by Desmond Cory
“She will run away, you think? It is possible. You think she will know?”
“It’s in all the papers.”
“Parbleu,” said d’Ambois, annoyed. “Name of a name! I had forgotten. I am a fool! And the papers, they are a bloody nuisance. The delightful young lady will forgive me,” he added hurriedly, “I forget myself.”
“Could you get me the Defence H.Q. on the ’phone?” suggested Johnny.
D’Ambois’s face brightened. Nothing could exceed the delight he felt on being able to accommodate in the smallest way the gentleman’s wishes. The idea was in itself one of the most brilliant he had ever had the pleasure of hearing. To be in contact with such a clear-thinking, incisive, weighty mind was indeed an experience only too rarely enjoyed. Having concluded his felicitations, he took over the conversation himself.
“Western Defence H.Q.? D’Ambois of the Sûreté. I wish to know the names and addresses of any of your female employees who have not arrived on duty today.”
The reply was inaudible, but induced d’Ambois to blush profusely.
“Veritable idiot! This is of the greatest importance. Oblige me by checking up at once… The young lady,” he said, awarding Johnny an oily smile, “she is impertinent … What do you say? Ah!” He picked up a pencil and began to scrawl frantic hieroglyphics on the blotting-paper. “Yes, that is all?… Then that is all. Thank you.” He clicked back the receiver and frowned, at the blotting-paper before him. “Get me Machon,” he said to no one in particular, and one of the two police secretaries sitting in the corner of the room shot out of his chair and through the door. In his own way, Johnny reflected, d’Ambois must be something of a disciplinarian.
The little man was now leaning back idly and flicking his fingernails with a propelling pencil; he had the air of a dynamo recharging its batteries. A cold Parisian sun was slanting a beam across his shoulders and across the floor of the room, while in the coolness near the ceiling half a dozen flies were playing a ceaseless game of tag, humming disconsolately to themselves.
Johnny said: “Might I see the list, d’you think?”
“But certainly. My apologies, m’sieur. I have three names here – Madame Suzy Tallon, Mademoiselle Mony Henriot and Mademoiselle Marie Pless. Are any of the names familiar to you?”
“Mony Henriot,” said Johnny thoughtfully. “I remember her legs.”
“Indeed?… Machon,” said d’Ambois, in the nearest approach he could make to a bark, “here are the names and addresses of three young ladies. Take two men with you, go around and arrest them.”
“Sir,” said Machon smartly. He saluted and withdrew.
“Machon.”
“Sir?”
“Use your discretion.”
“Naturally, sir.” .
“Carry on, then. And now” – he turned once more to Fedora – “that is fixed. That is good, that. Is there anything further that you require, Monsieur Fedora?”
“I’ll leave the matter in your hands,” said Johnny politely but untruthfully.
“I shall take every step available, you may rest assured. German agents in Paris,” said d’Ambois forcibly – “that is a thing which I will not tolerate. I have your address, m’sieur. I shall be delighted to report personally such progress that we may make.”
“Most kind of you,” said Johnny.
“But-not-in-the-slightest-degree. The pleasure, it is all mine. You have no further suggestions?”
“No. I think not.”
“If I might suggest something,” said Marie-Andrée. “Perhaps Madame Gervais would like to hear of her husband’s – er – that he is all right.”
D’Ambois bowed. “But, of course, my dear young lady. Certainly she will be informed.”
“Oh. That’s all, then.”
“Excellent. My secretary will see you to your car Monsieur Fedora – delighted. Mademoiselle – veritably enchanted.” He danced across the room and opened the door himself. He bowed low. He closed the door behind him.
“Stomach of a sacred camel,” he remarked. “The things that go on in this place are passing all human belief… Georges! My digestive tablets.”
“Your beastly little friends seem to be out in force,” said Johnny, pushing his way across the pavement and ducking as a flashlight exploded. “Newspapermen everywhere.”
“Isn’t it awful?” Marie-Andrée panted heavily, flashed a hurried smile at d’Ambois’s secretary and dived into the car. “I look such a sight. Photographed in a man’s sportsjacket – I ask you. Really! I shall never forgive you for this.”
