The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  'Hmm, yes, well, apparently your source wasn't very good at all. Thus my refusal. I wouldn't normally explain myself, but you gracious offer of dinner should not go unrewarded. Now, if you gentleman do not mind, I shall attend to my guest.'

  Best turned to leave. Giraud's guts churned as the senior Gestapo man made his way to his table, near the front of the room.

  Giraud and Wulff sat down again. 'I don't suppose a few more cartons will be an issue, eh Giraud?' Wulff said amiably. 'Thank you for that. You really helped me out. Shame about your friend. That could have gone a lot worse, by the way.'

  The food was everything the place suggested, served on silver trays, steaming hot. The sommelier's suggestions for accompanying wines with each course were perfect. The dessert after Wulff's filet mignon was a paper-thin crepe stuffed with shaved fresh chocolate, fresh strawberries and whipped cream. The Cognac after dessert dated from Napoleon, and the cigars were fat, expertly hand-rolled in Cuba.

  Wulff sipped his drink, puffed on the cigar and barely resisted the temptation to unbutton the top of his dress trousers. 'My God, Giraud! In all my life, I would never have guessed that I would have to be assigned to this country in order to receive the best meal I've ever eaten. But I suppose it's true that you Parisians really do know your decadence.'

  'I'm glad you think so.'

  'This must have cost you a small fortune.'

  Giraud raised a hand, like he wouldn't hear of it. 'It was here to be had, and appreciated. Anything less would be a sin. Listen...' He knew he had to raise the point as soon as possible, before Wulff got himself into any more hot water with Best.

  'Yes?'

  'About the American cigarettes. It's just not possible right now, my friend. In a few weeks, perhaps... but unfortunately just today my source was taken into custody.'

  Wulff eyed him stoically, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggesting annoyance.

  Giraud noticed it and felt a tiny twinge of menace. 'It's not a matter of my not wanting too, it's just that your people are all over the supply chain and if I'm going to...'

  Wulff raised a finger to his own lips and shushed him gently, then left it hanging there in the air for an extra moment, to emphasize his desire for silence. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, almost a whisper. 'I have expended considerable political capital today making inquiries about your young lady friend, only to discover her capture is considered a priority by Obergruppenfuhrer Best himself. And to top if off, I must now also tell the most powerful party member in Paris that I have the means to eat at this place, but not provide him the same cigarettes he has seen me smoke. I am forced to make up a tale about these two mutually irritating problems. The cigarettes are almost worse than not having the waitress -- whom you may be assured is more than a waitress.'

  The Frenchman felt his blood run cold. 'What do you mean?'

  'We had intelligence about the 'Friends of Fabien' cell prior to your department's raid, deputy. And while it confirmed your assertion that Laszlo Fontaine and his wife did not live with the cell members, we have also learned that a large amount of money was supposed to be funneled through them to establish a more concrete resistance, an underground. You arrested four people there, but no money was reported seized or turned over. I was inclined to believe you when you said her connection was tangential, but given Best's reaction tonight, we can only surmise that your little friend, who also was not there, has it in her possession.' Wulff's gaze was dispassionate, bloodless. 'And now Best believes I either incompetently tried to divert them from that money, or to steal it myself.'

  'Surely... surely, that's crazy...'

  'I gave you leeway in this matter because you had value to me, Giraud, but no longer. You've made me look like a fool twice in front of a man who holds my very life in his hands.'

  'But... the meal.'

  'Come,' the German officer said, rising, 'pay the bill and we shall discuss this further outside.'

  'But...Friederich, this dinner alone was worth many times the value of the cigarettes...'

  'Did I task you with buying me an expensive dinner, Giraud?' His perfunctory, business-like tone worried Giraud more than screaming and raving might have done. At least then he would have known what to expect. 'And you will do me the common courtesy of addressing me by my rank, if you please. Now, did I ask you to show me this restaurant or buy me this meal?'

  Giraud's head dipped. 'No, Oberleutnant, you did not.'

  'Come. Leave them a large gratuity, Giraud, and we shall have a talk.' He removed a pair of black leather gloves from his side coat pocket, then slipped them on, his eyes never leaving the policeman.

  The bill had been for nearly five hundred marks - ten thousand francs, and a small fortune to Giraud. But he paid it without thought, his mind on the larger problem, then followed the German officer outdoors and up the stairs. At street level, Wulff waved an arm to invite the policeman into the dark alley between the restaurant's building and the one next door.

  'A perfect location for a nice chat,' Wulff said.

  'Oberleutnant, please...'

