by Desmond Cory
Paris at night presented its usual enigma: streets full of jostling, vociferous people, streets strangely empty only a few yards from the main thoroughfares, where the lamps shone tiredly on to the road and sleazy cats streaked madly to and fro in pursuit of hungry but good-natured mice. It was in one of these backwaters, in a street only a trifle less salubrious than that in which Elder lived, that Johnny found what he had been seeking.
Heavy stone steps rose ponderously from the pavé past green, spiked railings; and at their summit was a big brass-handled front door, glossy and gleaming with fresh paint.
Johnny approached it circumspectly and unemotionally. It was possible, of course, that this was the origin of the paint on the Nazi’s shoe; but it was the sort of fluke of which Johnny usually fought very shy. The normal procedure would be for the H.Q. analysts to scrape the paint off the shoe, to subject it to a series of searching and elaborate tests, and finally to declare that this was almost certainly Paint – perhaps with a few helpful comments as to its ingredients, unusual features and possible origin. On the other hand, Johnny disliked routine as much as any other self-respecting Intelligence Agent, and this Providence-sent door might conceivably…
Johnny stooped down and tentatively applied the back of his finger to the surface of the door; the paint was not exactly wet, but still definitely tacky. After a few moments’ examination of the coating, Johnny wrapped a handkerchief around his right hand and gingerly opened the door. He stood for another moment and cautiously scanned the list of residents that was scribbled on a rough sheet of paper and tacked to the door –
Flat A.......... M. Auguste Colle
Flat B.......... Mlle. Odette Brahms
Flat C........... Abu L. Hafiz
then stepped inside, took from his breast-pocket a small pencil flashlight and bent again to examine the inside of the door. This was unbelievably promising. The pale beam of the flash showed three minor finger-prints and, just above the handle, the imprint of the whole side of a hand where somebody had apparently sought the handle and missed it. The paint on little Ernest’s hand was in a position that made it seem likely that this reconstruction was more than hypothetical… Johnny stooped even lower and looked hard and long at the very base of the door. At the left-hand corner was the faint imprint of the pointed toe of a shoe, and – Johnny placed his nose perhaps six inches from the mark in his endeavour to see clearly – there was the very faintest suspicion of a smear of brown shoe polish. The shoe under Johnny’s arm was pointed, very pointed, and freshly polished.
Johnny took a deep breath and stood up once more; after a second’s pause he switched off his light and reached for the door-handle. His fingers were resting on it when the hall lights suddenly went on; he turned round, screwing up his eyes against the sudden glare, and rubbed his back ingratiatingly against the door.
It was perfectly obvious who had switched on the light. She was standing half-way up the stairs and had not troubled to remove her hand from the switch. She was wearing a frilly and almost diaphanous dressing-gown which showed fairly clearly that she had undoubtedly removed almost everything else. A heavy wave of one of the cheaper perfumes oozed heartily down the hall; Johnny wrinkled his nose and pressed against the door a trifle more eagerly. Mademoiselle Odette Brahms, seemed to be one of those young ladies with what is called an overpowering presence.
She dropped her hand from the switch, yawned and made no endeavour to conceal the action. She stared at Johnny with the aloof distaste of a Pekinese puppy before deciding to smile at him. Her teeth were uneven and there seemed to be rather too many of them on the lower jaw; Johnny liked her best as she had been before, though even that was not saying much.
She took a step down the stairs, allowing the step to display most of what Johnny assumed to be her left leg, and said:
“Hullo, dear. Looking for me?”
Johnny said: “You must be Odette.”
“That’s right,” she said. She dabbed absent-mindedly at a curl above her right ear. “That’s absolutely right, dearie. Come on up.”
Johnny said: “Thank you.” He tucked his parcel resolutely under his arm and marched up the staircase towards her. Having made sure that he had no intention of escaping, Mademoiselle Brahms yawned pinkly once more, turned and led the way into the room that lay at the exact top of the stairs, overlooking the hall. It looked exactly as Johnny would have expected Mademoiselle Brahm’s room to look, but smelled rather worse. It had about it an air of unwashed crockery, cracked plaster and of unshaven masculinity; it was presided over by a large rendering of the Eiffel Tower in execrable poster-paints that made even Johnny, a Philistine in all artistic matters, wince and look at the bed.
