The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  'I know one person who might be able to call them off. It's possible.'

  Levesque half-turned at him and gazed distrustfully. 'I was only half-serious, Giraud. Do you really have that much pull with the Germans?'

  'Not as a whole. But this is Paris and it is wartime. We all have someone who owes us a favor or two.'

  'What's in this for you, Giraud?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'We have been chatting in this park for nearly a month, and yet I have yet to see you do anything for purely altruistic reasons, unless you count giving some chocolate to the boy.'

  'Is it not enough that she fascinates me romantically?'

  'It would be,' Levesque said, 'if it so dominated your thought process that you had actually approached her on such a basis. But to my knowledge, you did not. So there must be something else.'

  Levesque's journalistic instincts were good, Giraud knew. But he had no intention on letting a prominent communist know about his string of predicaments, or whether Isabelle could identify him. 'If I was the self-serving individual you believe I am, Anton, would I use my influence with the Germans to help her? To help others? Why, just this week I attempted to help a local woman locate her husband, who has gone missing. And this is outside my jurisdiction, mind, without a request or order from the SD.'

  Levesque did not turn to address him face to face, instead leaning forward with both hands on the silver tip of his cane. 'Well then perhaps I have misjudged you, Giraud.'

  'I shall endeavor to prove that it is so,' the policeman said with mock formality. 'In the meantime, however, I must figure out how to butter up a certain young German officer.'

  39...

  The young officer did not seem happy to see him. Giraud knocked on his half-open office door, smiled as he leaned in, and was greeted by a scowl from Wulff, seated behind his desk.

  'It's about time,' Wulff said. 'I haven't seen or heard from you in a week and I called your office yesterday unsuccessfully.'

  'What's the matter?' Giraud closed the door to keep the conversation private.

  Wulff rose. 'The matter? The matter is I have to smoke these horribly shitty French cigarettes again, because my American supply has dried up.'

  Doubtless Henri had offloaded the rest of the cartons as quickly as possible. Wulff had presumed he would have more immediately, but that was not how the business worked, Giraud knew.

  He also knew an opportunity when he heard it.

  'Can you find me some Chesterfields or Luckys?' the oberleutnant asked. 'Any lighter tasting blend, really. I'll take Pall Malls even, if you can get them.' He had that slight desperation to his voice that hinted at addiction taking over.

  'If we're lucky,' Giraud said. 'I have a solid contact for finding all things American but the heat out there right now is considerable. It won't be cheap.'

  'How much?' the officer asked.

  'Normally I'd demand eight dollars per carton.'

  'Robbery!' the German said. 'You forget yourself, my friend...'

  Giraud shrugged. 'The prices are what they are. If I could bargain, it wouldn't be the black market, it would just be a market. However, I could perhaps eat the cost myself in exchange for an easy task of relative value.'

  'Such as?'

  'Some information...an exchange. You're rumored to be holding a local woman named Isabelle Gaspard for incitement and working with communist agitators. I do not think she is in custody but I need to confirm it.'

  'Done. That's all?'

  'I would also like the word spread to the Paris command that she had no role in harboring Laszlo Fontaine.'

  Wulff frowned. 'What are you getting me into, Giraud? You know how Best is on the matter of Fontaine...'

  'Trust me, it is entirely accurate. The High Command is wasting considerable resources pursuing her, and you'll look efficient and effective if you can assure them of that fact.' They had given the Germans few specifics on most of their raids for good reason, including the 'Fabien' safe house; the less involved they were, the better for both the officers and the people being rounded up. French policemen were still willing to admit their mistakes, at least occasionally; German SD were not. 'I'll give you any details I can once the deal is complete. Okay?'

  The German stared sullenly, his arms crossed. 'Don't fuck me on this, Giraud. If I stick my neck out asking about communist spies for you and I don't get my American smokes, I might have to rethink our relationship.'

  The raid was precise, swift and devastating. A quick knock on the door was followed by a pair of German soldiers putting their shoulders to it, well before anyone had a chance to even answer. The lock broke into a splintered mess, the two soldiers joined by five policemen.

