by Desmond Cory
She nodded, and closed the door quietly behind him. Johnny walked down the steps with the sound of her voice still in his ears.
Marie-Andrée Duveyrier – Marie-Andrée Duveyrier…
Johnny walked happily down the Avenue Henri Martin whistling a complicated passage from a Saint-Saëns toccata. He felt in the mood for an expensive Parisian lunch, somewhere off the Bois de Boulogne. Then there would be more things to do.
Marie-Andrée Duveyrier…
What a nice name!
CHAPTER FIVE
THE telephone directory did not prove to be as useful in tracing Mademoiselle Duveyrier as in describing the whereabouts of Madame Gervais. It gave explicit information about seventeen variegated Duveyriers, but the mysterious Marie-Andrée did not seem to be among their number.
On discovering this, Johnny sighed to himself, lit a cigarette and went round to the editorial offices of the Point de Vue, almost under the shadow of Notre Dame. There he sought out an old friend of his, and after much mutual felicitation and the annihilation of a small bottle of excellent cognac, discovered that Marie-Andrée was the fashion-reporter of a small but thriving daily newspaper known as Coup d’Oeil. Further research into voluminous, and dusty files revealed the address and telephone number of the paper’s offices, and Johnny’s friend – who would have been equally ready to uncover the alias of a little-known cat-burglar or the latest mistress of Paris’s most celebrated dress-designer – picked up the telephone that was precariously balanced on one corner of his desk and proceeded to dial that number. After a few moments’ conversation with the editor – apparently one of his oldest and dearest friends – he placed one hand over the mouthpiece and grimaced at Johnny.
“The old fool says she’s out doing Fath’s new show, and won’t be handing in her copy till tomorrow. Shall I ask for her address?” He turned back to the telephone as Johnny nodded.
“… you say? Yes?… Oh, I see. My dear chap!… Naturally we would. At the…? Yes, I’ve got that. Thanks. When will you be dropping in again?… But any time – any time at all! Yes – yes!… Good-bye.”
He leaned back in his chair, perspiring slightly. He said: “The old goat.”
Johnny grinned and said: “Well?”
“Well? Oh, well!… Le Singe Vert, my dear. The Green Monkey. At seven-thirty this evening,”
“She’ll be there?”
“It is her custom, he says. He should know. Naturally, she will not be expecting you, but that has never delayed you in the past, no?” He laughed obscenely. “And now, Johnny, you are even better-looking. Almost you tempt me to have my face lifted, also.”
“Thanks a thousand times,” said Johnny and reached for his hat.
“Must you go? Stay and have some tea.”
Johnny glanced at the cabinet beside the desk, inside which the rounded contours of another cognac bottle could vaguely be seen. He allowed himself to be persuaded; and, in fact, the hideous ormolu clock that dictated the working hours of the indefatigable sub-editor of Point de Vue was chiming six when he finally left the room. He went into the street and, in a voice rendered by copious draughts of good cognac almost as raucous as the clock, summoned a taxi. In the office, the old friend laid his head on his desk and went peacefully to sleep.
Johnny, being of firmer fibre, emerged from the taxi at Rostand’s, paid the driver and went upstairs to his room, where he laid out his evening-dress with some care, stripped to the waist, took his shaving tackle and went into the bathroom. After placing his head firmly under the cold-water tap, he felt the buzzing in his ears vanish, only to be replaced by an imperious tinkling noise that he eventually recognised as the telephone bell.
“Damn’” he said. He wrapped a towel around his head and wandered into his room. He sat down on the bed and warily lifted the telephone receiver.
“Darreaux?” said a woman’s voice.
Johnny said: “Yes – speaking.”
Even before the woman spoke again, something like ice ran nervously up his spine and he was suddenly cold sober.
“This is Hilse. What the hell are you doing in Paris? You were told to stay in Versailles until you received further orders.”
Somebody said: “Yes, I know. But I think I’ve got on to something you should know about.”