After that picture, the bed looked not unattractive. Johnny sat down heavily upon it, there being nowhere else to sit, and wondered if Mademoiselle Brahms were not, perhaps, something of a psychologist.
She was standing in front of a cheval-glass against the far waIl, combing her hair with a sort of dignified hopelessness. She was of the uncompromisingly fluffy type, and seemed to know it. Johnny watched her and saw one large blue eye regarding him from the mirror; her eyes, he thought, were easily her best feature. They were lustrous, calm and completely lacked the gleam of anxious predatoriness which is almost the trade-mark of women in her profession.
“Don’t know you, do I?” she said, turning round. “Who sent you?”
Johnny said without hesitation: “Jean.”
There are many Jeans in Paris.
It seemed to him that she eyed him in a more favourable light. Obviously, one of the Jeans in Paris was one of the higher-class maquereaux.
He sighed, took out his wallet and dealt ten one thousand-franc notes on to the bed.
Odette brightened visibly, gave her hair a final pat and came across the room to him.
Johnny dodged her neatly and said: “Just a minute. Before we do anything else, we must have a little talk.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
Johnny reflected dismally that talking was probably not in her line. He said: “Come and sit down.”
She shrugged: “I’ll get into bed – if you don’t mind. It’s damned cold in this thing.”
“Why do you wear it?”
She pouted and pulled the bedclothes round her neck. She said: “Don’t you like it? Most of my friends do.”
“It seems sort of unnecessary,” said Johnny, drawing one of the notes lightly across his fingers. “Still, if you like that sort of thing you should have another one. You can get a very nice nightdress for ten thousand francs. And a girl with a figure like yours needs a nightdress that’ll really set it off.”
“Yes?” she said irritably. “Look, m’sieur, you don’t have to be polite to me. I’ve got a figure like an old sack and I don’t care who knows it; me, I know all about it. The point is, do you want it or don’t you?”
Johnny said: “Let’s be suave and polished about this, shall we? On the other hand, my little rabbit, you might have something that I will pay you for. Ten thousand francs, to be precise… Well?”
“Well, what? Go ahead and shoot.”
Johnny thought of the gun reposing in his shoulder-holster and considered the advisability of taking her suggestion literally. It was an attractive idea, but not really practicable. He said: “I want to know about Anton Maszupy.”
She said: “Never heard of him.”
Nor had Johnny, for that matter. He said: “He was with you today. A little man with light brown, hair, greying at the temples; wore a grey suit and brown shoes. Rather a pointed nose and –”
She said: “Henri, you mean. He’s not – who you said. At least, if he is, it’s news to, me.”
Johnny smiled. “So he calls himself Henri, eh? Little Henri. Ah, well. Tell me about little Henri, my pet.”
She sat up suddenly. “What do you want to know about Henri for? He’s been pretty good to me, he has. I wouldn’t want to do Henri down. You keep your ruddy money. I can do without
it.”
Johnny looked at her and rustled the note provocatively between his fingers. He said: “You know – I love the noise a thousand-franc note makes when gripped lightly between the fingers. It has something of the sound of leaves rustling on the ground in autumn, but there’s something else besides.” He held it out to her. “Here, you try it.”
She took the note and examined it carefully, without attempting to rustle it. After a while she lay back in the bed again and said: “Well, I can’t tell you much. I don’t see how what I can tell you would do anybody any harm.”
Johnny said: “That’s all to the good.”
“Yes. Well, he said his name was Donnet, Henri Donnet. I picked him – met him at L’Auberge Licorne seven or eight months ago; and he used to drop in to see me quite often after that. About once a fortnight – sometimes more or sometimes less.”
“Go on.”
“That’s all I know.”