  On the sidewalk outside the house in the Seventh district, Vaillancourt watched the men go about their business. It had taken a few visits and threats to get Granger to cough up a name but it hadn't been the one he'd expected. Instead, they were arresting one Francois Prud’homme, a former tailor and now reputed fence for stolen and black market merchandise.

  Vaillancourt took little pleasure in the arrest. He knew most people did not care one whit whether men like Prud’homme went about their business, as long as nobody was hurt in the process. On a personal level, he had expected Granger to name Damien Giraud as his biggest customer, a suggestion that had instead solicited nothing more than a wry smile and a shrug of the shoulders. Vaillancourt had had no compunction about arresting the one name the businessman gave up; someone had to have introduced Granger to Giraud, or acted as a go-between for the two men with local criminals. Perhaps it was this Prud’homme fellow and perhaps not. But he was going to make damn sure they knew either way.

  He was close, he knew. He tried to keep his personal feelings -- his antipathy towards Giraud -- out of the matter. But it was not entirely possible. He remembered school, and how he'd come to see Giraud as a protector, only to witness him manipulate students, teachers, women with casual aplomb, as if consequence were only a matter for the aggrieved. He recalled how the man's good humor could turn to dark rage in a mere moment, how a casual flirtation in the tavern near the academy had turned to Vaillancourt holding his fellow student back, spittle flying from a young Giraud's lips as he decried womanhood and mercy and equanimity, and befouled the Lord's name.

  Despite a minor essay scandal, adroitly skirted, Giraud had graduated early, such was his impressive accrual of class credit, and Vaillancourt had lost touch. He had expected for years to see his name again though, connected to rapid ascension through the ranks, or impressive financial gain.

  Or perhaps just cold-blooded murder.

  Giraud tried to call Francois before going over to see him, but he had not picked up. Still, he was never far from home, and he felt that by the time he cycled all the way there from the Sixteenth Arrondissement, his associate would doubtless have returned.

  It was beginning to get dark when he rolled up to the curb outside Francois' building. The lane to the back alley was lit brightly, enough to account for at least two or three sets of headlights.

  The Mercedes parked outside the front door had German insignia on it.

  He pulled the bicycle up onto the curb then rolled it down the steps of a nearby basement entry, leaving it out of view. It was better to risk the homeowner coming outside, or someone attempting to steal it than the attention of any Germans.

  Were they there to shop, or demand information?

  The front doors were flung open perfunctorily, and Giraud secreted himself behind the basement step wall, peaking over the top to watch the other side of the road. A German soldier with a rifle over one shoulder helped another soldier lead Francois out and down the steps, handcuffed at the wrists. They stowed him into the back of the vehicle, attaching the handcuff to the inside handle of the car door so that he could not flee. Then the soldiers went back inside.

  Giraud knew he shouldn't risk it, but he had to know what was going on. Curfew had yet to start; there was no sign of Vaillancour
t, or anyone who might have recognized him. At worst, if they came out of the building and saw him speaking with Francois, he could claim to have been asking about the incident for official reasons. He left the stairwell and crossed over to the car, then looked in through the back passenger window.

  'Psst... Francois!'

  The profiteer looked shocked to see him. 'Giraud! Giraud you have to get me out of this!'

  'What happened?'

  'It was the damn American cigarettes. Someone was selling them to members of the High Command! You promised me none would go to the Germans, Giraud! You gave me your word!'

  'I cannot control every single crook in Paris, Francois. Mon Dieu! Now what do we do?'

  'We? We do nothing. I try to use my money and influence to extract myself from this. But when I do, I'm going to come looking for you, my friend. I want an explanation of how this went down.' Then he looked taken aback. 'Wait... why are you here? Why are you here right now, while they're... Giraud! Did you inform on me, you son of a bitch?'

  'My God, no!' Giraud exclaimed. 'Absolutely not...'

  'Then how did this happen? How did this happen, and why are you here , Giraud? Answer me, damn it!'

