Night Without Stars (23 page)

you're only half the same person. You wouldn't have come over

from the shoe-shop, have tried to help me this year.”
“Stop being—interested in me then, and go.”
“I'm not interested in you, I love you.…”
There was a bit of a pause after that. Three or four people were

round her car, staring at it.
I said: “ Believe me, I'd get some satisfaction out of leaving this

town for good, but it wouldn't solve anything for me. So just for

a little while I'm not going.”
She looked up at me. “You're a sticker, aren't you?”
I tried to smile at her. “Obstinate streak.”
She said: “You'll soon forget me. You're romantic and think

yourself into loving me. There are plenty of other women in the

world who will fall for that story—and enjoy it. You're quite young,

nice-looking, have some money, I suppose. It shouldn't be hard.”
I watched her but didn't speak.
She said after a minute: “You think you love me. I don't want

that sort of love. If you married me you'd soon want a change.

One gets tired of the same diet week in, week out. Well, I don't

want to begin.”
I walked across the room and back. “What
are
you afraid of?”
“Afraid of? Nothing.”
“Yes, you are. I've only just realised it, realised it isn't quite what

I thought.”

She stretched out the toe of her scarlet shoe, stared at it. “Always such imagination.”

“Painful lack, I should think, not to have seen that much before.”

“No, no, be honest. It's not fair to keep thinking up new excuses for staying.”

I sat down opposite her. “Listen, Alix. You've been to the wrong school—”

“Yes,” she said, looking up, pushing back her hair. “ I've been to the wrong school. It's the school of experience, where people have to face facts and not dream silly dreams—”

I said: “ No, that's the school of Charles Bénat.”

She said: “Leave Charles out of this.…”

“How can we if he's so deep in? You're living with him, in love with him apparently. No doubt he's a brave man and a clever one—still has the glamour of the Resistance. He's got a following, people admire him. But believe me, he's plain poison. Already you've imbibed half of his sham philosophy—”

“No,” she said, and got up. “Stop, Giles, you needn't say any more. I only came here to warn you—to ask you to leave Nice. Will you do that?”

I glared at her. “ Like hell I will.”

Her lips were trembling, but I think it was anger. She was as furious with me as I was with her.

I said: “I know Bénat's attitude to women. Well, that's his look-out. What he looks for he'll find, and good luck to him. But I could kill him for applying those standards to you.”

“He hasn't applied those standards to me!” she said. “ My God, must you
always
think in terms of sex? Aren't there any other ideas in your head?”

“There might be if you were honest with me just for a change.”

“I've told you no lies this afternoon, Giles. Charles is my brother.”

I wrote to Bénat.

D
EAR
C
HARLES
B
ÉNAT
.
Thank you for your invitation to dinner on Friday evening.

I shall be glad to accept. Don't, however, bother to send down

for me; I can arrange transport.

Yours sincerely. G
ILES
G
ORDON

On Wednesday morning I went round to see John. He was busy, and I didn't stay more than a few minutes.

“Listen, Johnny, I've got an envelope here I want you to keep for me. If you don't hear anything from me on Saturday morning, will you pass it in to the police?”

He stared at me. “That won't be much comfort to you if I have to, will it? Frankly, old boy, are you one step nearer finding out what happened to Pierre Grognard?”

“I'm not sure. Did you know that Alix Delaisse was Charles Bénat's sister?”

“Good God, no! You've traced her then?”

“Yes, she's living at the Villa Lavandou.”

John said: “Come to think of it, they're not really unlike. I only saw her properly once. But what was she doing in a shoe-shop?”

“Have you heard of a man called Deffand?”

“Ye-es.…”

“Have you heard there's going to be a serious attempt to clean up the black market?”

“Yes. Periodically they make these threats, but nothing much has come of them up to now. Trouble is that the people who are trying to put it down probably buy nearly all their own things that way. The rot's gone too deep.”

I took out the socks. “ Have you seen this sort of thing before?”

“Um. Where did you get them?”

“Oh, knocking about. What would they be worth in a shop?”

“Dear old boy, I'm not a draper. Three or four hundred francs perhaps. What did they cost you?”

“They've cost me nothing—yet.”

“I note the adverb.”

I said: “Johnny, where would I go to hire a car for a few weeks—to drive myself?”

“There's the De la Rue Garage just round the corner from here. Say I've sent you. In any case they'll probably charge you the earth.”

“I've a feeling my allowance will last me as long as I want to stay.”

He looked up. “Thinking of going home? Good. Best news I've heard. Well … you know what I mean.”

“Don't write me off yet. Anything can happen in a fortnight.”

Johnny chewed his pen. “Who told you they were brother and sister?”

“She did herself.”

“D'you think it's true? I mean, she hasn't always been the most truthful of—”

“The resemblance is there, as you say—in the build and colouring and still more in the way of speaking. I should have recognised that.”

“Did she say why she was living as she was when you first met her?”

“She said she'd quarrelled with him.”

“I wonder if Grognard knew they were related.”

“I hope to find that out on Friday.”

I went to the De la Rue Garage and arranged about a car. Not that I was going to use it on Friday, but I wanted to be able to have one on tap if needed. I phoned Maurice in Cagnes, and arranged for him to pick me up at the hotel on Friday. To take a chauffeur to the Villa Lavandou seemed a reasonable insurance against harm.

Later that day, coming out of the bank, I saw Scipion on the other pavement. I'd been conscious once or twice of being overlooked. Not knowing how much I could see, they were probably less cautious than they might have been.

Some of the Villefranche people could be intimidating if they turned nasty, but Scipion was not one of them. When he saw me coming he turned his back, but I touched him on the shoulder.

“Join me in a cup of wine. It's a long time since we had one together.”

“I don't know you, m'sieu,” he said stolidly.

