Night Sky (85 page)

Eventually he slowed the Delage right down and guided it carefully through a narrow archway, into a cobblestone yard and up to some garage doors. He jumped out, opened the doors and drove the car slowly in.

He turned off the engine and sat for a moment in the silence, reluctant to leave the soft luxury of the leather seat. When he did get out it was to touch the long lines of the bonnet, to admire the four external exhausts which led out of the right-hand side of the engine-casing and into the wing, and to feel the fine elegant sweep of the rear, which seemed to go on for ever.

Eventually he stepped out into the courtyard and closed and locked the doors. He hated to go, but it wouldn’t be for long. He’d be coming back the next day with a mechanic, to get the dynamo and battery problems sorted out.

Automatically he looked around to see if anyone was watching him, but the dirty windows overlooking the courtyard were blank and anonymous. He’d been rather careless, he decided, driving through the Paris streets with the top down. In time it wouldn’t matter who saw him, but at the moment it was just a bit too soon after the Occupation to be affluent … Rather, he corrected himself, to be
seen
to be affluent.

Once he’d got the club going it would be different.

He walked the short distance to his apartment. It was the fourth he’d rented that year. It was as dingy and cheap as the others. Soon – within the year – there’d be a decent apartment. But not quite yet. Again, it would be too soon.

But then, as he’d discovered with the car, the waiting would make it all the better.

He changed out of his best clothes and put on something cheaper and more casual.

Then he went out again.

It was a long journey to the
dix-huitième
by Métro; he had to change trains twice. Immediately he came out into the daylight and saw Pigalle and the familiar streets leading up to Montmartre he felt at home.

He walked a short way up a side street until he came to an almost derelict building. There were many buildings in Paris like this at the moment, their leases unsold, their owners vanished, their occupants bankrupt. It was a perfect time to make a good deal.

Vasson had bought a forty-year lease on this property for almost nothing – but then he’d paid in gold, and gold was worth more to a seller than any amount of paper money.

He ran down the steps to the basement, found the door open and went in. The builders were there, tearing out the partition walls of what had once been a series of storerooms.

Vasson wandered around, exchanging a few words with the men. He wanted to get on friendly terms with them so that they’d work harder and finish the job on time, and more important, on budget.

He’d worked the figures out very carefully. He should get his money back within eighteen months.

He stood back and examined the scene as a whole. Already one could get an idea of how large the room would be once the partition walls had gone.

Just right. There’d be a bar in the far corner, a small dance floor, and plenty of small tables. Then, the special touch … A girl, dancing all by herself, high up in a golden cage. Gold! He liked the irony of it.

That was what he was going to call it.

The Golden Cage.

An English name. Very smart. The sign would be gold on black. He’d helped to design it himself.

He smiled. It was happening at last. And what made it so satisfying was that he’d earned it all himself. Every single penny.

T
HE POLICE STATION
was busy. People strode across the hall from one anonymous door to another, or from the main door to a sergeant sitting stoically at the front desk, and then back again. The waiting area was crowded, all the seats long taken. No-one looked at Julie. She sat very still, staring at the opposite wall, and, like everyone else, waited.

She’d been there for several hours, waiting at first, then giving her statement, and then waiting again. She would probably have to wait a while longer, but she didn’t mind; she could stay for just as long as necessary.

It was almost midday. Her stomach was beginning to rumble. She ignored it for as long as possible then took a piece of bread out of her pocket and chewed on it. It would have to last until the evening: she could only afford one meal a day. She’d managed to save very little from the small pension the War Office had arranged for her, and most of that had gone on the train and ferry fare.

The sergeant at the desk was eyeing her with an expression of patience worn thin. He sighed heavily and beckoned to her. She put the bread back in her pocket and walked over.

‘The commissaire’s still tied up, madame. And probably will be all day. Look, we
have
all the details. Every single detail, every single word … It’s all in your statement. The matter will be looked into by the appropriate department—’

‘But I still want to see the commissaire.’

‘He won’t see you, madame! He’s too busy.’

‘Then I’ll wait until he
is
able to see me. Thank you.’

The sergeant shook his head and rolled his eyes.

As she returned to her seat and her bread-chewing, she felt the sergeant’s despairing gaze drilling into her back. She knew what he must think of her, but the statement wasn’t enough. She had to be
sure
.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was difficult: the chair was narrow and uncomfortable. Finally she managed to doze a little, dreaming strange, disturbing dreams which blended in with the sounds in the hall so that she couldn’t tell what was real any more.

Then she sat and thought about Peter and how he was getting on without her. Later, she dozed again. The hours were interminable.

When she next looked at her watch it was nine in the evening. It had been a long day. To get to Rennes by nine that morning she had left Madame Boulet’s before dawn. Now she had missed the last bus back to Morlaix.

A door opened. Laughter came drifting through. That’s all they were probably doing, Julie thought angrily, telling jokes!

She got up and strode over to the desk. The sergeant looked up wearily. She said, ‘Please – ask again! Please!’

The sergeant made a face. ‘They already know you’re here. There’s no point. Anyway—’ He looked at a clock. ‘– the commissaire’s hardly likely to see you now. He’s had a long day.’

‘But he’s still here?’

The sergeant had been caught out and he didn’t like it. He pressed his lips firmly together. Julie said, ‘I’ll wait then,’ and went back towards the chair. It was a very hard chair indeed. She looked for other vacant chairs to pull together for a couch, but there were none. On an impulse she lay down on the floor, put her handbag under her head and closed her eyes. It was much more comfortable.

