I nodded. 'If I can. But you may have to pay heavily. I will not recommend you pay blackmail; that will merely encourage more demands. A one-off purchase is another thing, though. Are you ready to pay high?'
She nodded.
'Then I will try. The first thing will be to make contact. I will post someone outside your door just in case. And you must let me know immediately you hear anything else.'
'Thank you, my friend.' It was a word which did not often pass her lips. It sounded strange coming from her, as though she did not really know what it meant.
The next day, I put Jules onto the task. 'Time to earn your pay, my boy. You know the Countess von Futak's house?'
Jules nodded. He should; he had already spent more time than he wanted camped outside it.
'Back there again, I'm afraid. I want you to watch the gate. Someone may deliver a letter by hand; I want to know who it is. Everyone who puts anything in the letterbox – I want a full description, times, everything. And no,' I said as I could see he was about to speak. 'I will not tell you why. If you are lucky it will only be for a day or so.'
Jules was lucky: it took a few hours. At lunchtime another letter was delivered, and Jules followed the man who dropped it quickly in the letterbox and hurried on. The description was that of Simon, and Jules tracked him all the way up to Belleville where he was renting a room in a hotel for itinerants. The letter, I later learned, was a demand for 10,000 francs, which was encouraging: he was getting down to business, and it seemed he was only after small change. Perhaps he did not appreciate exactly how valuable the diaries were. Or perhaps this was just the start.
Jules and I had lunch in my room, which he brought up from the kitchen. The hotel did have running water in the rooms, but not hot. The manager had kindly fitted a gas pipe and a little heater for me because I had taken the rooms for a year. On this I could brew my tea and heat up sufficient water for washing and shaving, as the sanitary arrangements were somewhat limited. That did not matter so much; lavish use of eau-de-cologne covered a multitude of sins.
'Listen,' I said, as Jules set out the little table by the window. 'I have another job for you. How do you feel like travelling?'
Jules brightened.
'How often have you been outside Paris?'
He thought. 'Never,' he said eventually.
'Never?'
'Well, I went to Versailles once, to find my father.'
'And did that experience of foreign climes create a desire for more?'
'Not really.'
'A pity. Because I want you to go to Lausanne. In Switzerland.'
Jules gaped. I might as well have said I wanted him to go to the moon.
'It's time you saw the world a little,' I said. 'You can't spend your entire life in Paris. It will take you a day to get there, the same to get back and however long it takes to complete the job I want done. I will give you money for the train ticket, and board and lodging when you are there.'
Jules was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He was a street urchin, even if he was one with dreams. The prospect of leaving his stamping ground, the streets and passages he knew so well, struck terror into his heart. But, brave lad that he was, he recovered swiftly. This, I could see him saying to himself, was necessary. This he had to do. I sympathised with his terror and pretended not to notice.
'When in Lausanne, I want you to find out about a man called Stauffer. I know nothing about him, except that he is dead. Start at the local paper, ask for obituaries, that sort of thing. Find out who he was. About his wife, children and relations, especially children. Any unusual stories, scandals or incidents. Anything at all, really. '
Jules nodded hesitantly. 'Can I ask why?'
'No. It doesn't matter why. Think of it simply as good practice for your life as a journalist in years to come.'
'What life?'
'Dear boy, you are made for it. When you leave me, as one day you no doubt will, you will have to get a proper job. You will be an excellent journalist, and I will recommend you to an editor when you are ready. You will have to start at the bottom; after that it will be up to you. What's the matter? Is there something else you want to do?'
Jules had sat down on the bed, his face white with shock. 'I don't know what to say . . .' he muttered eventually.
'Well, if you don't want to do it . . .'
'Of course I do,' he said, looking up urgently. 'Of course I do.'
'Excellent,' I replied. 'That's settled then. I suggest you spend your time on the train beginning to prepare yourself. Buy every single newspaper, and read them all, carefully.'
