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There was a discreet tap at the door. Topaz entered. She wore a white apron.
Her face had no make-up, and her blonde hair was drawn tight into a chignon
high on the back of her head. I knew it was what she always wore when giving
Billy his bath but it made her look like some impossibly beautiful nurse from
one of those hospital films.
She nodded deferentially to Champion, and smiled at me. It was the same warm
friendly smile that she gave me whenever we saw each other about the house,
but she had not visited my room since that first night together.
Love has been defined as 'a desire to be desired'. Well, I'd been in love
enough times to think it unlikely that I was falling in love with Topaz. And
yet I knew that curious mixture of passion and pity that is the essence of
love. And, in spite of myself, I was jealous of some unknown man who might
deprive her of this exasperating composure.
I looked at Champion and then I looked back to her, always watchful for a
hint of their relationship. But the secret smile she gave me was more like the
rapport two sober people share in the presence of a drunken friend.
'Come along, Billy,' she said. But Billy did not go to her; he came to me and
put his arms round me and buried his head.
I crouched down to bring our faces level. Billy whispered, 'Don't worry,
Uncle Charlie, I won't tell her about the bread.'
When Billy had finally said goodnight and departed, Champion walked round to
the table beside the sofa. He opened the document case I'd brought from Valmy,
and flicked his way through it with superficial interest. 'Crap,' he said. The
same old crap. I'll look at it later. No need to lock it away upstairs.'
'Does Gus know that it's crap?' I said.
'It makes him feel he's part of the class struggle,' said Champion.
'He won't feel like that if he gets ten years for stealing secrets.'
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Then you don't know him,' said Champion. 'I fancy that's his most cherished
dream.'
'What's for dinner?'
'She's doing that bloody tripes a la mode again.'
'I like that.'
'Well, I don't,' said Champion. 'Don't you ever think about anything but
food? How about a drink?'
'You do that journey up the road to the Valmy three times a week, in that
little Fiat, and maybe you'll start thinking about it, too.' I waved away the
decanter he offered.
'All right. You think it's a waste of rime seeing Gus. But we'll need Gus
soon--really need him--and I don't want him getting a sudden crisis of
conscience then.'
'This is just to implicate him?'
'No, no, no. But I don't want him picking and choosing. I want a regular
channel out of that place. I'll sort it out when it gets here.'
'Dangerous way of buying crap,' I said 'For you, you mean?'
'Who else?'
'Don't worry your pretty little head. If they are going to clamp down, I'll
hear about it. I'll hear about it before the commandant.' He gave me a big
self-congratulatory smile. I'd never seen him really drunk before, or perhaps
until now I'd not known what to look out for.
'Well, that's wonderful,' I said, but the sarcasm didn't register upon him.
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He said, 'You should have seen Billy this afternoon. Ever seen those toy
trains the Germans do? They sent a man from the factory to set it up: goods
wagons, diesels, restaurant cars and locomotives --it goes right around the
room. Locomotives no bigger than your hand, but the detail is fantastic. We
kept it a secret--you should I have seen Billy's face.'
'He wants his mother, Steve. And he needs her! Servants and tailored clothes
and model trains--he doesn't give a damn about any of that'
Steve furrowed his brow. 'I'm only doing it for the boy,' he said. 'You know
that'
'Doing what?'
He drained his scotch. 'He wants his mother,' he repeated disgustedly. 'Whose
damn side are you on?'
'Billy's/ I said.
He got to his feet with only the slightest hint of unsteadiness, but when he
pointed at me his hand shook. 'You keep your lousy opinions to yourself.' To
moderate the rebuke, Champion smiled. But it wasn't much of a smile. 'For
God's sake, Charlie. She gets me down. Another letter from her lawyers
today... they accuse me of kidnapping Billy.'
'But isn't that what you did?'
'Damn right! And she's got two ways of getting Billy back-lawyers or physical
force. Well, she'll find out that I can afford more lawyers than she can, and
as for physical force, she'd have to fight her way through my army to get
here.' He smiled a bigger smile.
'He wants his mother, Steve. How can you be so blind?'
'Just do as you're told and keep your nose clean.'
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'Tripes a la mode, eh,' I said. 'I like the way she does that She puts
calves' stomach and ox-foot in it, that's what makes the gravy so thick.'
'Do you want to make me sick!' said Champion. 'I think I shall have a
mushroom omelette.' He walked round the sofa and opened the document case. He
shuffled through the Xerox copies that Gus had made at considerable risk. This
second look at them confirmed his opinion. He tossed them back into the case
with a contemptuous Gallic Pooof!' and poured the last of the Scotch into his
glass.
I was surprised to find how much his contempt annoyed me. Whatever Champion
felt about my fears, and Gus's motives, we deserved more for our pains than
that.
'Yes,' I said. 'She puts those garlic croutons into the omelettes. Perhaps
I'll have one of those as a starter.'
Chapter Seventeen
THURSDAY WAS a free day for me. I spent it in Nice. That morning I walked
slowly through the market, smelling the vegetables, fruit and flowers. I ate
an early peach, and put a Blue cornflower in my buttonhole. From the market it
was only a stone's throw to Serge Frankel's apartment. He was not surprised to
see me.
'We'll have coffee,' he said. He ushered me into the study. It was in the
usual state of chaos. Valuable stamps were scattered across his desk, and
there were piles of the old envelopes that I had learned to call 'covers'.
Catalogues, their pages tagged with coloured slips of paper, were piled high
on a chair, and some were placed open, one upon the other, alongside the
notebooks on his desk.
'I'm disturbing you.'
'Not at all, my boy. I'm glad of a break from work.'
I looked round the room, carefully and systematically. I tried to be discreet
about it but there could be no doubt that Serge Frankel knew what I was doing.
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He waited for me to speak. I said, 'Aren't you frightened of burglars, Serge?
This stuff must be worth a fortune.'
He picked up some creased stamps that he'd lined up under the big magnifier.
Using tweezers, he put them into a clear paper packet and placed a small
weight upon them. This is only a small percentage of what I have. A dealer has
to keep his stock circulating to prospective customers.' He plugged the
coffee-pot into a wall socket. 'I can give you cream today. It will make up
for last time.'
'Is Steve Champion still buying?' I said.
The telephone rang before Frankel could answer my question. He answered the
call, 'Serge Frankel,' and then before the caller could get launched into a
long conversation, he said, 'I have someone with me at present, and we are
talking business' He watched the coffee-pot and interjected a few laconic and
noncommittal words and a farewell. The coffee-pot was bubbling by the time he
rang off. 'A stamp dealer faces a thousand problems,' he said. 'One or two of
them are philatelic but at least nine hundred and ninety are simply human
nature.'
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