  Giraud knew exactly what had happened. His witless associates had broken their word. Now, Francois was going to pay the price, and Francois was his primary supplier. It was a disaster.

  But being caught talking to the man wasn't going to help. He began to slowly back away. 'I shall see what help I can get for you,' he told his colleague. 'I shall make haste. I shall make inquiries.'

  'Giraud! You bastard son of a whore!' he hissed. 'You don't leave me here! Get me out of this car before they come out! I can disappear! If I don't get away, they might do me in!'

  'I'll be right back, don't worry,' the policeman said. Giraud looked both ways. There was no one watching. He turned and hurriedly walked back across the street to collect his bicycle. Then he pedaled away as quickly as he could comfortably muster.

  It took twenty minutes to get back to headquarters in Saint Denis. The desk sergeant looked surprised to see him during daylight, but Giraud didn't stop to explain, instead flashing him a half-hearted smile, then flying into his office and slamming the door behind him.

  The Francois situation was yet another unforeseen circumstance, another headache. He had to find Wulff those cigarettes, or something equally impressive. He picked up his phone and dialed a number he'd committed to memory.

  A man's voice answered. 'Hello?'

  'It's me. I know this isn't the usual...'

  'Who is this?' the voice said in English, the accent distinctly American. 'I think you've got the wrong number...'

  'No... it's me, Gir...' He stopped himself before mentioning his own name. The phone line. What if they already had ears on Granger, the supplier from the plant? The Germans wouldn't worry about things like warrants or court orders before installing a wiretap.

  He hung up the phone then stared at it, wondering just how grand his mistake had really been.

  40...

  Giraud knew Francois well enough to know he would never inform. His career, assuming he could bribe his way out of an internment camp, depended upon his reputation with other crooks.

  But that still left Oberleutnant Wulff to deal with. For a member of the High Command, he was easily the most amiable and relaxed Nazi that Giraud knew; but that was somewhat akin to being the least hungry hyena in a pack. He was not to be trusted, and he would be expecting something to make up for the cigarettes, something fairly spectacular.

  Meeting at his office seemed a poor choice; if he lost his temper, he would be unconstrained, easily able to cook up his rational for arresting Giraud, or worse, shooting him. Instead, he called him and offered Wulff something he had not had in quite some time: a fine restaurant meal.

  It was not going to run cheap. Few knew about the small handful of underground restaurants that operated outside of the constraints of the German rationing laws, with fresh meat and produce supplied at exorbitant prices, and meals cooked for a select clientele of the wealthiest French and Germans. That was because they followed a simple adage familiar to the Kings, heads of state and power brokers of Europe: those who can do not have to ask.

  The restaurant was located in a basement along Rue Cherche-Midi, in an unassuming Hauptmann-style block near Boulevard Montparnasse. To enter, one knocked upon a black wooden door, waited for a slit to open and for the doorman to ask for the password. Once offered, they would enter into a large, decadently attired room, with red velvet and gold brocade hung from the walls, under four crystal chandeliers. Sixteen small, square two person tables sat in the middle of the room in rows of four, perfectly spaced. To the left of the front entrance, a coat check girl took peoples' topcoats, hats and umbrellas.

  It was empty, save for one table where an elderly-looking German general was dining with a woman in a silver-flecked flapper dress. She looked at least forty years his junior. The general looked up briefly and nodded politely at them as the front-of-house concierge introduced them to their table. 'Your sommelier and waiter will be with you shortly, gentlemen,' he said, handing each a wine menu and a dining menu, palm-sized documents bound in burgundy leather.

  'What is this place, Giraud?' Wulff asked, his voice hushed. 'That is General Von Strasser in the corner, one of Hitler's key advisors. 'How can there be a restaurant like this open with the restrictions?'

  'It is hardly the only one, Friederich,' Giraud said, careful to ingratiate by using the officer's first name. 'It is just the best. I thought before we got to business, we should try this place, on me.'

