Night Without Stars (12 page)

“The Café des Fourmis.”

I said: “Could you please tell me, then, where the Rue St. Agel is?”

“Rue St Agel? In Villefranche? Do you know it, Netta?”

“I've never heard of it.”

“Or the Café Gambetta?” I said.

“No, m'sieu. Are you sure it is in Villefranche?”

“It is owned by Mère Roget?”

“No, m'sieu. I'm sorry. We don't know that at all.”

They went on.

John said: “And when did all this happen?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“What did you do then?”

“Not very much. What was there to do? I hung about at the end of the street for a time and then went down to the quay to see if there was any sign of Roquefort. That was a fisherman who'd been specially friendly at the Gambetta. But nobody seemed to have heard of him, so in the end I came home. Yesterday I stayed in most of the day. I felt pretty queer, especially as Larosse hasn't been able to find anything about it in the papers.”

“No, there's certainly been no mention of Grognard.” John relit his pipe. “I really don't know what to make of it, Giles. If it was anybody but you I'd think …” He paused. “Of course, not being able to see …”

“I know. It makes every statement suspect, doesn't it?”

“I wouldn't go as far as that. But there might be a flaw somewhere in the story which isn't detectable to
me
because I have only your account, and which isn't detectable to
you
because … For instance, are you sure this man you found was dead?”

“Certain.”

“And are you sure it was Grognard's flat you went to? You say you'd only been once before.”

“It was the one I'd been to before.”

John grunted. “There's one possibility—I don't know if it's occurred to you, but it's one that ought to be considered. That is that there's been an attempt to frame you.”

“It had occurred to me.”

“You could be in rather a spot, you know.”

“I know that.”

“Were you invited there for that special purpose? A murder was planned and someone imitated this girl's voice. You obligingly went along, and stuck fingerprints all over the walls. What more could they want?”

“Nothing at all.”

“As for the girl, on the face of it, I agree it's not very likely that she should have anything to do with the murder.…”

“I've been meeting Alix for nearly two months. One does get to know a bit about a woman in that time.”

He was still unconvinced. “ This Villefranche business is all in keeping too.”

I said: “ You know those jigsaws where you pick up a piece that looks exactly right for a particular hole, but when you try to put it in it just doesn't fit. That's the sort of piece you've got hold of now.”

“Well, where is the right piece?”

“I wish to God I knew.”

He was silent for a bit. I could tell that his brain was going all round the thing.

“Anyway we agree that if that body is found you're in a nasty position.”

“Yes.”

“There's one thing I'd certainly advise you to do here and now.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

“The criminal flees from his crime.”

“Right enough. But you'll be a lot safer in England all the same. There's a plane leaves Nice every day. You could be in England to-morrow.”

I shook my head.

“We all ask advice and then don't take it. How should I ever settle at home with this thing turning over in my head?”

“Go away and come back in a month if the coast's clear. I'll keep you up-to-date.”

“I
can't
, Johnny. Not at this stage. I feel I ought to go to the police.”

“Over my dead body. Sorry, perhaps that's the wrong simile. But can you imagine telling the story you've told me to a Commissaire or a Juge de Paix?”

“If I hang on for a day or two, can you make any inquiries for me?”

“I'll do what I can, of course. In a private capacity, that is.

I'll check up.”

There wasn't anything in the papers the next day. I stayed in most of the day, trying to forget the sort of frame-up John had suggested. In the afternoon I went to sleep, tired out with thinking, and woke up full of discontent and anxiety. If Alix was still alive, why hadn't she let me know something somehow? Either she was dead or … I felt surrounded with lies and deceit, and no means of telling where the truth ended and the falseness began.

That evening I went round to the Chapels again.

John said: “I've told Kay. I hope you dont mind.”

“Of course not”

“We haven't found much. First the easy thing: Pierre Grognard lives at the address you visited. Second, Kay went round there this afternoon; the door of the flat was locked and no one answered the bell.”

“It's been found, then.”

“By someone. Third, I rang up his restaurant here and was told he'd gone away for a fortnight. Fourth, there's no café called the Café Gambetta in Villefranche. That's all we've done.”

“Thank you. You've helped a lot. Did you by any chance ring his flat?”

“No.”

“I did this morning. There wasn't any answer. D'you mind if I try again now?”

“Go ahead.”

I got the number and heard it ringing. For a second I had the queer feeling that I was back there at the other end of the telephone in that silent room with the electric fire still burning. And Pierre Grognard still lay face downwards on the settee. The broken flower vase was at my feet and the carnations were crushed and fading.…

There was no reply. I hung up.

“Now what?”

John said: “ Look, Giles. McWheeler will be back here next Wednesday. Meet him again and go back with him to England. Once you're there you'll more or less be out of danger, and anyway you'll have time to think the whole thing over in perspective. Then if you still feel you want to come back here you can talk business with him. In the meantime I can keep in touch with things and let you know. Obviously if Grognard doesn't turn up in a fortnight there'll be a hue and cry. That's the time for you to be absent.”

I said: “ Do you know more than you're telling me?”

“No.… Far from it. My advice to any British subject I saw drifting into a mess would be the same: cut it out and go home. Even more so when it's an old friend. The other and more particular reason is to do with this place and time. A country can't be occupied and practically at civil war within itself and get over it in two or three years. Think what London must have been like two years after Cromwell died.… Well, now, this thing you're concerned in may be just another eternal triangle. But there's a strong chance that its origins lie somewhere in the occupation. That might be dangerous. In any case, you're better out of it far better. Believe me.”

“I grant you all that.”

“But you won't go?”

“No.”

Kay said: “Do you think Charles Bénat could help us?”

