‘What happened to it? Why was it torn down?’
‘The Germans decided it was undesirable and had it flattened. The real reason, I think, was that they couldn’t control what went on inside.’
They finished their coffee and the doctor insisted on paying for lunch. ‘It’s my pleasure. Forgive me, but I have to go now.’
‘Of course.’
He swivelled in his chair and reached for his stick. Julie got up to help him. He said, ‘There is just one thing … There’s an old friend of mine, a chap who’s been in a little trouble from time to time. He might know how to contact the right people …’
‘I thought you said you didn’t mix with those sorts of people,’ Julie laughed.
‘Ah, well, one’s not so choosy about one’s friends in prison.’
‘In prison?’
He got slowly and painfully to his feet, falling slightly against the table as he did so. She held his arm until he had regained his balance. ‘This leg … Slow to mend … An infernal nuisance … Yes, prison. We were lucky, he and I … We were lucky …’
So the mild manner had not deceived the Gestapo after all. It explained his frailty and the broken, badly-mended leg.
He was holding out his hand. ‘It was a great pleasure, madame. Goodbye. I’ll make enquiries of my friend. I’ll telephone. Goodbye.’ He made his way slowly down the street.
Six hours later there was a message. It read simply: Try Chez Henri off the Rue Caisserie. Good luck.’
She had no trouble in finding Henri’s Bar; the hotel proprietor directed her straight to it. The place was narrow-fronted and dark. She hesitated. Often bars were combined with cafés or restaurants and a woman could go in quite happily. But this was a bar, a drinking establishment pure and simple.
She drew a deep breath and marched straight in.
The interior was dimly lit and, seeing a vacant table beside the door, she sank quickly into a chair. Then she changed her mind. She might as well go the whole hog. Getting up, she perched on a stool at the bar.
The place was, she imagined, typical. Dark polished wood, yellow paint, and the odour of a thousand cigarettes. But there were exotic smells, too, of spices and herbs and strange unfamiliar scents. A handful of regular customers sat at the bar, well into cafe-cognac, pastis and wine and cassis.
Behind the counter was a young man, busy serving customers, and an older, plumper man, carefully adjusting the rows of bottles that lined the back of the bar. The older man was surreptitiously watching her in a mirror. She guessed he was the proprietor.
The young man came by and she ordered coffee. As he went to get it she saw two oranges behind the bar and immediately wished she’d ordered
orange pressee.
Oranges were virtually unobtainable in England.
The coffee was put in front of her. A moment later the proprietor drifted past.
‘Excuse me—’ Julie asked quickly.
The proprietor continued as if he hadn’t heard her, took his time putting a bottle on a shelf, then slowly returned. He said without looking at her, ‘Yes.’
‘I want information.’
‘Oh yes?’ He gave her a hard look. ‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m looking for someone. Someone who might have lived around here, or visited the Old Quarter …’
‘His name?’
This was where it got difficult. But there was no way round it. She said, ‘That’s the problem … I don’t know it.’ She sighed and smiled a little. ‘All I know is that he was called the Marseillais.’
The proprietor looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘The Marseillais?’ He nodded slowly, as if humouring an idiot. ‘The Marseillais? Madame, can you imagine how many people are called that in the world? Eh? Every
mac
in Marseilles! And whenever a Marseillais goes away, guess what people call him! Why yes, madame!’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘They call him a Marseillais, that’s what!’
Julie nodded. ‘Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous but – he must have been known here. Before he went away. Known … in bars, around the place … He was the kind of person who might have been involved in –
le milieu
…’
‘So—? Half the population of this place is involved in
something
!’ He was glaring at her, hostile now.
Before Julie could say any more, he moved away and served another customer.
It was five minutes before he came her way again, hurrying past on the far side of the bar. She leaned over the counter and said, ‘Please, another word—?’
He hesitated for a moment, poised to walk away again.
‘Look … can you give me the name of someone who might know.’
‘Who do you suggest?’