Johnny, with the muscles of his face rigid, suddenly realised that it was his own voice.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s about the new Hamper fighter.”
There was a muffled exclamation from the other end of the wire. Then the woman said: “All right. Not over the ’phone. I’ll let you know when you can see me.”
Johnny said: “Right.” He added quickly: “Make it soon, too. I think it’s important.”
There was a click in his ears and he was left staring blankly at the receiver. Somewhere at the other end of unknown lengths of telephone cable le rossignol was walking away from him, while he lay on a bed with his brain racing like a whirlwind.
“God!” said Johnny, and hung up. Even eight years in British Intelligence had not prepared him for that sort of thing. To go into the capital city of France to find a German agent, with only an old photograph to assist you, and then to have her ring you up within eight hours of your arrival and express a desire to meet you as soon as possible, is an unnerving experience. Papa Pontivy himself might have been nonplussed; Johnny went back into the bathroom and replaced his head under the cold tap. It seemed the best way of expressing his feelings.
So Darreaux, he thought, rubbing his scalp with his fingers, must be another of these unpleasant people. Tck, tck. He reached for the soap. I should never have suspected it. The hand of Providence, I guess. Splash. Splash. That may shed a little more light on this matter. Early days, though. He picked up the towel from the floor and rubbed his hair vigorously. This is going to be tricky. Obviously Miss von H. knows this bird by sight, so when I show up instead of him, the little get-together won’t go with such a swing as she probably hopes… Hell. What a mix-up. Obviously my first idea won’t work out now – still, I’ll swear there’s something behind this Gervais business. It’s too damned coincidental. I wonder if…?
He walked over to the wash-basin and shaved himself. He washed more thoroughly, brushed his teeth, pulled out the plug and went back into his bedroom. His dress-clothes lay on the bed, looking self-satisfied.
He dressed slowly, whistling meditatively and occasionally glancing at the wrist-watch that lay on his dressing-table. When he was completely and dazzlingly attired, he picked up the watch and slipped it round his wrist; took a bottle of Eau-de-Cologne from his suit-case and began to rub it into his hair. The time was ten minutes to seven, and he had been in Paris for exactly eight and a half hours.
He picked up the coat that he had been wearing and took from it the snub-nosed Mauser automatic pistol that was snuggling comfortably in an armpit pocket; then, after checking the action carefully, he slid it into a similar recess inside his dinner-jacket. It fitted there with the slightest of discernible bulges. Johnny surveyed his appearance in the tall mirror that formed the wardrobe door, brushed away one or two non-existent flecks of dust and went downstairs. He passed through the foyer, smiled approvingly at a small pageboy intently surveying the carpet and passed out into the gathering dusk. A taxicab drew up beside him.
“Le Singe Vert,” said Johnny, settling himself among the cushions.
Rather to Johnny’s disappointment, the driver did not envelop him in a cloud of carbon-monoxide and transport his body to the pneumatic rossignol, but, instead, drove with commendable dispatch down the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, down several other less reputable thoroughfares and finally pulled up triumphantly outside a large building, adorned by an enormous animal of the marmoset species in pale-green neon lighting.
Johnny got out, paid the taximan and contemplated the building once more. Beneath the somewhat bilious-looking monkey a narrow flight of steps led to a brightly-lit door, across which hung, in flickering, will-o�
�-th-wisp lettering, the simple inscription:
Le Singe Vert
Somewhere behind the door came the distant pulsating of a jazz band; and Johnny, one-time bar-pianist in Chicago’s Black Belt, experienced a wave of what his present compatriots call nostalgie. It lasted for not more than a few seconds. Johnny’s knowledge of the habits of Monsieur Pierre Darreaux was extremely hazy, but it was a safe bet that playing barrel-house piano in a jazz band was not among his accomplishments. Accordingly, he lowered his shoulders slightly and pushed his way through the swing-door.