“Wonder what they’re after.” Johnny clambered in beside her, closed the door and thoughtfully let in the clutch. “Goodbye, m’sieur, and thank you… On the hunt for Gervais, I imagine. Probably thought you were his wife.” He drove to the Quai des Orfèvres and joined the main stream of traffic.
“What happens now?”
“Sleep, I should think.” Johnny stroked his unshaven chin. “And a bath and shave for me. I’ll drop you at your flat before I go on to Rostand’s.”
“I think,” she said dubiously, “I think I should like to go to the hotel with you.”
“Eh?”
“I mean, I don’t particularly relish the idea of being alone in my flat. Not after last night. I expect there’s… blood everywhere, too.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, of course you can come to the hotel. Or is there any other you prefer?”
“No, no. Rostand’s is as good as any other. Perhaps, if you don’t mind, we could just stop at my flat and I can pack a few things. And,” she added irritably, “put on some respectable clothes.”
“By all means,” said Johnny, and trod on the accelerator.
Marie-Andrée closed her eyes almost at once, snuggled herself into the seat that Antoine Gervais had occupied only yesterday and made no further effort at conversation; and Johnny, coping with the morning stream of Paris traffic – to a driver accustomed to driving on the left of the road, one of the most terrifying sights that this world has to offer – Johnny himself felt in no mood for light badinage. A night on the constant qui vive and the enforced inhaling of an unascertainable but stultifying quantity of coal-gas, culminating in an interview with the energetic d’Ambois, had left him in a state bordering on enervation. He drove blearily up the road, avoiding several fatal accidents by last-second twists of the wheel and through the divine grace of a Providence that was waiting, without doubt, to see him hanged; and finally pulled up outside Marie-Andrée’s flat. She showed no signs of returning to consciousness when the car stopped, but woke as soon as he touched her shoulder.
“Here we are, lady. Like me to come up with you?”
She knuckled her eyes for a second before replying. “Oh, no – don’t bother.” She placed her hand on the door-handle and then paused, raising her eyes thoughtfully to the window of her sitting-room.
“Oh.”
“Just remembered, eh? All right, I’ll come.” Johnny swung his legs out of the car and went round past the bonnet to open the door for her. “They say exercise is good for the figure.”
“I do hope he’s not still there.”
“Still not quite used to the atmosphere of battle, murder and sudden death?” Johnny opened his mouth and gave vent to a quite unpardonable yawn. The distinctly tiring nature of his previous night’s employment had begun to take its effect. “That’s what I like about Frenchwomen. You’re so unprotected.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind the corpse so much, really. I can’t help feeling there might be someone else in there with another little popgun, so perhaps it would be as well if you went in first.”
“And so practical.” Johnny yawned once more, made a vain attempt to bite it off that looked as if he were snapping at a fly, and obediently led the way upstairs. “Confidentially, old thing, I’m not expecting much more trouble as far as the shooting side of the business goes. To my knowledge, we’ve now polished off all their highly-trained marksmen… You see? No one here.”
“That’s a relief. Have you looked under the sofa?”
“No. Nor do I intend to. Life is too valuable to spend searching unmentionable articles of furniture for even more unmentionable specimens of humanity. Go and get your necessities, woman.”
He watched her as she crossed the floor, then wandered over to the piano and proceeded to exorcise the ghosts with a little boogie-woogie. The piano had the E flat above middle C missing, and a bullet-hole in the frame showed exactly why. He set to work with intense concentration to build a theme around it. He had met with some moderate success by the time she had returned carrying a small brown leather suitcase.
“Can I take that case?”
“Your manners,” she said gravely, “are impeccable. But I think I can manage it as far as the car.”
“Yes, well, they’re not so bad, are they? Considering. Apart from shooting people before breakfast, which is regarded in some circles as a breach of good taste, I’m very well satisfied with them. After you, m’selle.”
“A woman’s man, if ever I saw one.”