Julie began to get exasperated. ‘Someone who can help. Look, this man – the one I’m looking for, he’s wanted by—’ She almost said the police, but realised it might count against her. ‘By the Resistance. He was a traitor. He’s responsible for people’s deaths.’
She had him now: he was moving closer, his eyes curious. The rest of the bar was silent, too, and five pairs of eyes watched her intently.
Julie said, ‘He worked for the Gestapo. He has to be found to save an injustice, an innocent man. And – for other reasons.’
The proprietor stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Ahh. Well …’ He nodded slowly. ‘That’s different. But – it won’t exactly be easy.’ He asked sceptically. ‘What
do
you know about him? Did he have an accent? Did he speak like a Provençal? Like
me
?’
‘No.’
‘Mmm. An educated type, maybe?’
‘Yes, very likely. I know it’s not much to go on, but I could give you a description of what he looked like. And then – perhaps you could ask around? Perhaps you know someone—?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll ask the boys.’ He used the slang word
malfrats
– good-for-nothings. Taking a pencil stub and an old till receipt, he painstakingly wrote down the details she gave him: dark hair, thin, about thirty, medium height, gold ring, no accent. It wasn’t much. She made him add: clever, probably well-educated, dislikes women.
He said, ‘I’ll do what I can, but—’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t promise anything.’
She pressed him, ‘How long before you might get news—?’
‘Ah!’ He shrugged. ‘Two hours? Two days? You come back from time to time, then I’ll tell you how long it’ll take!’
Three days later Julie thought: I’m wasting my time.
The proprietor – Henri – was earnest and well-meaning but she was beginning to wonder if he had all the contacts he’d hinted at. He didn’t seem to be getting anywhere at all.
But then, she thought unhappily, perhaps there wasn’t anywhere to get to. There was no proof – not even a shred of a suggestion – that the Marseillais and Fougères were one and the same man.
And yet Fougères had been so very
good
at deceit and treachery that he
must
have been important to the Boches. She couldn’t believe he was just a casual informer. No – he was
experienced
.
And yet, she had to face the possibility that the two men weren’t the same. And if so, where did that leave her? In a dead end. There were no more leads to follow.
That
was really why she had come to Marseilles – because it
was
the only lead.
After an aimless walk around the harbour she went back to the bar, utterly dispirited. It would be the third time she’d looked in that morning. Doubtless she would hear the same thing again: no news. Henri’s shrugs and ‘Don’t worry’ and ‘Be patient’ were getting on her nerves.
But when she went in, something was different. Henri was smiling slyly, his eyes gleaming.
News
.
He ducked under the flap and, coming out from behind the bar, beckoned her to one side. ‘Someone wants to see you. He’s been away, that’s why there’s been a delay. He’ll see you this afternoon.’
‘But who?’
‘Ahh,’ he whispered conspiratorially, ‘he’s what you might call the
Patron
– with a capital “P”, you understand.’
Julie didn’t completely, but she nodded anyway.
‘You’re very lucky. He’s interested in your story. And if anyone can help – well,
he
can!’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘No problem, just be here at three. It’s all arranged!’
She was there at two-thirty because she had nothing better to do. She drank coffee nervously and, though she’d hardly ever smoked in her life, accepted two cigarettes from Henri.
By three her eyes were fastened to the door. By ten past three she was looking desperately at Henri. He said, ‘Don’t worry. We keep Marseillais time here. Nice and slow.’
At a quarter past three a long black car drew up outside. Henri led her to the door. ‘Good luck!’
The driver was standing beside the car. He had a broken nose, large shoulders and a surly expression. He looked just like a criminal. It suddenly dawned on Julie that he probably
was
a criminal. As she approached he slid into the car.
Henri ushered Julie into the back, closed the door, and the car moved away. Julie sat stiffly in her seat. The back of the driver’s head didn’t invite conversation.
The car eased gently through the narrow streets until they reached a wide boulevard. Then they accelerated past the harbour, across several junctions and onto the hill topped by the magnificent church. After five minutes or so, the driver braked and turned the car into a street full of small shops. They stopped. The driver turned and swivelled his eyes in the direction of the pavement. Julie guessed she was meant to get out.
