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.The only luxury he would allow himself at this stage was the car.He had wanted it so long that he couldn’t bear the idea of waiting any longer.He decided, rashly, to have a new one after all.There was a showroom on the Champs Elysées which had Delages and Bugattis in the window.It gave him a curious thrill to walk in and ask for a D8SS, for immediate delivery.The manager himself came out of his office and showed him a car with Falaschi bodywork in green.He liked the body – very much.It was open, with sleek wings which flowed into the running boards and a long, long bonnet.Perfect – except for the colour.He wanted red, ruby red, with black leather upholstery.The manager was downcast.That could take weeks, maybe months.Vasson said he would wait for it.The manager went to the telephone.He returned smiling.It would be only two weeks, after all.Two weeks.Vasson rather enjoyed the idea of waiting.It would be a sort of sweet agony.It appealed to his sense of Christian guilt.Yes, he would wait for the red one.He paid a deposit, in cash as usual.The money was lasting well; the hotel, the month’s advance rent for the apartment, the new clothes and the cufflinks had hardly made a dent in it.But the car would, of course.For the deposit he had to dip into the crisp new notes for the first time.The two weeks passed surprisingly quickly.He busied himself looking at premises around Pigalle.It would take quite a while to set up the club: there were difficulties – permits, licences, access and so on.And he had to be careful; his new identity wouldn’t bear detailed examination by the police.Everything must be in order; none of the paperwork must be forgotten.If anything the difficulties made him more determined.Then at last the two weeks were up and he telephoned the showroom.Yes, the car was there, ready.It was like Christmas, or a birthday except he’d never known what it was like to get presents before.His heart started to hammer with excitement as he walked along the Champs Elysées.He approached from the opposite side of the avenue, under the trees, and stopped at an intersection to cross the wide boulevard.He looked across at the showroom and frowned.He couldn’t see a ruby red car anywhere, either in the window or on the wide pavement outside.He thought: Damn, it hasn’t arrived after all.He was just about to cross when he saw something that made him freeze.A man leaning against a tree pretending to read a newspaper, but actually watching the showroom.There was another further up the avenue, standing in a shop doorway, smoking a cigarette.Oh God.They were waiting for him.Sweat started from his forehead and he went quite cold.For several moments he stood absolutely still.The man in the doorway threw his cigarette away and looked up and down the avenue.Vasson turned quickly away and walked rapidly towards the Etoile.He came to one of the large pavement cafés and, going to the bar, asked to use the phone.He called the showroom and said he was delayed.Were they certain the car was absolutely ready? There was a slight hesitation, then they had assured him it was ready, there and waiting.He told them he wanted to drive it straight off and did they have it parked right outside? There was a moment’s silence, then they told him yes, it was just outside, ready to go.Vasson watched the showroom for ten minutes.There was no red Delage outside and none arrived while he waited.Instead there was plenty of activity among the men staked outside.A man came out of the showroom and spoke first to the man under the tree and then to the one in the doorway.There was a third Vasson hadn’t spotted before, in another doorway on the other side of the showroom.After their discussions they looked more relaxed as if they had been told that the action was off for the moment.Vasson turned away, sick at heart.It must have been the money, it could only have been the money.The money must stink to high heaven.He walked a long way, then went into a café and had a drink.It made him light-headed and he felt slightly hysterical.He had the dreadful desire to cry.Later he sat in a daze, thinking, thinking hard.At last, late in the evening, he left the café and walked slowly towards the apartment.He stayed in the apartment for three days, lying on the bed smoking or sometimes pacing up and down, thinking of a way to utilise the money.There was no way.He had known that straight away, but it took him three days to face it.Then he wept.He had been so naive it was incredible.How the Algerian must have laughed! How they all must have laughed! They’d probably been wondering how to get rid of that rotten money for years.The Algerian wouldn’t have printed it himself, it wasn’t his style, but he’d probably bought it cheap for an occasion like this …At one point he thought of revenge, he thought of nailing the Algerian with the money, of doing a deal for perhaps half the two hundred thousand.But he was frightened.If he went to Marseilles he knew the Algerian would kill him.He wouldn’t get within a mile.He tried to remember how lucky he was not to have been caught.And there was still some money from the down-payment: clean money.But it didn’t help.He had been robbed and cheated, and it hurt like hell.A week later he tried to shift some of the bad money with a bullion dealer.The dealer got the scent of the money even as it came out of the briefcase: Vasson saw it in his face.He made a quick exit before the dealer reached a telephone.It was no better at a small pawnbrokers: the old Jew handed the money back and yelled, ‘Get this rubbish out of here!’Vasson realised the money was well known.It must have been around for years.Eventually, in desperation, Vasson sold the lot for three thousand francs to a pied-noir who hoped to offload it in Tangiers.The good money lasted a year, spent carefully.There was no club, no car, no security.He was back where he’d started.Vasson strode up the steps and steeply-climbing streets that lead into the heart of Montmartre, and felt the sweat soaking his back.He walked faster again, pushing his body harder and harder to ease the pain in his kidney and the bitterness in his mouth.Finally he turned into a small dark café and sat near the window.The group of men sitting at the counter glanced at him and resumed their conversation.They knew he never said hello.The waiter brought him a coffee.He considered ordering a pastis; it might just revive him.He’d drunk enough the night before.He couldn’t remember exactly how many.Twenty or more
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