  Wulff merely waved towards the alleyway again. Giraud turned and walked into the shadows. He knew he had to play things very carefully; he could see an anger in Wulff that he had not anticipated. 'I merely intended to...'

  The gun butt crashed down into the back of his head, a leaden thump that shuddered through his core, shaking his vision into a momentary blur and toppling Giraud to his knees. The boot came up quickly, slamming into his rib cage and cracking bone, an icepick stab of pain cutting through him. He tried to roll away, but the German was pacing after him, each stride a downward, thrusting kick, heel first, crashing into his kidneys, his back, his ribs, until Giraud collapsed face first, the strength kicked out of him.

  'I told you there would be consequences, you little worm,' Wulff said, half-turning to straighten his now-crooked tie. Then he spun quickly and landed another thudding kick, knocking the wind out of the policeman, who gasped for air. 'You have the unmitigated nerve to embarrass me in front of Werner Best? You will be lucky if all I have done is order you to a detainment camp, where they can find some value in you.'

  He smiled momentarily, as if completing a task. But then Wulff frowned again. 'No. That wasn't enough; I'm still rather incensed. You make me a promise and I place myself at considerable career jeopardy; then you try to ingratiate yourself and trick me with a meal. I think I shall have to shoot you dead, you miserable piece of French shit. You know that's what you are, don't you? A piece of shit, for me to scrape from my boot?' He withdrew the Luger pistol from his belt holster and chambered a shell. He aimed it at the top of Giraud's head. 'One less crooked policeman in Paris will bother no one,' he said.

  Giraud felt his insides quiver, the fear of imminent death so overwhelming he thought he might wet himself. He cursed inwardly, trying to remember his Legion training from so many years ago, how to keep his calm under pressure. He let his breathing calm down to a normal pace and tried to think of something that would keep Wulff from pulling the trigger.

  'I have a lot of friends who know a lot of people,' he said. 'I can get you anything.'

  'Except, apparently, a fucking carton of Pall Malls. You're not doing yourselves any good with that line. What else?'

  'What... else?'

  'What else, you ridiculous little man! What else do you have to give me, to convince me to spare you. Surely you've got some money tucked away? A rainy day fund under your mattress or some other such provincial nonsense?'

  His account at the bank was flush with cash, as was the seizure account. While it paled when compared to the sizeable bank draft that continued to burn a hole in his pocket, Giraud's very sense of survival was tied up in the accounts, his hard work. It was everything he'd worked for since the occupation began.

  'You're taking too long, Giraud. I think perhaps you've tired of this life, eh?' the German officer took a half-step forward and placed the muzzle directly against the top
of the policeman's head. 'No missing from here.'

  'No! Wait...' Giraud said. 'I...' He didn't want to say it, but what choice did he have? He told himself that it was the war; that it was about choosing his own right to live. 'I may have something.'

  'What?'

  'I know where there's a woman; she has an apartment.... and a pear-cut diamond the size of your thumb. She has Jewish blood, I am told. Her husband is already in your custody at a camp. She would not be missed. That gem... it is worth a fortune.'

  He felt the barrel break contact. 'A name and an address, and you'd better not be lying to me. If it's smaller than my thumb, I shall remove both of yours.'

  'Distin. Marguerite Distin. She lives above Le Cochon Noire, in an apartment. In the Eighteenth.'

  He felt the pang of regret and remorse but Giraud had long ago learned to be pragmatic, to see the world for what it was. Eventually, he told himself, she would have made so much noise about her husband and son that they would have arrested her anyway. He was just being practical.

  Better one of us than both, he told himself. Better her than me.

  41...

  Giraud had stumbled away from the alley behind the restaurant and, unable to push his bicycle home, flagged down a pedal cab, spending his last twenty francs to get back to his flat.

  He stumbled up the stairs and managed to get the door open, then collapsed on his sofa. Every part of his body hurt. He suspected at least two ribs were broken and prayed silently that they would not puncture another organ, lest he bleed internally and never wake up.

  Of course, within two minutes, the phone rang.

  He winced as he rose, then stumbled the two steps required to pick it up. 'Yes?'

  It was the chief constable. 'Giraud, where are you? Your shift began an hour ago.'

  He looked at the mantle clock. It was past nine. 'My apologies, chief. I ... I ran into a spot of trouble and shan't be able to make it to work today. I have cracked ribs, a wrist sprain, contusions...'

  'Good lord, man, what happened?'

  'Thugs,' he lied. 'Beatniks, probably. They caught me with my head in the clouds, in a dark alley.' Herveaux was so old-fashioned, it was easy to tell him what he'd like to believe, like most of Petain's followers. 'But I can only move gingerly.'

