The Travelling Companion by Ian Rankin Page B

endless, stretching to infinity. Turk slid an arm around my shoulders and guided me into the gloom.
    â€œWhitman sent you but he didn’t mention the climb. That’s the reason he wouldn’t drag his own sorry rump over here, you know.” Laughter boomed from his chest. He was stocky and bald and probably in his fifties or early sixties, with dark bushy eyebrows above eyes filled with sly humor. His voluminous white shirt and crimson waistcoat could have come from a different century, as could their owner. I’d read enough Dickens to see that Mr. Turk would have slotted right into one of those comedic episodes from Copperfield or Pickwick .
    â€œA drink’s what’s needed,” he went on, steering me down the hall. Varnished parquet floor stretched its length, and it ended eventually at a wall furnished with a large mirror, in which I glimpsed my sweating face. Doorways to left and right, both open, showing a tidy kitchen and a cluttered living-room. We entered this last and Turk positioned me before an armchair, thumping it so hard dust rose into the air.
    â€œSit!” he commanded, before pouring red wine from a glass decanter. I noticed for the first time that he had a discernible limp.
    â€œI don’t really …” I began to apologize.
    â€œNonsense, lad! This is Paris—you do realize that? Get it down you or I’ll have you deported for crimes against the state!”
    He had poured himself a glass not quite as generous as mine, and raised his hand in a toast before filling his mouth.
    I realized I really was thirsty, so took a sip. The stuff was nectar, unlike the cheap, weak compromises of Edinburgh lunches and dinners. Cherries and blackcurrants replaced the bitter memories, and Turk could tell I was in love. He beamed at me, nodding slowly.
    â€œDelicious,” I said.
    â€œDid you ever doubt it?” And he toasted me again with his glass before settling on the chaise longue opposite. “Do I detect a Scottish accent?”
    â€œEdinburgh.”
    â€œThat most Presbyterian of cities, explaining your aversion to pleasure.”
    â€œI’m not averse to pleasure.” As soon as the words were out, I regretted them, hoping they wouldn’t be misinterpreted. To cover my embarrassment, I took more sips of wine, causing Turk to spring to his feet in order to refill my glass.
    â€œMr. Whitman says you’re one of his oldest customers,” I stammered.
    â€œWe’ve known one another more years than I care to remember.”
    â€œSo you’ve lived in Paris a long time?”
    He smiled, this time a little wistfully. “How about you?” he asked.
    â€œThis is my first visit. I’m taking a break from university.”
    â€œYes, George said as much—too short a break, he seems to think. Your hero Stevenson didn’t let college hold him back, did he?” He saw my surprise. “George again,” he explained.
    â€œStevenson completed his studies.”
    â€œAnd passed the law exam,” Turk said airily. “But his family expected him to stick to that path, or one very like it, but the bold Louis had other ideas.” My host was swirling the wine in his glass. I found the motion hypnotic, and sensed I was not yet fully recovered from the climb. The room was stuffy, too, with the smell of leatherbound books, old curtains and faded rugs.
    â€œYou should take your jacket off,” Turk said. “Who the hell wears a black velvet jacket in Paris in the heat of summer?”
    â€œIt’s not velvet,” I mumbled, shrugging my arms out of the sleeves.
    â€œBut the nearest you could find?” Turk smiled to himself and I could tell that he knew—knew that Stevenson’s nickname at university had been “Velvet Jacket.”
    I lay the jacket across my knees and cleared my throat. “Mr. Whitman says you have some books to sell.”
    â€œA few boxes—mostly bought from