He allowed a female of about fourteen in appearance and about twenty-seven in actuality to take his hat and scarf then walked across the foyer and signalled to a waiter.
“Is Mademoiselle Duveyrier here yet?” he asked.
The waiter paused to wash his hands in an invisible basin and then said: “Yes, sir.”
“She is expecting me,” said Johnny, allowing a five-hundred-franc note to rustle suggestively.
“Yes, sir. I see, sir. This way.”
Johnny followed the waiter meekly over some ten yards of floor, above which hung a thin aura of cigarette smoke, and found himself beside a table in the left-hand corner of the room. He looked with some interest at the woman sitting there; their eyes met in a sort of curious appraisal. Then the waiter said:
“You are expecting this gentleman, m’selle?”
“No.”
“I know that,” said Johnny. “I apologise for the deception, but it’s most important that I have a word with you.”
“Must it be me,” she said quietly, “or would any other good-looking woman do?”
Johnny said: “No. It has to be you. It concerns a friend of yours whose address I would like to know,” and watched the sudden guardedness flicker across her eyes.
She turned to the waiter and said: “I don’t know this – gentleman, Henri, and I don’t particularly want to know him. Please see that he goes.” She turned away again and looked wearily towards the band dais.
“You see, m’sieur.” The waiter shrugged. “That is how it is. I must ask you to come to another table.”
Johnny also achieved an almost Gallic shrug, moved a chair slightly and sat down facing the girl. The waiter gave a quiet, disapproving grunt and reached down to grip his lapels; Johnny turned slightly and moved his right hand about twelve inches with such alarming speed that the edge rebounded from the waiter’s neck. He caught the unfortunate Henri as he slid forwards on to his knees and leant him sympathetically against the table. The room was so dimly lit that nobody appeared to notice this rather unconventional move; certainly, no one took the slightest notice of it.
“M’selle,” said Johnny quickly, speaking to the one exception, “when I said that it is important that I see you, I meant exactly that. If you make it necessary, I shall treat you as I treated Henri, remove your unresisting carcass and interrogate it in the privacy of my hotel room. This would obviously be a barbarous procedure and I see no reason why it should be necessary. All I ask is five minutes’ conversation, and what I’m going to get is five minutes’ conversation. I hope I make myself clear.”
Marie-Andrée said nothing.
Johnny went on: “Madame Gervais tells me that you know where her husband is. My name is Darreaux – Pierre Darreaux – and I am an old friend of Antoine’s; I have made arrangements so that he may leave the country at once. I want to contact him with as little delay as possible.”
There was a pause during which a saxophone weaved an impassioned solo passage around them. Then she said:
“Why should I believe you?”
Johnny sighed. “Now that is exactly what Madame Gervais said. It took me a lot of time to convince her, and time is the thing that I cannot spare. If I am to get Antoine away I must see him to-night. I can prove that I am Pierre Darreaux and that is all.”
“How?”
“I have my papers and letters addressed to me.”
“You could be a flic,” she said. “That is no proof at all.”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled for the first time. “I have very little to do with the police.”
Johnny said: “There’s another way. If you take me to Antoine, he’ll recognise me.”
There was a pause. Then she said: “You seem to be assuming all along that I know where Antoine is.”
“Look,” said Johnny, “we haven’t got time for this fencing. We must get this settled before this waiter comes round or he may overhear something. You must take me to Antoine at once, do you understand?” There was nothing counterfeit in the urgency of his voice at that moment.
The girl took a sip at the wineglass before her and said: “Listen. If I take you to Antoine and he does not recognise you, then you can say any prayers you prefer and none of them will do you any good – in this world, at any rate. You understand? Antoine is by no means a gentle type these days.”
“That’s understood.”
“Very well,” said Marie-Andrée. She pushed her glass away from her. “Obviously I must take a chance sooner or later, and this seems to be the first. However” – she smiled – “Simone Gervais would know if you were a member of Dupont’s outfit and – to be frank – I don’t think you look like a policeman. So where does that get us?”