“Sure? You don’t know where he lived, if he was married, what he did?”
“No. Why the hell should I? He comes in when he feels like it, and he’s always generous, so what do I care?… Now I come to think of it, though, I think he was a clerk or something. From something he said to me once… in a shipping firm, I think. Wouldn’t swear to it.”
“When did you last see him, before this evening?”
“I don’t know. Wait… No, I can’t remember, I never can remember dates, and I see quite a number of people, you know, every day. About a fortnight, I suppose. That’s as near as I can get to it.”
Johnny stood up. He said: “Well, if that’s all you can tell me, that’s all you can tell me. Too bad. If you do happen to remember anything else, give me a call and there may be another five thousand coming your way. Darreaux is the name – care of Rostand’s.”
“Just a minute,” she said. Johnny, his hand on the door-handle, waited.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Leave another two thousand and, next time he comes, I’ll find out all about him. Everything. And I’ll do it so he won’t get curious – don’t worry, I’m good at that sort of thing. Then I’ll meet you somewhere, pass it on and you come across with another three thousand.” She looked at him, well pleased with her business acumen. “Well, what about it?”
Johnny said: “Now that’s a great idea. I’ll go better than that. Next time you see him, let me know and I’ll give you ten thousand, if you’ve got all I need to know. How about that?”
She thought it over with obvious effort, then said:
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
Johnny said: “Right. I’ll be seeing you, then,” and went out, grinning evilly to himself.
Well, that seemed like a dead end. After all his trouble, a dead end. A pity. Still – Donnet. Henri Donnet. The chances were against that being the little man’s usual name, but – there had been a different name on those phoney bills. It was worth checking. Oh, yes. Henry Donnet would certainly be worth checking…
CHAPTER NINE
Marie-Andrée sat at the table in the corner of the room, examining her chin with her right forefinger; her typewriter stood squarely in front of her with a virgin sheet of white paper protruding from the roller. She continued to study the keys for another two or three minutes, still stroking her chin; then sighed to herself and reached across the table towards the cigarette box. She took out a cigarette, pushed it into her mouth and turned her attention once more to the open notebook that lay beside the typewriter. After turning over one or two pages, she lit her cigarette, inhaled, and began to type.
“Fashions,” she explained hurriedly, “are now turning from the ethereal styles of the summer to the more formal brocades and moirés suitable for the oncoming winter. The stiff grosgrains of traditional French taste will once more be in evidence, and the new selection at Delanghe’s reveals that Ottoman silks are once more in the news. Metal-grey tones, in particular, are…”
She suddenly realised that she had forgotten to give the article its heading and petulantly turned the roller backwards. After a few moments’ consideration, she headed it:
“At Seven o’clock This Evening.” It was far from brilliant, but it would do. She turned the roller again and glanced at what she had already written. “Metal-grey tones, in partIcular, are…”
Well – what the hell were metal-grey tones doing? She’d forgotten. Either going out or coming in; it was all in the notebook anyway. Did it matter? She got up and walked over to the window.
At seven o’clock this evening. It was long past that: almost an hour past that, and there was no sign of the Englishman. If he were an Englishman, of course. He should have shown up by now. She parted the curtains slightly and looked miserably down the street, where the late diners were moving steadily towards the centre of the city. Johnny was not among them; was never among them, she thought sadly. She dropped the curtains and turned once more to the typewriter; and, it was at this moment that the telephone rang.
She heard Antoine coming through from the bedroom as she crossed the room to it. She glanced at him and picked up the receiver. “Yes… Hullo? Who –?” She looked once more at Antoine and shrugged. “Yes. This is Madame Darreaux. You’re the Agency?… Yes, quite right. Yes, go ahead.” She sat down on the arm of the chair and leaned wearily against the wall.
“We’ve been keeping an eye your husband, Madame Darreaux,” said the thin metallic voice in her ear. “I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty in obtaining the evidence you require. I have a report here which has arrived quite recently, and I’ll see that a copy reaches you in the morning, meanwhile, you instructed that you were to be contacted daily, so if you wish to hear the report I’ll read it out to you.”