“You surprise me. I was under the impression that in my present condition I could double for Boris Karloff and no questions would be asked. Perhaps you are one of these peculiar young ladies who like the masculine, unshaven type… Yes, I see you are.”
“If you’ve quite finished kissing me,” said Marie-Andrée, “we might go down to the car.”
“Yes.” Johnny released himself and eyed her critically as she wiped the lipstick from his mouth with her handkerchief. “You know, something’s got into me to-day. I feel positively light-headed. Can it be the spring?”
“It hardly seems likely at this time of the year.”
“Can’t be that, then.” Johnny took the handkerchief from her and examined it with his forefinger. “You’re quite right. Flame. I’m afraid that, for the time being, I shall be spending all my time chasing another woman.”
“I know. I’m furious.”
“Well, bottle it up for the time being and get into the car,”
“That’s the idea,” said Johnny closing the door behind her. “Next stop, Rostand’s. And, I trust, a bath, a shave, and a few hours’ solid sleep. As you may infer, I have wormed myself into your affections under false pretences. I am, in reality, an effeminate.” He let in the clutch, allowed the gears to grind agonisingly and set off once more down the street.
“Good morning, Monsieur Darreaux,” said the booking clerk. “You have been asked for, but we were unable to contact you, I regret.” His bored professional eye regarded Marie-Andrée with the complete vacuity of a boiled cod and then returned to Johnny. For a moment he seemed almost on the verge of a conspiratorial wink.
“Who wanted me?’” said Johnny, surprised.
“Your wife, m’sieur.”
“My wife, eh? Which one? – I mean, when?” said Johnny.
“Not long ago, m’sieur. She is still here, I believe – surely that is she sitting in the corner, the lady with the attractive blue hat?”
“Ah,” said Johnny, satisfied. “Yes, I know the lady. That is, you’re quite right… Er – this young lady here would like to check in. Perhaps you would like to look after her.”
“Delighted, m’sieur.” The clerk gave him a look of the deepest admiration and leant forwards. “Er – pardon me m’sieur. There was also a telephone call.”
“Yes. From –?”
“A young lady, m’sieur. No name. She said she would be calling on you shortly.”
“I see. Thank you. I wonder how I do it.”
“That is exactly what I was wondering myself, m’sieur. And now – we have a nice single bedroom for the young lady, on the third floor, facing due south-west…”
Johnny drifted across the hotel foyer towards the provocative-looking blue hat which, as he approached, raised itself slightly to reveal the oval face and tawny hair of Simone Gervais.
“Madame Darreaux, I believe. What a delightful surprise.”
She flushed slightly ,and showed a quick gamine grin in his direction. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. I had to see you in a hurry.”
“Yes. Why the nom de guerre?”
“I thought it might persuade the clerk to tell me your whereabouts. But apparently he really didn’t know. Look – have you seen today’s paper? You know about my husband?”
“Yes, to both questions.”
“Is he all right?” she asked breathlessly.
“Perfectly all right. The hospital authorities assure me there’s not the slightest danger.”
“Oh, that. Pouf! Antoine has a skull like a rhinoceros and always did have. What I want to know is whether anything fresh has arisen with regard to that beastly letter.”
“Again your husband is quite all right. A German Intelligence agent very much better informed in these matters than I have ever been assures me that it is almost certain to be proved a forgery. In any case, recent events have served to exculpate your husband completely; there’s not the slightest chance of his being convicted.”
“Thank God,” she said almost reverently; then, kicking her heels irritably against the sofa, “but they won’t allow me to visit him. Why on earth shouldn’t they, if that is true?”
“They won’t?” Johnny pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear. “That’s rather surprising. I know they’re not allowing any visitors in case one of our acquaintances from IIIB tries to pull a fast one, but I should have thought they would let you in. They must be even more careful than appears strictly necessary.”
“I should say they were being downright absurd. Oh, well. What do you suggest I do?”
