Soma Blues Read Online Free Page B

of the drug he was selling was found on his body. It’s a new drug. It turned up in New York recently. Have you ever heard of soma?”
    “That’s a new one on me,” Hob said.
    “On a lot of people. It’s something we might start seeing around, however. Which is why I’d like to get on it before it gets started. Did you see Bower again after his stay in Ibiza?”
    “Nope.”
    “Not even during your visits to London?”
    “I told you, no. I didn’t like the man. He was one of those haughty types with a loud braying laugh. Pure Wodehouse. I didn’t take to him at all.”
    “But no doubt others found him an amusing fellow?”
    “No accounting for some tastes.”
    “What did Nigel Wheaton think of him, for example?”
    “Why don’t you ask him? And anyhow, what does it matter? You’re not accusing Nigel of supplying Stanley with a new drug and then killing him, are you?”
    Fauchon acted as if he hadn’t heard Hob’s questions. His gaze was vague, far away, taking in the brilliantly lit interior of the Lipp. It was one of his most annoying mannerisms, as far as Hob was concerned, this sudden switch of attention when a point of some importance had finally been reached. Hob felt that he did it by careful design, one of the many faces of Emile Fauchon, all of them carefully devised, none of them the real man, the man within. Who was the real Fauchon? Was there one?
    “What has Nigel been up to lately?” Fauchon asked. “I haven’t seen him around.”
    Hob stared at Fauchon bitterly. “This, I believe, is my chance to betray one of my best friends in return for the sumptuous feast you have given me here at this palace of German sauerkraut and French pretension. To act le stool pigeon , as your detective novels doubtless call it. And of course I’m happy to oblige. Nigel’s been up to the usual thing: a dope deal in Hong Kong, a bank heist in Valparaiso. I believe he also was responsible for last month’s political assassination in Montpelier. You know Nigel—he’s enterprising, always likes to keep busy.”
    “Your sarcasm is broadhanded,” Fauchon said, “but appreciated nonetheless.”
    “Thank you. Anything to keep the conversation going.”
    “Would you care for a drink before we get any deeper into this? And an espresso. Perhaps a double espresso.”
    “Now you’re sounding like Marley’s ghost,” Hob said.
    Fauchon considered it. “Yes, that’s apt. I’ve shown you Christmas Past in the cadaver of your late friend Stanley Bower.”
    “And who will I meet as Christmas Future?”
    “Waiter!” Fauchon called out, halting the balding stoop-shouldered little man in his tracks. “Two cognacs, and two double espressos. And the bill.”
    “No bill, Inspector. Courtesy of the management.”
    “Thank the management for me,” Fauchon said, “and tell them I’ll be arranging for an especially tough health inspector to call on them soon in repayment for their clumsy attempt to bribe me.”
    “Inspector! It was meant only as a courtesy! I assure you. … Inspector, if I tell them that, they’ll fire me!”
    “Then just bring me the order,” Fauchon said. “And the bill.”
    Relieved, the little waiter scurried away.
    Hob said, “Portrait of the incorruptible Emile Fauchon sternly turning down a free meal. Wonderful. I applaud. Now tell me about Christmas Future.”
    “Very soon,” Fauchon said, “I will show it to you. Hob, I expect your help on this matter. In fact, I insist on it. Find out about this Stanley Bower for me. Who might have wanted him dead. The thing appears to have been set up with some care. Find out about this soma.”
    “Sure. And what are you going to do for me?”
    “I will neglect to revoke your license to practice your worthess trade in Paris, as my superintendent has been hinting that I should do. I’m serious about this, Hob. You have contacts in Ibiza. You can find out what is needed to know. Meanwhile, would you like to telephone Marielle and tell her