Night Without Stars (19 page)

The door came open and a young black-eyebrowed man looked me over.

I said: “ I've called to see M. Bénat.”

“By appointment, m'sieu?”

“No, but I think he will see me. Gordon is the name.”

“I'll inquire if he's in.”

He shut the door, and I heard his footsteps padding away down the tiled hall. I wondered if gradually my hearing, touch, and smell would grow less acute. They hadn't shown much sign of it up to now.

It was just as well, otherwise his voice would have given me a shock coming from behind. But I'd heard those footsteps, too.

“Mr. Gordon. An unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

I held out my hand and had it shaken.

“Sorry to come on you like this. I happened to be in the district.”

“Of course. This way. I'm working in my office. It's just round the corner.”

He was the only person so far who was much like I'd imagined him. Slight build, sallow face, long, decisive nose, clever, prominent bottom lip. He wasn't handsome but you could see that women would be interested.

“Down two steps here, now level across the grass, then through the french windows. Good. You're very clever at finding your way about, Mr. Gordon.”

I wondered why I'd been asked in this way instead of through the house. It was an ordinary room he showed me into, a big flat desk, filing cabinets, a few books and papers open. Grutli rose from behind a chair and looked at me.

I said: “ Do you do some of your business up here?”

“I like to be able to.”

“You've got a non-paying client this morning.”

“Who? You? Oh, well, we're part of the same profession, aren't we? The profession of master illusionists. We invent taboos and then get people to consult us on how to evade them.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “ taboos aren't all we invent.”

He didn't pick it up. “And how is England? Still going bankrupt in an affluent genteel way?”

“No. I'd say still keeping solvent in a poverty-stricken harassed way.”

“It always amuses me,” he said, “ when people talk of England turning socialist. How can that be when every Englishman is at heart a capitalist? The most that can ever happen is a progressive liberalism of idea in a community of obstinate conservatives.”

“We're tied to Europe.”

“Ah, and Europe is on the point of disintegration, eh? Quite so. Come here, Grutli, your ear is turned back. I don't like untidy dogs. If you can't control your ears, my little, we must tie them down with ribbon. What brings you back to Nice, Mr. Gordon? Not the decay of Europe.”

“No,” I said. “If it weren't in bad taste one might say the decay of Pierre Grognard.”

At times his face looked dark, as if in shadow. “ Oh, yes, of course. Pierre Grognard. Cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

He said: “You've heard, of course, that he is dead.”

“I told you so last year.”

“But you were mistaken then. Because he was very much alive when I saw him in Grasse.”

“And also when he was married?”

“I spoke of his intention to get married on the Saturday. He obviously changed his mind. That day he must have left for Grenoble.”

“And what happened to Alix Delaisse?”

“She's still about somewhere.” He sighed. “Oh, yes, you were interested in her. I remember now.”

“I haven't been able to trace her.”

“Perhaps she has married someone else.”

“D'you happen to know which hotel in Grasse Grognard stayed at from the Wednesday to the Saturday before his death?”

“How should I?”

“No. I only wondered if you could help me. I can find out.”

“Surely the subject's a little out of date.”

“It's just getting interesting to me.”

He inhaled and swallowed some smoke, sat very still watching me. I listened for that faint tick-tick in his breathing.

I said: “ I shall spend a few days making inquiries in Grasse—then go on to Grenoble. There must have been an inquest, and Alix Delaisse would most likely have been called.”

“You feel under some obligation to Grognard's memory?”

“No.… But nobody likes to be fooled. Those were your own words. And I want to find Alix and know the truth.”

“I hope you're successful.” He got up. “ It's time for an apéritif. Even Pierre wouldn't object to our having that, I'm sure. He won't be any colder in ten minutes.”

He rang for drinks and we talked casually while they were brought.

I said: “ When I called last year I'd no idea how widespread your fame was. How does it feel to be so much admired?”

“Not very different from being hated. It gives one a feeling of being in the centre of things.”

