The Day of the Jackal

The Belgian tried unsuccessfully to look as if he did not comprehend.

‘Monsieur?’

‘The genuine front page of the driving licence. The one I said I wanted back.’

There could be no doubt now that the forger was playing theatre. He raised his eyebrows in extravagant surprise, as if the thought had just occurred to him, let go of the wad of bills, and turned away. He walked several paces one way, head bowed as if deep in thought, hands held behind his back. Then he turned and walked back.

‘I thought we might be able to have a little chat about that piece of paper, monsieur.’

‘Yes?’ The Jackal’s tone gave nothing away. It was flat, without expression, apart from a slight interrogative. The face said nothing either, and the eyes seemed half shrouded as if they stared only into their own private world.

‘The fact is, monsieur, that the original front page of the driving licence, with, I imagine, your real name on it, is not here. Oh, please, please …’ he made an elaborate gesture as if to reassure one seized by anxiety, which the Englishman gave no sense of being … ‘it is in a very safe place. In a private deed-box in a bank, which can be opened by no one but me. You see, monsieur, a man in my precarious line of business has to take precautions, take out, if you like, some form of insurance.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Now, my dear sir, I had hoped that you might be prepared to do business on the basis of an exchange of ownership of that piece of paper, business based on a sum somewhat above the last figure of a hundred and fifty pounds which we mentioned in this room.’

The Englishman sighed softly, as if slightly puzzled by the ability of Man to complicate unnecessarily his own existence on this earth. He gave no other sign that the proposal of the Belgian interested him.

‘You are interested?’ asked the forger, coyly. He was playing his part as if he had rehearsed it at length; the oblique approach, the supposedly subtle hints. It reminded the man in front of him of a bad B-picture.

‘I have met blackmailers before,’ said the Englishman, not an accusation, just a flat statement in a flat voice. The Belgian was shocked.

‘Ah, monsieur, I beg you. Blackmail? Me? What I propose is not blackmail, since that is a process that repeats itself. I propose simply a trade. The whole package for a certain sum of money. After all, I have in my deed-box the original of your licence, the developed plates and all the negatives of the photographs I took of you, and, I am afraid …’ he made a regretful moue to show he was afraid … ‘one other picture taken of you very quickly while you were standing under the arc lights without your make-up. I am sure these documents, in the hands of the British and French authorities, could cause you some inconvenience. You are evidently a man accustomed to paying in order to avoid the inconveniences of life …’

‘How much?’

‘One thousand pounds, monsieur.’

The Englishman considered the proposition, nodding quietly as if it was of mild academic interest only.

‘It would be worth that amount to me to recover those documents,’ he conceded.

The Belgian grinned triumphantly. ‘I am most glad to hear it, monsieur.’

‘But the answer is no,’ went on the Englishman, as if he were still thinking hard. The Belgian’s eyes narrowed.

‘But why? I do not understand. You say it is worth a thousand pounds to

you to have them back. It is a straight deal. We are both used to dealing in desirable property and being paid for it.’

‘There are two reasons,’ said the other mildly. ‘Firstly I have no evidence whatever that the original negatives of the photographs have not been copied, so that the first demand would not be succeeded by others. Nor have I any evidence that you have not given the documents to a friend, who when asked to produce them will suddenly decide that he no longer has them, unless he too is sweetened to the tune of another thousand pounds.’

The Belgian looked relieved. ‘If that is all that worries you, your fears are groundless. Firstly, it would be in my interest not to entrust the documents to any partner, for fear that he might not produce them. I do not imagine you would part with a thousand pounds without receiving the documents. So there is no reason for me to part with them. I repeat, they are in a bank deposit box.

‘From the point of view of repeated requests for money, that would not make sense. A photostat copy of the driving licence would not impress the British authorities, and even if you were caught with a false driving licence it would only cause you some inconvenience, but not enough to justify several payments of money to me. As for the French cards, if the French authorities were informed that a certain Englishman were masquerading as a non-existent Frenchman called André Martin they might indeed arrest you if you passed in France under that name. But if I were to make repeated requests for money it would become worth your while to throw the cards away and get another forger to make you a new set. Then you would no longer need to fear exposure while in France as André Martin, since Martin would have ceased to exist.’

‘Then why cannot I do that now?’ asked the Englishman, ‘since another complete set would cost me probably no more than an extra one hundred and fifty pounds?’

The Belgian gestured with hands apart, palms upwards.

‘I am banking on the fact that convenience and the time element to you are worth money. I think you need those André Martin papers and my silence in not too long a time. To get another set made would involve a lot more time, and they would not be as good. Those you have are perfect. So you want the papers, and my silence, and both now. The papers you have My silence costs a thousand pounds.’

‘Very well, since you put it like that. But what makes you think I have a thousand pounds right here in Belgium?’

The forger smiled tolerantly, as one who knows all the answers but has no rooted objections to exposing them to satisfy the whims of a close friend.

‘Monsieur, you are an English gentleman. It is clear to all. Yet you wish to pass for a middle-aged French working man. Your French is fluent and almost without accent. That is why I put the birthplace of André Martin as Colmar. You know, Alsatians speak French with a trace of accent like your own. You pass through France disguised as André Martin. Perfect, a stroke of genius. Who would ever think of searching an old man like Martin. So whatever you are carrying on you must be valuable. Drugs perhaps? Very fashionable in certain smart English circles these days. And Marseilles is one of the main supply centres. Or diamonds? I do not know. But the business you are in is profitable. English milords do not waste their time with picking pockets on racecourses. Please, monsieur, we stop playing games, hein? You telephone your friends in London and ask them to cable a thousand pounds to you at the bank here. Then tomorrow night we exchange packages and—hop—you are on your way, not so?’