“Um.… It's an idea. He's got a finger in every pie.”

I said: “ The fellow I met that evening with you?”

“Yes. He's one of the most brilliant men of his generation. He was in the Resistance, too: one of the leaders. What he doesn't know about things in this area isn't worth knowing. Anyway, he could advise you.”

I said: “ I thought of going to the police and telling them half the story—that Alix Delaisse had disappeared and I was anxious to trace her. It might set them off.”

“Until we know what's been found in Grognard's flat I shouldn't go
near
the police. I mean that, Giles.”

There was a minute's silence.

“Where does this lawyer friend of yours live?” I asked.

“In the Boulevard de Normandie. But he's got a terrific practice; he's quite likely to be in Paris or Marseilles.”

“Why don't you ring him?” Kay suggested. “Ask him round.”

Johnny said: “ I doubt if he'd come. But I'll ring him in the morning. Maybe you could go to his place.”

It seemed pretty hopeless, but, “All right,” I said. “Thanks. I feel a dead loss by myself. So long as there's something moving.…”

John phoned me about eleven next day.

“There's still nothing in the papers, old boy.”

“No.”

“Well, I rang Bénat's office this morning. But he's spending the week-end at his villa above Vence, so I rang him there. He was very nice about it—of course I only hinted at the business—but anyway he suggested you could go up there on Sunday morning. He's leaving for Toulon on Monday, so it seemed the best thing to do.”

“Thanks very much. I suppose it's worth trying. You're not coming with me?”

“I think you'll be better on your own. Two lawyers together, as it were. You talk the same language.”

“How do I get there?”

“It's almost impossible except by car. I've got to go to Cagnes on Sunday morning, so I thought I'd run you as far as that and book a taxi to take you the rest of the way.”

“Very good of you. What time?”

“Call for you around ten.”

“Thanks,” I said again, “that'll suit me very well.”

But as I hung up the receiver it seemed a forlorn hope. The knowledgeable lawyer with his wry dry wisdom—didn't I know the type? No doubt he'd give advice which was sound enough in principle, the outsider's view of the case. In the old days at home, when I was just feeling my way in law, I'd been at such interviews between old Hampden and a client, when Hampden had said exactly the right thing from a legal point of view and I'd seen the client struggling vainly to convey to him all the subtle nuances that were known only to the man who saw the case from within.

Well, I didn't fancy myself in that position. But the interview was arranged, and perhaps it would turn out better than one feared. In the meantime there was all Saturday to go through. Perhaps it would bring something to give us a new light on things.

There was still no mention of Grognard in the papers. It rained heavily Saturday night but was fine enough Sunday morning, and the sun was breaking through as I tried to fold myself into John's little Fiat.

He said: “I wonder what it feels like being as tall as you. I'm sure it doesn't serve any useful purpose.”

I said: “ it serves the purpose of keeping the species endlessly variable. Does this door shut?”

“Only when the hinges are free of clothing. Let me.”

I was grateful for his cheerful talk on the way to Cagnes. He'd never been able to stop talking at school, and it had got him into endless trouble. As I sat there listening to him I could fancy the years had never happened and the war had never happened and that everything was as it had once been.

I should have been glad enough to see this morning after I said good-bye to him and got into the taxi, because, although I'd never been to Vence, I knew it was well up in the foothills with the mountains rising sharply behind it, and the views would be fine.

In Vence, Maurice, the taxi driver, stopped to ask the way. Then we branched off and began to climb again. I sat in the front seat with him, and he talked as much as John and smoked incessantly.

I said: “ Is this one of those roads on the edge of a precipice?”

“More or less, m'sieu. There is a fall but it is not a very big one. The road winds up the valley, you see. I have never been this way before. On the other road the bridge was blown by the Boches, but I am told they have put a trestle bridge across.”

We took two double hairpin bends that destroyed my sense of direction entirely. I said: “ I often wonder they don't build bigger parapets on these mountain roads.”

He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke over me. “Oh, there is very little traffic up here. A bicycle or two. The corners are nothing. Of course I have never been this way before.” We swung carelessly round again and back, and then began to drop slightly for a change.

“Do you know when we are there, m'sieu? I wonder if that is it?”

“What?”

“There is a villa of some sort on the other side of the valley. It is the only house to be seen.”

“No. I haven't been before.”

The road deteriorated now, and for a few restful moments Maurice slowed down while we bumped over it.

“They are repairing the road,” he said. “And not before time. The rain has brought down a lot of loose stones from above. They will find extra work when they come in the morning.”

After a bit we came to a stop.

“What's the matter?”

“A fork. There has been a signpost but it has been broken off. No doubt the Maquis did it.”

“I should make for the villa.”

“It has disappeared. But I should think if we take the left fork.”

He swiveled the car round and started off again. “Ah, there it is.” He blew smoke all over me again. “We shall soon be there now. If it is the wrong villa we can at least inquire the way.”

But it was the right villa. Charles Bénat had seen us coming and was waiting on the steps, a big dog at his side.

Bénat's hands were slim and long, a bit like a woman's; the grip

firm but disinterested.
I said: “ I've heard a good deal of your beautiful house.”
“Oh, this. A fancy for Renaissance furniture; what else is there

to do with one's money? Can I get you something to drink? Quiet,

Grutli, the gentleman has come to stay.”

In the theatre there's a technique called “throw away”; that's how Charles Bénat talked: quickly but casually, deprecatingly, offhand. He discarded his thoughts, throwing them like a bone to the dog.

“This is English gin, of course. French gin is outrageous. You haven't been here before? One can see Corsica on a fine day. Not that there's any special pleasure in detecting a smudge on the horizon. Why do people suppose there is?”