“But hero-worship's pretty difficult to take, I should think. What are the antidotes you use?”

He glanced at me. “Hero-worship, where it exists, comes, I suppose, from the old religious sense of wanting to bow down to something—it doesn't much matter what. It's like a biological function that's half atrophied.”

“Well.… The Führer prinzip, isn't it? Can you accept that?”

“One acknowledges its existence. One tries to rationalize it.”

I heard a car coming up the valley.

He said: “The difficulty of course is that the demagogue is seldom adult enough to keep his balance. He lays down his own principles, his own laws, and then doesn't keep them. That's why he never lasts.” He had heard the car. “Naturally I'm talking in general terms now. The popularity of Charles Bénat isn't likely to give anyone sleepless nights. Another drink?”

I accepted, and watched him pour it out. He began to talk about the occupation. That didn't prevent my hearing the car stop outside, the slam of the door, quick footsteps on the steps. Grutli began to get restive and his tail whacked the floor, but Bénat instead of saying anything just put a restraining hand on the dog's head. I got a queer premonitory twinge in my stomach.

Bénat said: “ How is John Chapel? Haven't seen him for six months or more, and then it was for only a word in the street. I often wonder what whim of fate—”

And then the door came open and Alix stood there.

I knew her at once of course.

When she saw me she went dead white, as if she was going to collapse. What colour I was I don't know, but just for the important seconds Bénat was looking towards the door. One hand on Grutli's head, he had the other to his lips. She looked from me to him, and he made a quick expressive jerk with his head.

I'm sorry, Sarah,” he said. “ I haven't finished the papers. I'll see you in five minutes.”

Just for a moment I thought she was going to burst out, but she didn't. I took a grip of myself and looked away. It was just in time, because Bénat looked at me.

“These are Venetian wineglasses,” he said. “You can probably feel the delicate cut of the stem. I found them in a hotel that had been commandeered for Italian officers. Pretty things.”

“Pretty things,” I said.

The door closed behind her.

I said: “ Do I know that person who's just gone out?”

“Sarah? I shouldn't think so. My secretary.”

There was a brief silence. We were both trying to think of something to say.

I finished my drink. “Touching on Grognard, does anyone know why he was motoring to Grenoble?”

“I certainly do not. But then— Will you excuse me a minute? I think my secretary wanted to see me.”

“Of course.”

He got up and went out. The Great Dane rose and ambled after him, just getting his nose in the door as it swung to and levering it open again.

As soon as I was alone I got up, listening. Bénat's footsteps went down the passage. I heard him call something.

Hands were uncertain with the shock of seeing her, and head in a whirl, but this opportunity had to be taken, and at once.…

Round to the desk. There was a good spread of papers on it; some letters, what looked like invoices. Glance over them. Restricted sight made this more dangerous, and I was careful to keep the unshuttered side towards the door. The quiet-walking manservant could be a danger. Grutli had left the door open, but there was nothing to do about it.

Letter from a client in Avignon about a will.… Marriage settlement on one Ambrosine Coste, post-office worker at Cannes.… Judgment given before M. le Procureur-Général in Paris.… Consignments of lavender invoiced. (Coals to Newcastle?) Estimate for repairs to windows.… Consignment of miscellaneous goods for M. Godeau of Roquebrune. Was Bénat a dealer?

Someone was moving about not far away.

A diary? Small black book was shut. No. A list of engagements. Very laconic. “ June 18: D.G., Sospel.… 22: Marcel C. Rue St. Martin.… 23: Dine at 9 with W.W.” (The dog was coming back.) “24: Café Gambetta.”

I moved round the desk and slid into my seat. The door swung wide and Grutli came in. A dozen paces behind was Bénat.

He stopped inside the door and lit a cigarette from the stub of the old.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon, I'll have to ask you to excuse me. My secretary has brought me some business that will have to be looked into at once.”

“Of course.” I got up.

