gave Hob a card. “I’d appreciate your not putting a return address on the envelope. In my position, one must avoid scandal at all costs.”

  Hob didn’t like it, but he accepted it. One of the jobs of a private detective is to accept money from people who are trying to buy off their guilt at not doing something themselves. But from a detective’s point of view, it was a legitimate case.

  8

  The next day, Hob went to the Café Argent in the Square Sainte-Gabrielle. Usually Hob would have taken Nigel, his chief operative, but Nigel was away on some scheme or another in England. With Nigel absent, Hob brought his other Paris operative Jean-Claude, a skinny little fellow in his early thirties, with brilliantined black hair and a hairline mustache. Jean-Claude looked louche, dangerous, and unpleasant, as always. Today he wore his striped Apaches-of-Paris shirt and tight black pants.

  When a waiter came over to take their orders, Hob asked to see the proprietor. The proprietor came over, a short, square, balding man presenting a somewhat harrassed bonhomie.

  “I was here last night,” Hob said. “I am helping the French police in their investigations.”

  “Yes, m’sieu.”

  “This is my associate, Jean-Claude.”

  The proprietor made a slight bow. Jean-Claude gave him the slitted eye.

  “We seek to find out more about the man who sat with the deceased.”

  The proprietor made an expressive gesture with his hands. “As I told the inspector, I served the man myself. I noted nothing about him except what I have already said.”

  “I realize that,” Hob said. “But it occurred to me that it is slightly unusual for the proprieter to take orders when he has waiters.”

  “Nothing unusual about it,” the proprietor said. “Marcel had just gone off duty, so I filled and served the order myself.”

  “But did Marcel take the order?”

  “Of course. He wrote it up and gave me the slip, and then his time was finished, and he took off his apron and left. Young men these days are all for the union rules as long as they are in their favor.”

  “You didn’t mention this to Inspector Fauchon.”

  “It slipped my mind in the excitement of the moment. Anyhow, what need? I served the order, and I have already stated what I saw—which was nothing.”

  “Just so. But perhaps you would oblige us by asking Marcel to come to our table for a few questions. He might have seen something that slipped your attention.”

  The proprietor shrugged, a gesture that said, “That’ll be the day!” But he went to his counter and called for a young waiter who was serving on the far side of the square.

  Marcel was young, slim, blond, good-looking. Reminded Hob of a young Jean-Pierre Aumont. And yes, damned if the fellow didn’t have his hair marcelled. Sometimes life was very strange, indeed.

  “Yes, I took the order. But there was nothing amiss. They were talking together quite pleasantly. And as you know, I was not here when the accident took place.”

  “What were they talking about?” Hob asked.

  Marcel pulled himself up to his full height. “I do not eavesdrop on the customers, m’sieu.”

  Then Jean-Claude stepped in. “Look here, mon vieux, I’m not going to dance around the tables with you. You are a waiter, n’est-ce pas? That makes you automatically one of the nosy class. I am going to require that you tell me everything you overheard. If not, I am going to come back and talk to you again, and this time I’ll bring several friends along. Not friends like my colleague Hob, here, who is a gentleman. Friends who get results. My boy, we’ll have you babbling conversations you never even imagined took place. Why not save all of us a lot of trouble and tell us now?”

  Hob winced but said nothing. He did not approve of Jean-Claude’s methods, which he considered crude in the extreme. But he had to admit that they frequently got results. It was amazing how many people could be intimidated.

  “M’sieu does not have to threaten,” Marcel said. “I repeat, I am not a snoop. Anyhow, their talk was conducted in English and Spanish: two languages whose meanings I am not privy to.”

  “You are trying my patience,” Jean-Claude said. “You know something, damn it. I can tell by your stupid shifty eyes and the way you are shifting from one foot to another. No more evasions! For the last time, tell us something we can use.”

  “It isn’t much,” Marcel said, “but I can tell you about the map.”

  “Map? What map? The patron didn’t mention a map.”

  “They must have put it away before he came out to serve them.”

  “Well, what about the map?”

  “They were pointing to it and laughing. M’sieu, I truly did not understand their words. But their manner was that of men exchanging reminiscences and pointing to places where this and this happened.”

  “What kind of map was it?”

  “A gas station map. A Spanish one.”

  “What was it a map of?”

  “I did not see. Someplace in Spain, I presume.”

  “That’s very good,” Jean-Claude said. “Now you’ve begun, don’t stop now. What else?”

  “Nothing else, m’sieu.”

  “There has to be something else. What did this man look like?”

  “He sat well back in the shadow. But I noticed that his face was very tan. He was middle-aged, I would say. And he wore an emerald ring.”