There was a hush. People paused in their journeys across the hall. Julie could hear their feet shuffling. She kept her eyes tightly closed and began to feel a little less comfortable.

Someone was approaching. ‘Madame, get up please.’ It was the sergeant’s voice.

She didn’t reply.

‘Madame, do you want me to move you by force?’

She opened her eyes and said, ‘No. But I must stay. I’m sorry.’ Beyond the sergeant’s legs she saw people staring and quickly closed her eyes again.

There was a pause then the footsteps receded. Julie relaxed a little and breathed deeply. She was beginning to regret her impulse. They’d probably throw her out.

After a while the footsteps came back. ‘Madame, get up. Now, please.’

‘No.’ She could hardly believe she had said it.

He hissed. ‘Come with me.
Please
.’

She held her breath.

The sergeant dropped his voice. ‘To see the commis-saire, madame. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

Julie opened her eyes. He meant it. She got to her feet, triumphant. The sergeant was already walking towards one of the doors. She followed him hurriedly, her eyes on the floor to avoid the curious stares of the onlookers.

She was shown straight into an office marked ‘Commissaire de Police’. Behind the desk sat a man in shirt sleeves, a cigarette in his mouth, a plump belly protruding towards the desk. For several moments he viewed Julie through heavy-lidded eyes. Julie stared back at him. Eventually the commissaire indicated that she should sit down. Then he said, ‘Well, madame, I hear that you’ve been disrupting the entire police station. May I ask why?’

‘I had to see you.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about Michel Le Goff!’

The commissaire raised an eyebrow. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s innocent. He was on our side. I can swear to that!’

‘Indeed?’ The tone was sardonic.

Julie paused, slightly nonplussed. She pressed on, ‘He’s not guilty of the crimes he’s charged with. He must be freed!’

‘Ah.’ He glanced down at some papers on his desk. ‘And this is the evidence you are presenting?’

She peered over the desk. ‘Is that—’

‘Your statement.’

So he had seen it after all. She had been certain it would get ignored or forgotten. She murmured, ‘Yes. That’s my evidence.’

‘Would you like to go over it again? Now?’

She could hardly believe her luck. ‘Yes!’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was a member of the
réseau
led by the agent known as Maurice, at Tregasnou. I interrogated the parcels – the airmen, I mean. And … I did beach duty … And, well, all kinds of jobs. I was with the group for over a year …’

The commissaire said solemnly, ‘You were very patriotic, madame. And very courageous.’

Julie blinked at the unexpected compliment. ‘Anyway, Michel Le Goff helped us. A lot. He got this very important scientist out of a factory in Brest and delivered him to us and … Then, when everything went wrong and the Boches closed in, then he helped us to escape—’

‘Helped who exactly?’

‘Me. And my son. And this scientist from the factory …’

‘No-one else?’

‘Well – no. The others had already been caught.’

‘Go on.’

Julie stared at him. ‘Well … That was it. I mean, he was on our side. He helped us. His actions prove it … He gave us his boat, he risked his life … I know him. I don’t believe he betrayed us!’

The commissaire said gently, ‘Why not?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why couldn’t he have betrayed you? Or rather, the others?’

Julie thought hard. ‘Because – because he saved us. He risked his life …’

‘He saved
you,
madame.’ The slightly mocking tone was back in his voice. ‘Tell me, what was your relationship with Michel Le Goff?’

‘He was –
is –
my cousin. A distant cousin by marriage, in fact. But that means nothing. Half the people in the village are related.’

‘Nothing more, madame?’

Julie felt herself blushing. ‘Certainly not! Whatever you’re implying it wasn’t like that! Not at all!’

The commissaire looked at her dispassionately. ‘If you say so, madame.’

There was a knowing look on his face. Julie glared back at him, hating herself for blushing, hating him for not believing her.

She made an effort and said calmly, ‘My evidence will go before the examining magistrate, won’t it?’

‘Yes. But there is a great weight of evidence against Le Goff. He will go on trial, I can assure you.’

‘What evidence?’

The commissaire raised his eyebrows. ‘People – reliable people – heard him swear to get his revenge on your
réseau.
Apparently he believed that they were responsible for his comrades getting caught in Brest – on that evening, when the scientist was being removed from the factory.

Julie frowned. He knew it all.

‘Also, he was seen in the company of informers from time to time. Believe me, madame, he was trouble. Always.’

Julie said quickly, ‘But what about the others – in my
réseau?
There were plenty of others who might have betrayed us. Have you looked into them? Have you
interrogated
them?’

The commissaire shook his head. ‘Madame, the Germans left only six weeks ago. We’ve had very little time. We have dozens of people coming in every day. You saw them out there! All of them have so-called “information”. Most of it’s sour grapes and make-believe! There are hundreds of cases under investigation …’

He raised a finger. ‘However, we
have
done some work on this particular case and we
have
followed up the obvious leads. Many of your
réseau
died, as we know. Here in Rennes. Others, we know from the Gestapo records, were sent to Germany.’ He threw out his hands in an expansive gesture and shrugged. ‘Whether they are still alive or not we do not know. We
cannot
know until Germany is defeated.’

‘What about Fougères?’ she demanded.

‘Ah! The man you accuse.’ He leant forward in his seat and said with emphasis, ‘He died, madame. In Fresnes. Well over a year ago. We have confirmation from Paris.’

Julie stared in disbelief. ‘There was no doubt it was him?’

Without a word the commissaire got up and went into an adjacent office. A few minutes later he came back with a file in his hand. He flicked through it. ‘Fougères was seen by two other prisoners before he died. They were positive it was him.’