  Wulff looked at the menu and his eyes widened. 'Strip steak? Foie Gras? Beluga caviar?'

  'They have a fine menu and an even finer chef, one of the greatest in Paris -- although from what I hear, your political bosses are enamored of the local fare that they are about to allow a few places to open again... just for visitors, of course. So perhaps there will soon be real competition again.'

  Wulff turned the pages and looked at them front to back and back to front. 'There are no prices.'

  'It would be considered ... in poor taste to print them for the level of clientele.' In fact, it cost him five hundred francs just to obtain each seat for them. Every item on the menu that was not part of regular ration allowances would be added to the bill as a separate line.

  Wulff's lips parted slightly in shocked disbelief. It had finally completely registered that they had stepped far above his normal station, to rarified air. 'I must say... this is a pleasant surprise indeed, Giraud. Do you have my cigarettes as well?'

  The policeman had managed to secure two packets of Pall Mall, one unopened. He placed it on the table and slid it over to the German, then took one from the already opened pack and lit it, then passed it to the German. 'They're quite excellent. But let's discuss this after we eat, okay?'

  Before their drinks could arrive, Giraud felt a chill from the direction of the doors. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder, catching Wulff's attention as well. The officer entering held the door for another patron. Giraud heard Wulff's intake of breath.

  'Mein Gott... that's Obergruppenfuhrer Best!' Wulff hissed. 'How will I explain myself, being in a place like this, at these prices...?'

  Best walked in dressed in his full light-grey Gestapo officer uniform, a monocle in one eye, a second soldier trailing him for added security.

  Giraud looked at his dining partner's reaction; he could read the dread, the power Best had over him. But the policeman had known many a calculating individual. Cold-blooded killers were all-too-familiar to a man who'd spent youthful days and terrible nights in the Legion. 'Just act as if you belong,' Giraud said quickly and quietly. 'He'll come over when he sees us. Be borderline brash; send him a drink. There is nothing more that cold men like Best respect than someone who takes what they want. Oh... and salute him before you declare your loyalty to the Fuhrer. He'll enjoy being the priority.'

  Sure enough, afte
r waving to Von Strasser's table, Best spied his underling and made his way over, officers in tow.

  Wulff stood immediately at attention and saluted, then gave the party salute. 'Heil Hitler!' he declared.

  'Heil Hitler,' Best said, almost casually, barely lifting his arm. 'Interesting to see you here, Wulff. At ease. You got my message today on that warrant matter?' Then he looked around, appearing slightly puzzled. 'This place is above your pay grade, is it not?'

  Giraud waited nervously for the officer to respond, praying he would follow the advice.

  Wulff stood at ease, composing himself and smiling confidently. 'I've found there are always ways to achieve one's objectives with enough tenacity. Would you like to join us, Obergruppenfuhrer?'

  Best studied him with rapacious poise, like a coiled snake waiting for its prey to fall within optimal striking range. But Wulff showed no outward fear or hesitancy. After a tense moment, Best relaxed slightly. 'No, we have a table for four reserved,' he said. 'But your courtesy is most gracious, Wulff.'

  'Thank you Obergrupphenfuhrer.'

  Best looked down at their table and frowned. 'Are those Pall Malls?' he inquired.

  Wulff's eyes widened slightly for the barest moment. 'Yes, Obergruppenfuhrer.' He looked at Giraud, then back at his boss. 'Would you like a packet?'

  Best smiled broadly. 'Don't mind if I do, Wulff. Do me a favor and have a carton or two from your source delivered to my office, won't you?' Then the commander leaned forward and took one of the cigarette packs, depositing it into his inside breast pocket.

  'Yes, Obergruppenfuhrer!' Wulff said. 'That should be no problem at all.'

  Giraud felt a knot develop in the pit of his stomach.

  Best smiled. Then his mouth devolved into a cruel line. 'That request about the French girl, the one who's wanted for the murder near Vincennes.... that was a very odd thing to ask, given what we know.'

  'Yes, Obergrupphenfuhrer. I felt I had it on good knowledge...'