“I should go home and wait until d’Ambois of the Sûreté contacts you, as he said he would do. You’ll probably find some sort of telephone message waiting for you, probably in one of the simpler forms of code and widely embellished with unintelligible Gallicisms.” Johnny became aware that her attention was focused on something behind his left shoulder. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Marie-Andrée Duveyrier – Madame Simone Gervais.”
Simone smiled; again her eyes had turned from a hazel shade to a definite green. “So you’re Marie-Andrée. But this is delightful.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” They shook hands distastefully. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting, you. It hasn’t seemed very practicable before.”
“Of course not, dear. Monsieur Darreaux assures me that my husband is quite all right now, and that he can come back home – if you’re quite sure you’ve finished with him.”
“Oh, dear,” said Johnny. But not even he had the nerve to say it out loud.
“But, of course he can come back. You didn’t have to ask my permission.”
“How sweet of you to put it like that. I hope Antoine wasn’t too much trouble to you.”
“Oh, no.” Marie-Andrée smiled. “He made himself useful in any number of little ways.”
“So glad.” Simone stood up and tossed back her hair “It’s been lovely meeting you, but I’m afraid I must go. I had no idea it was so late. I wonder if you could find me a taxi, Monsieur Darreaux?”
“Good Lord, yes,” said Johnny. “Rather. Here I go.” He turned like a flash and made his escape, encountering as he went the sympathetic but interested gaze of the booking clerk. He shuddered.
There was no great difficulty involved in finding a taxi. There was always a lengthy queue of them directly outside the door. Johnny carried out his errand by beckoning to the nearest and then leaning against the doorpost breathing deeply until Simone emerged. He was delighted to see that her hair remained undishevelled and that there were no angry scratches on her cheeks. Apparently civilisation had prevailed.
“Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “Service on the dot. All ready and waiting, as requested.”
“O-o-oh,” she said, ignoring him.
“What’s the matter?”
“My dear! What a cat. I might have known Antoine would take up with a woman like that. He has no tas
te, you know; no taste at all.”
“I suppose she is rather pretty.”
“Do you really think so? No morals, anyway. You can see that at a glance.”
“Well, I like her.”
“Yes,” she said witheringly. “You would.” She flounced into the taxi, slammed the door, then turned to face him and winked in a thoroughly disconcerting manner. She said: “All right. Maybe I’m the least bit prejudiced.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“Thank God it’s all over, anyway. I thought it was only the Germans we were dealing with. By the way” – she reached out her hand through the window – “I don’t know how much of all this is your doing. I don’t know anything. But I can’t help thinking it must be the hell of a lot. So, thanks.”
“My doing?”
“Yes. Getting Antoine out of the jam he was in. It was a nasty one, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, that. I misunderstood your meaning. Believe me,” said Johnny heroically, but with some truth, “I did next to nothing. You must thank the police judiciaire. And Marie-Andrée.”
“I have thanked her. What do you think we talked about when we’d got rid of you?… Yes, that’s all right. Keep it in memory of me.”
“What? Oh!” said Johnny, releasing her hand. “I’m so sorry. No, you’d better have it, really. It may come in useful some time.”
“It will. Wait till I see that man,” said Simone. “Concussion, indeed! Serve him right! But it’s nothing to what he’ll have coming to him, the rat. Good-bye, then, Darreaux. Or whatever your real name is.”
“Au’voir,” said Johnny politely. He waved gently and pathetically as the taxi drove off, then scratched the tip of his nose and went back into the hall.
Marie-Andrée had already gone up to her room and Johnny felt that she was setting him an excellent example for once. He travelled up in the lift, managed to get out at the correct floor and walked down the corridor to his room, yawning heavily. As he went into his room the telephone tinkled abruptly on the bedside table.
Johnny put on his patiently resigned expression, then replaced it by one of intense interest as he picked up the receiver. Of course. A young lady had been ringing him up. Johnny’s inventory of young ladies acquainted with his number at Rostand’s was not immense, and there seemed to be every chance that it was the lady with the attractive voice who had rung him up before and whom he was so extremely anxious to meet. Le rossignol, in fact. He cuddled the receiver to his somewhat bristly chin and spoke in a carefully modulated coo.