“Nowhere in particular. Talking very rarely does. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said, and stood up. Johnny pushed out his chair, leant Henri’s back against it, flicked a banknote on to the table and stood beside her.
“We’ll get into my car,” she said. “It’s just round the corner.”
Johnny nodded and followed her out of the hall. He collected his hat and scarf, helped Marie-Andrée on with her coat and pushed open the swing-doors in silence. They walked up the steps, turned right and into a cul-de-sac; he saw the light gleaming on the polished surface of a Citroën saloon.
“That your car?”
“Yes.”
He watched her fumble with the keys of the car, unlock and open the door and swing herself in; beneath the sophistication of her dress, her limbs had the suppleness of a boy’s. He climbed into the seat beside her and watched her as she turned the ignition key.
He suddenly said: “There’s no need to worry about this, you know. You’re doing the right thing.”
She smiled at him. “I was just wondering,” she explained, “what we could do with your body if it turns out to be not the right thing to do.”
“That’s easy,” said Johnny. “Dump me in the back of the car, where you put Antoine, drive out into the country and tip me into a ditch.”
“That’s a possibility,” she admitted, turning the car out into the road. “How did you know Antoine was in this car?”
“I don’t see how else you could have picked him up – and there’s dried blood on the back of this seat. Very careless, I call it. Where did you find him, anyway?”
“On the road.”
“M-mm. Why did you decide to help him?”
“That’s my business.”
“Oh? My business is other people’s business. I make a lot of money that way. What made you help him?”
There was a moment’s silence. “I believed his story.”
“What was his story?”
“Why don’t you ask him that?”
“I will. But I asked you first.”
“My God,” she said, “I’ve a good mind to slap your face.”
“I can see your figure’s all right, but I don’t know how good your mind is. What was he planning to do?”
“You know about that letter? We were trying to find out if it were genuine or not. A friend of mine from the Commission has promised to look into it for me. The trouble is that time’s getting short and the Maquis are looking for him. That’s why I’m taking a chance… How are you planning to get him out of the country?”
“I have a private plane.”
“I think it would be the best thing. Until we can find out the
truth about this letter.”
Johnny said: “Well, why shouldn’t this letter be genuine, anyway?”
“Because Antoine says it can’t be.”
“What does he think? Someone’s trying to incriminate him?”
“That’s the only explanation, isn’t it?” She looked sideways at him. “Can you think of any reason why anyone should want to do that?”
Johnny could, but he didn’t say so. He lit two cigarettes and slipped one into her mouth. She said: “Thank you.”
“You’re taking a rather strange route to wherever it is we’re going.”
“Yes. You might be shadowed. We’re almost there, though. What’s the matter – nervous?”
Johnny grinned maddeningly and flicked out his lighter. He said: “I could be.”
She turned the car sharply right and began to pull up.
She said: “Here we are. Would you mind opening the garage door?”
CHAPTER SIX
JOHNNY stood in the doorway and heard the soft click as Marie-Andrée thumbed the electric-light switch. The hall was small, and pale-yellow wallpaper gave it the appearance of being well-lit. He draped his scarf on the left-hand peg of the coat-rack, dropped his hat on top of it and followed the girl; she was walking down the corridor without stopping to remove her coat. She came to a halt opposite the first door on the left and looked at him.
“There you are. Please go in.”
Johnny opened the door and walked into the room. He saw the tall thin man lounging angularly on the bed and began to smile. He said: “Hullo, Antoine. This is a pleasure.”
A voice from behind him said: “I’ve brought a friend to see you, Antoine. This is Monsieur Darreaux.”
Johnny was delighted to see that not a muscle flickered in Gervais’s face; he merely watched, studying Johnny’s face as if it were one of the masterpieces in the Louvre. Then, he said: “There’s some mistake, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear,” said Marie-Andrée, with a little intake of her breath. “It’s not –?”