As she opened the door the driver murmured, ‘In there,’ and indicated with his finger. Julie looked: it was a restaurant. The driver added something in slang that she didn’t understand. Then he translated. ‘The waiter,’ he explained, ‘ask the waiter.’
She crossed the pavement and pushed open the door. It was very dark inside. She paused, trying to get her bearings.
Someone appeared from the shadows. ‘Come this way.’
She followed the man to the back of the room and saw the figures of four men dimly visible at a table. As she approached, one of them rose to his feet and extended a hand. The conversation at the table petered out.
Julie shook the man’s hand and sat in the chair he offered her. As her eyes got accustomed to the light she took a good look at him. He was well dressed in a conventional but slightly flashy way. His suit was obviously expensive, and there was a gold chain visible across the waistcoat and another round his wrist. Several rings glinted dully on his fingers. As he sat back in his seat she caught the whiff of liberally applied cologne.
He smiled. His face was pleasant, his eyes twinkling under a high forehead and receding hair line.
He enquired, ‘Would you like some wine? Or a coffee?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
He said, ‘My friend Henri tells me you’re looking for someone.’ He had a strong Provençal accent, but the voice was soft and soothing.
‘Yes. Someone who came from here. Probably a long time ago.’
He sipped some wine and smiled again. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘Everything?’
‘As much as you know.’
She told him about Brittany and the escape line and the betrayal and how Michel had been accused; and she told him about the man from Paris, the outsider with the narrow face, the lanky hair, the dark almost black eyes, and the sallow skin. She finished, ‘… And he was cruel, that’s what I remember most.’
The
Patron
frowned with concentration. ‘And his manner?’
‘Cold. Always – watchful. And underhand. Devious.’
‘And – how did he speak?’
‘He had no accent,’ she admitted, ‘not that one could catch anyway. Certainly nothing like—’ She hesitated.
‘Like mine?’ He smiled again.
Julie nodded.
‘And you said something about women. About him not liking women.’
‘No … he hated them, I would say. And he was frightened of them – well, wary, anyway.’
The
Patron
sipped his wine again. ‘No facial scars or anything like that?’
‘No.’
There was the sound of the restaurant door opening and closing. The
Patron
looked up. ‘Ah here we are!’
A man came up and put an envelope into the
Patron
’s hand. He opened it and shook out the contents. ‘Some pictures for you to look at. Just a few ideas.’ He placed them in a pile on the table and turned to one of the others. ‘Throw some light on the scene, will you, Isso?’
A lamp was switched on and the table was flooded with sudden light. Blinking, Julie picked up the first photograph. It was a snapshot of a family group. There were five people: a middle-aged couple and three young men, presumably their sons. The faces were blurred but she knew immediately that none of them was Fougères. She put the picture back on the table.
The second was in fact two photographs: a front and side view of an unsmiling man with frightened eyes. The pictures looked like the police shots she’d seen at the
Police Judiciaire
. She didn’t recognise the face.
She picked up the third picture and, as she did so, she caught sight of the one now visible on the top of the pile. It was of a formal group, a dozen or so young men standing stiffly in a garden with, at either side, four black-robed men: priests. The picture was blurred and indistinct and had been taken in strong sunlight, so that the participants were frowning against the glare. But there was something –
familiar
.
For a second she didn’t move then, with a trembling hand, she reached for it. Very slowly.
But even before she picked it up she knew.
It was him.
It was him
.
She looked closely. Very young, perhaps only fourteen, but the hair, the narrow face … It was him all right. It was a moment before she could speak. Then she whispered. ‘This one. This is the one.’
The
Patron
took the photograph gently from her hand and stared at it. He looked up at her. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Positive!’
He shook his head and murmured, ‘So! I knew the bastard would turn up again somewhere! Scum always do.’
‘What’s his name?’ she demanded. ‘Who is he?’
The
Patron
was staring at the photograph again. ‘His name? Vasson. Paul Vasson.’