  “You’re sure it was an emerald?”

  “It could have been green glass, for all I know,” Marcel said. “But it was cut brilliant fashion. That’s a lot of work to go to for a piece of glass.”

  “Was there anything else about his face?”

  “Nothing, m’sieu.”

  “Now put your attention once again to their words. Can you remember anything at all?”

  “Just ‘à votre santé.’ They said that in French. Toasting each other. That’s why I remember it.”

  “Which one said it?”

  “The stranger. The one who was not killed.”

  “And the other one—the victim—what did he sa
y?”

  “He said,’ And the same to you, Señor.’ ”

  “Señor what?”

  “I do not know. He made a strange gargling sort of sound. It may have been the Spanish r, m’sieu. But what came before it, and what after, I don’t know. And that is all, m’sieu, all, all!”

  “You have done well,” Jean-Claude said, patting the waiter on the cheek. “Better than you expected, eh? Come, Hob, shall we be on our way? There’s nothing further to be learned here.”

  “So what did all that add up to?” Jean-Claude asked after they had left.

  “A dark-faced or tanned man. One whose native tongue is presumably not French, but is likely either English or Spanish. And who perhaps has a name which contained a double Spanish r.”

  “Not much,” Jean-Claude said.

  “But something. Maybe I can find out more on Ibiza.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you? Jean-Claude asked.

  “Nothing would suit me better. But you’d have to pay your own ticket and expenses. The agency is sadly short of funds.”

  “Then I shall stay here in Paris, the center of the world. I was only trying to help.”

  “You are too kind,” Hob said.

  9

  Fauchon had shown Hob Stanley’s address book. “A courtesy to a colleague,” he’d said in an ironic voice. The only name that had meant anything to Hob was that of Hervé Vilmorin, a young French ballet dancer who divided his time between Paris and Ibiza. Fauchon had already questioned Hervé, but Hob was working on Stanley’s case now on behalf of Timothy Bower, and so decided his own interview would be in order. Besides, Fauchon wouldn’t let him see his interview notes.

  Hervé agreed reluctantly to see Hob at his apartment on the rue des Pères, which he shared with several other dancers. Hob went there in the late morning. Hervé was young, very slender, and muscular, his light brown hair modeled into a cut similar to that of Nijinsky in L’Après-midi d’un faune. He wore tight, well-cut blue jeans that showed off the development of his thighs and a light-blue cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to display his hairless brown arms.

  “I’ve already told Inspector Fauchon everything I know,” Hervé said.

  Hob shook his head. “Permit me to make a correction. You told Fauchon everything you thought was safe to say. You know me, Hervé. I’m not going to tell on you. Stanley was selling drugs, wasn’t he?”

  “Not to me,” Hervé said. “I don’t buy drugs. People give them to me.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of spending your own money,” Hob said. “But you’ve got a lot of friends who are users.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Hervé said.

  “Come on, Hervé! You and I have tripped together. At the Johnstone party. You came with Elmyr de Hory, remember?”

  Hervé had been trying to look stern. Now he couldn’t help a smile coming across his chiseled lips. “That was quite a good evening, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, and the California windowpane was pretty good, too. Look, I’m not trying to trap you into anything. I want to know why Stanley got killed. I’m working for his brother. I won’t pass on anything you tell me. So tell me, Hervé.”

  Hervé thought for a few seconds, then decided that Hob was to be trusted.

  “He was selling a new drug. Soma, he said it was called. He was quite excited about it. He said it was expensive but absolutely the best trip going. I gave him a few names. You know Paris people. Interested in the newest novelty.”

  “Did you try any yourself?”

  Hervé shook his head. “Stanley and I were going to take some together. Tonight, as a matter of fact.” His mouth drooped in sorrow.

  “These people he sold it to. Who were they?”

  “Hob, you know very well I’m not going to name any names. Not even for you, my dear. Anyhow, none of them could have been involved in Stanley’s murder. Wealthy Parisians don’t kill their dope dealers. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Can you at least tell me who he saw last?”

  “Oh, Hob, it isn’t going to do you any good. And anyhow, I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Hervé. I need a name. I have to start somewhere. Stanley was staying with you just before he got killed, wasn’t he?”

  “I’ve already admitted that to Fauchon.”

  “So you must know who was the last person he saw.”

  Hervé sighed. “Oh, all right. It was Etienne Vargas, if you must know. You know Etienne, don’t you? The tall, delicious Brazilian boy who came to the island a few months ago?”

  “I don’t know him. Was he going with Stanley?”