Marie-Andrée said: “Yes, do that.” She took a pencil from her handbag and pulled the notebook on the table towards her. Slowly, in her neat script, she copied down the detective’s report.
“Your husband arose at about 10.00 hours, madame, breakfasted at the hotel in a leisurely manner and afterwards returned to his room for the space of three-quarters of an hour. He then came out, wearing a trilby-hat and a dark macintosh, and hired a taxi which took him to the Place de l’Etoile. Here he got out, walked across the square and went into the offices of Western Defence Headquarters, where he remained for perhaps twenty minutes. It was naturally impossible for our man to follow his exact movements while there.”
Antoine, watching the pencil wriggling across the paper looked up at her and nodded. He said softly: “That’s good.”
“Monsieur Darreaux emerged at about twelve-fifteen, hired a taxi and was driven to a flat in the Avenue Montagu, where he remained until shortly before 14.00 hours. The flat belongs to a married woman with whom you suspect your husband to have been consorting. Here is the name and address…”
Marie-Andrée gave an uncontrollable giggle as she wrote it down. Antoine looked at her curiously, and said: “Hey – how does my wife come into this?”
“He’s been seducing her,” she said. “Shut up.” And continued to write.
“14.00, Returned Rostand’s; had lunch.
“Had long conversation with young lady in the foyer and with a Monsieur Briquet, at one time a well-known member of the F.F.I. Then went up to his room.
“Remained in his room all the afternoon; ordered coffee to be sent up to him shortly after 16.30 hours.
“Came downstairs again at 18.15; had drink in bar; went out and again took taxi to place de l’Etoile. Again went to H.Q., and was there when last report was ’phoned through. No further news since then, report overdue, will be appended tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very helpful.” She replaced the receiver and smoothed the notebook with her fingers.
“It looks as if he’s genuine, doesn’t it? Apparently he’s been checking up on you, as well.”
Antoine said: “Yes, well, I don’t like it in the least. I want Simone kept out of this.”
She looked at him curiously, then said shortly: “I imagi
ne he knows what he’s doing.”
“Then what is he doing? He should have been here some time ago.”
“Lots of things might have happened. They might not have finished checking the letter at H.Q. yet. And, anyway, he said he’d be in some time this evening, and the night’s young yet. It’s silly to start worrying about him already.” She sat down in front of the typewriter and looked stonily at her article: she was wondering – not for the first time – exactly what Simone Gervais looked like. Antoine, seated in the corner, rubbed his forehead with a tired gesture, and closed his eyes.
“… Tall, slim, with green eyes and long waves of hair,” Antoine had told her many times what she looked like, but she found it impossible to build together any coherent image of her appearance. Green eyes, pale, mocking green eyes – she turned slightly in her chair and looked at Antoine, sprawled back in the untidiness of complete relaxation. It was no good, of course. Whatever she looked like, she had hold of Antoine all right; there would be no one else where he was concerned – as Marie-Andrée had discovered slowly but inevitably. It was rather a pity.
She watched Antoine’s face and the slight irregularity of the jaw-bone and the unruly sweep of the long brown hair across the forehead. He needed a haircut badly. She drew nervously on her cigarette, and wondered if she were really in love with him. She was drawn to him, both by his queer, adult yet unsophisticated attitude to life and the predicament he was in, the predicament that had gradually formed an intangible bond between them; there were times when she had wanted him badly… but could one be in love with someone who seemed oblivious to one’s existence as a woman at all? You could in books – yes. In practical life, she thought, it is not as easy as that. There are so many factors that go to make love between a man and a woman, factors that an atmosphere of casual comradeship completely destroys. And, in the long run, what good could come of it?
Marie-Andrée had all the Frenchwoman’s capacity for considering in cold blood the results of purely emotional conflicts, but this was a question to which she could find no answer. She did not know. There were too many things that she did not know; the only certain thing was that she was unhappy.