His face appeared again out of the smoke. “ We haven't got far with your Grognard business, have we? I suggest that we have a meal together one evening next week. We can discuss it further then, eh?”

“Thank you.”

“Good. I'll get Mathieu to help you to your car.”

As I left the room the Great Dane came across and sniffed at my trouser leg.

“Queer,” said Bénat. “I don't think Grutli likes you.”

I kept telling myself that at least she was alive and well, but by the next day I felt rather sick about everything. Up to now there'd always been the hope that she had somehow been prevented from seeing me or writing. Deep down—at least since reading of Pierre's death—there may have been a vague melodramatic expectation that she was locked away somewhere. At least it wasn't quite as third-form as that, but, having known her well enough to fall in love with her, one went on trying to find some explanation which would leave the shreds of self-respect.

Well, there had been no suggestion of coercion this morning. I'd seen her car on the way out, a new high-powered Studebaker. Beautifully dressed—in a cream linen frock with a tight bodice and yards of stuff in the skirt, crimson sandals, and a crimson brooch—she'd looked perfectly confident and at home in the second before she saw me. Then her face had fallen, she'd gone pale, and turned and crept out. A real lover's welcome.

Nothing was made better by the effect of the meeting on me. Six weeks ago I had gone down to Portsmouth to see Rachel, and come away knowing I was free. All things considered, it might have been gratifying to feel the same about Alix. But that one short glimpse had had the opposite result.

Only one good thing came out of the confusion: the words Café Gambetta written in his book. The twenty-fourth would be next Monday.

Sunday was spent with the Wintertons. As soon as they knew I was back in France they had phoned and made a date. I was glad now of somewhere to pass the time and some company to take my mind off things. But I didn't realise how much company.

The command was to arrive in time for drinks before lunch, and Claire met me in one of her usual flowing robes, kissed me like a favourite brother, and told me that as the American cruisers were in they'd invited half a dozen of the senior officers to lunch. Her hair was silver blue with a steely sheen in the bright sun.

She hardly said this before the American Navy arrived behind me, and in a minute or two I was shaking hands with Vice-Admiral Carrol and Captain Grabo and half a dozen younger men. The room was in a babel of talk and it went on all through lunch. Walter was in his element. After lunch things might have slacked off a bit, but Claire had had the bright idea of asking about a dozen of the best-looking girls in the neighbourhood to join us in a bathing party. This was a terrific success, and we spent the afternoon on the pebbly but pretty beach, lying under sunshades or swimming; and some of them put on goggles and breathing tubes and tried to spear mullet. I had my first swim in five years.

Tea and drinks were brought down from the house, and we sat on li-los and watched the sun move towards the thousand-foot cliff behind and the shadows of the beach wall creep across the stones. At seven the younger officers left, and I got up to go, but Claire waved her plump fingers disdainfully.

“Of course not, dear Giles. You have no duty to bother about. It's so nice to see you again after all this time. Sit down and have a drink, dear boy; I have a dinner-party all planned for nine.”

It isn't hard to give way when you're enjoying yourself, and I took a seat on the veranda. One sign of a good party is that it doesn't give you time to think. For some hours I'd nearly forgotten Alix, and I watched the colours quickening and changing on the sea and the mellow evening sunlight flushing the wooded promontory of Cap Ferrat. Villefranche was hidden from here. Let it stay so.

Walter was saying: “ The whole trouble, Admiral, is that Lend-Lease ended too soon. It should have gone on for five years after the war. That would have given Europe a chance to get on her feet again;
and
cost us less in the long run.” I lit a cigarette. I thought, no human being's ever satisfied for long; I've been restless since Friday; but put this on record: satisfaction here and now. Just in seeing the smoke curl up and the high cloudless sky going remote with evening, and the bougainvillea climbing over the veranda wall. Just to be able to see. To hell with Alix.

I remembered saying that once before.

About eight we went in and got tidied up. I caught a glimpse of a dining-table set for fifteen. About half-past eight the guests started arriving.