“Oh, yes, you do. And you can't watch me better than by sitting at the same table.”

He said: “ I don't know you, m'sieu.”

“Well, have it your own way. Share a drink with a perfect stranger.”

“I've no wish to do that, thank you.” But I took his arm in a friendly way, and led him into a café. It was difficult for him to refuse without making a scene, so he sat there uncomfortably and sipped his wine. I tried to get him talking, and after a bit he began to thaw. Whatever his name really was he couldn't resist the old-soldier appeal. Then I asked him about his ulcer. It hadn't been too good but he wouldn't see a doctor again. Seeing a doctor meant admitting something to himself. I told him he was a fool and he looked at me with anxious bloodshot eyes and argued it out. Suddenly he blinked and shook himself.

“I shouldn't be sitting here. You are too friendly, too winning.”

“In a war we'd kill each other without the least ill-will. We can surely share a drink in the same spirit.”

He said: “ It would be hard to explain to the others.”

“I won't tell them.”

“You pretended to be blind, didn't you?”

“No pretence to begin with.”

“Then how did you know I was—Scipion?”

“I recognised your voice when you came into the café last week.”

“What is your object in all this?”

“I wanted to find Mme. Delaisse again. I've done that, so you can keep your café.”

“You are—not very safe, m'sieu.”

“The danger will subside when Charles Bénat comes back.”

He said in surprise: “ You know him?”

“Yes. I'm dining with him on Friday evening at his villa.”

He stared at me and blinked quickly.

“What is the name of his villa?”

“Lavandou. This will be my third visit.”

“Where is it?”

“In the hills beyond Vence.”

“You have some arrangement with him?”

“I've no arrangement with him, but I'm going to talk it all over with him. I certainly shan't go to the police before Friday night, so you can call off your dogs till then.”

He said: “I wish I could believe you.”

“Phone up Mme. Delaisse and see. I talked the whole thing out with her yesterday.”

He got up. “I must go now.”

“Finish your wine.”

“Thank you, no. I must go and report.”

I watched him move away among the tables. The meeting had been worth forcing because it might prevent any hasty action before Friday. They might phone Charles Bénat in Marseilles, but the chances were they'd hold off until after my visit to the Villa Lavandou. I knew Alix would back me up if they consulted her.

Anyway, I was safe enough as long as I kept about in public places.

I got up to the Villa Lavandou at eight o'clock on the Friday.
It was a thundery evening, with heavy clouds coming in from
the mountains. I thought of, “Up through the darkness, while
ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, lower
sullen and fast athwart and down the sky.” Big spots were splashing
on the bonnet of the car as we drove through the fields of lavender;
over the sea the sky was still clear like a taut green flag.

Maurice had wanted to go back and come for me again at midnight, but I persuaded him to stay. Charles Bénat was waiting for me when I was shown in, and came across and shook hands. He shook hands the way he talked, grasped the subject briefly and then dropped it away from him. Grutli rose from the splendid hearthrug and gave a low growl.

Bénat said: “Good of you to come.” His glance flickered over me. “Let me get you a drink. Alix will be down in a few minutes.”

I was pleased to hear it. “ This time I can admire your room,” I said.

The whole thing was in good taste, but rather extravagant, the ceiling being white with cinnamon tracing; and there were cinnamon satin draperies and a good lot of delicate wrought iron work.

He said: “I've already apologized for it once, but it amused me at the time. Let me see, you like gin, don't you? And French, was it? I think we shall have thunder this evening.” He came back with the glass. “And how's the black market?”

I stared down at Grutli, who was sniffing at my chair. “I've some socks at home I should have worn to-night, but they didn't match up. Khaki's a difficult colour.”

“Khaki market, d'you think?”

“My own guess is that they're surplus army stock, sold in bulk in Italy by someone who'd no business to have them—shipped here illegally from Naples and sold at about four times what they fetched in Italy. Of course it's only a guess.”

“A good guess. But they'd be dyed before they were sold. It helps distribution.”

I met his gaze. “ Yes?”

“Yes,” he said. “ Cigarette?”

I took one.

“Chesterfields,” he said. “Bought illegally and sold on the black market at one hundred per cent profit. Ah, here comes Alix. I believe you've been seeing something of her in my absence.”

“A bit.” I got up.

She looked lovelier every time I met her, but perhaps that was my delusion. Anyway, she'd never greeted me yet with a smile in her eyes. To-night she looked uncomfortable but at least not unfriendly.

“And here too,” said Bénat, “comes the rain. Lucky you arrived in time; it's always disagreeable driving in these downpours.”

We went in to dinner with the rain roaring on the roof. As we sat down there was a crash of thunder and Alix looked round quickly. The manservant pulled the curtains across.

Bénat said: “D'you remember that evening at home, Alix, when the curé came to dinner and the chimney of the house next door was struck by lightning?”

Alix pulled in her skirt as she sat down, stared with grave, cool eyes at the table.

“And the bricks fell on our roof and Henri dropped the plates. Father Verré was terrified.”

“Not without reason. He suspected it was a visitation from God.” Bénat indicated my seat. “A greedy old satyr, Verré. Debauched half the girls in the village.”

“I thought you lived in Dijon,” I said to Alix.

“Just outside. But of course you know that.… My father was a country doctor.”

“Who died in a ditch in a drunken stupor at the age of fifty-four. You'll take the oysters, Gordon? They're not black market, so your noncomformist digestion will not be taxed.”

I said: “ My digestion's strictly undenominational.”

She moved in her chair. “Why do you say that about Father, Charles? It
completely
misrepresents him.…”

Charles looked at me with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “Quite true. But it's the only thing I ever admired my father for, and I like to remember him by it. It was the one big-minded gesture he ever made.”