  “No way, my dear. Etienne is unfortunately straight. He goes with Annabelle. You know Annabelle, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Slightly. Is she here in Paris?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Etienne apparently came without her.”

  “Where was he staying?”

  “Some hotel, I believe. I don’t know which.”

  “Was he alone or with someone?”

  “I don’t know. He was alone when I saw him. He said he had an appointment with Stanley.”

  “How did he act?”

  Hervé shrugged. “Brazilian. What else?”

  “I mean, was he nervous?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “He came here to your apartment?”

  “Yes. Said he was supposed to meet with Stanley. I told him Stanley had gone out. Asked if I could take a message. He said no, he had a date with Stanley later, but since he was in the neighborhood he thought he’d drop by. And then he left. Hob, you mustn’t breathe a word about me telling you this.”

  “Don’t worry. Can you tell me anyone else who might have bought this soma from Stanley?”

  “I gave him half a dozen names to call. I don’t know if any of them bought from him. Hob, I really don’t know.”

  “What about Etienne? Do you think he might have bought some?”

  “He’s rich enough to. The Vargas family is very prominent in Rio de Janeiro. His father has a finca on the island, you know, near San Juan. I told you the stuff Stanley had was pricey. But I have no way of knowing who he sold to.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where I could reach Etienne now?”

  “Not a clue, my dear. I’d imagine he’s gone back to Ibiza.”

  TWO

  Ibiza

  1

  Hob looked out the window and saw below, through a thin screen of clouds, the island of Ibiza appear suddenly through a cloud break. He was sitting beside a businessman, fattish and obnoxious, who had begun a conversation by telling Hob that he was from Düsseldorf, had come to Paris on business, and, finishing his appointments early, was taking a long weekend on the Spanish island of Ibiza. Had Hob ever been there? Not waiting for an answer he said that he had a friend who lived in a new condominium near Santa Eulalia—Der Sturmkönig, it was called. Had Hob ever heard of the place? It had been mentioned in European Architecture magazine as “a piquant potpourri of styles old and new.” It had three swimming pools, a Corinthian arch, a bandstand in the shape of a seashell, and three restaurants, one of which had been awarded four pigs in International Gourmand magazine. It had its own shops and food stores, and, very important, its own German butcher who made the sausages and the Schweinefleisch and the other good meats of the homeland. There followed a brief dissertation on sausages, ending with, “I am very particular about my sausages. Only the Germans know how to make proper sausages. The French sausages look amusing but have too much garlic and otherwise lack character. The English sausages are carelessly put together and made with sawdust, like their politics. Only in Germany, and especially in the Düsseldorf area, is it known how to make sausages.”

  Hob nodded agreement throughout the speech. It was the sort of old-fashioned chauvinistic talk that was so difficult to come by these days, the sort of talk that Hob, a collector of extreme nationalistic attitudes, usually liked to hear, because in his mind Europe was a b
ig Disneyland in which each country had its own quaint colors and costumes and customs and its own special products and its own typical people in regional costumes who were always willing to make speeches about themselves. He thought it charming that the Italians had strong nationalistic opinions about pasta and the Scandinavians about akvavit, and so on, right down to the Belgians with their mussels and pommes frites. But typically, he disliked himself for having this cynical and superficial view, thought little of himself for being charmed by bogus quaintness, or even the real thing, real quaintness, whatever that is. He knew what he sought was out of touch with current realities. Europe was no longer quaint. It was in deadly earnest. But not for Americans, who, to their peril, couldn’t even take the Japanese seriously. Americans didn’t go to Europe to get a dose of reality. There was enough of that at home. They went for the local color. And if they couldn’t find it, they made it up.

  The plane dropped a wing and banked. Ibiza came fully into view, a small island that the jet could overfly in much less than a minute. There was the central spine of mountains, with the valleys on the southern side and the sheer cliffs coming down to the sea on the northern side. There was the pall of smoke over to one side, from the huge garbage pit near Santa Catalina that burned day and night and was the island’s leading eyesore. And then the plane was dropping down toward the airfield, and the seat belts sign came on.

  At last he was standing on the dusty tarmac, walking to the luggage area. There was a crowd of people behind the barricades, waiting for friends and lovers. Would there be someone waiting for him? Unlikely. It was close to six months since Hob had last been on the island, when he had come for Harry Hamm’s wedding.

  And then he was out and into a taxi and smelling the smell of the island: thyme and jasmine, oranges and lemons. He went by the low cubic white houses on the road into Ibiza City. In front of him arose the sight of the D’Alt Villa, the old city, a mass of white cubes rising up out of the ground, all odd angles and shapes, a cubist city of the past, like something out of remote Cycladean Greece.