  'Outrageous! Attacking a uniformed policeman...'

  'I was in my civilian clothing.'

  'Still... I suppose there's nothing to be done about it right now. Have you been to the hospital?'

  'I have not.'

  'Best to let them check you out, old man. The Germans are here. They conducted their raid at the American plant and now they're holding one of the senior managers here, a man named Granger. He has asked after you several times. The American consular attaché wants to visit Granger before the Nazis question him, so he'll get some help. Not a lot, mind you: it sounds like they've caught him dead to rights. Once the Nazis are done interrogating him, he won't have any secrets.'

  He had the sense the American had other customers, but wasn't certain. Perhaps Granger would manage to shield his French partners' identities. Perhaps...

  And perhaps pigs would fly. It was a disaster, Giraud knew. Maybe he could get to Granger, shut him up somehow. 'Perhaps I should try to come in, just in case, see what he has to say.'

  'Ha! So dedicated! You are a good man, Giraud, a sterling police officer,' Herveaux said. 'No, I shan't hear of it. You rest easy, old man. I'll handle this situation with Mombourquette and your friend from the internals... what's his name again? The poorly shaven little fellow?'

  Giraud fairly sighed. 'Vaillancourt.'

  'Yes, that's it. He was the one who pointed the Nazis towards this Granger fellow in the first place, I understand. He interviewed him firs, then asked after you several times tonight, so he'll be glad to hear they didn't do you any worse damage. '

  Damn him, Giraud thought. Damn Vaillancourt and damn the SD. The throbbing pain in his ribs made it hard to concentrate. 'Tell him... tell him that I shall be there tomorrow to discuss the matter. Wednesday at the latest.'

  'Take your time, there's a good man. You're much too valuable to us here to risk. I'll have Mombourquette or Pilon handle your duties until you're feeling better.'

  'Thank you, sir. I shall endeavor...'

  'Yes, yes, quite. Bye for now, then.' Herveaux hung up on him.

  Giraud dropped the receiver onto the cradle, then stumbled back to the sofa and collapsed. He knew he needed to get back out onto the street, to follow up leads and find the girl. He had to convince her that they were both marked now, that they both needed to get out of Paris; that they needed each other. But his aching, bruised ribs and the length of the evening had conspired to exhaust him. He raised a hand towards the lamp, but was asleep before he'd even reached the switch.

  42...

  He awoke to an eerily silent Paris just after dawn, the prior night slipping by in a necessary collapse that did much to aid his strength but little to quell the pain of the German officer's boot heel. The sun cut through the lower window pane, diffusing thin beams of daytime into room, dust flecks dancing along ribbons of light. He grunted and winced at the pain from his expanding ribcage with every breath.

  Giraud rose slowly and carefully. He undressed and ran a bath, drinking a coffee with brandy in it to fortify him while the tub filled. Then he lay in the hot water until it chilled, before soaping up and washing off three days of stress, dirt and sweat. There were large blue-black bruises up and down his left side.

  He knew that he needed to be mobile, to get around the city. While the tub drained, he used medical tape to strap his ribs down as tightly as possible. It was hardly ideal but would suffice. He dressed in comfortable civilian clothes, a roll-neck sweater and trousers; there was no point going back to the station now. Vaillancourt would have what he needed from Granger within a day or two at the longest, and either he or the Germans would come for him.

  Instead, he would go to the park and wait, and hope that the message he had passed through her classmate had reached Isabelle. His accounts would not have enough money in them to get them both out of Paris, but there would be enough in the seized assets fund, and some left over for getting a new start. She would never agree to cash the resistance's bank draft and so he did not plan to ask her. He would try to find another way. If they had to flee without it? So be it.

  It was a sobering thought for an individualist like Giraud, the notion of leaving a fortune in American dollars behind. But life was not always about one's options, he told himself. Sometimes, it was enough to merely survive.

  It had occurred to him that she might say no, of course. She might feel honor-bound to stay and fight for the resistance, even if she knew that the Germans were already after her. But he was certain that he had to try.

  It was nearly noon, and Giraud had come and gone and come again to the picturesque cul-de-sac park, seeing few signs of life. The piano player was gone from the cafe, its patio empty save for the old man, who sat just inside the building's door and occasionally looked his way. The bus had not stopped there all morning and he wondered if it had broken down somewhere on route, as was common across Paris.

  The sky was thick and grey, with the occasional droplet of rain threatening headier things. Giraud wondered how life had gotten so out of hand. Had it been merely his obsession with her, redirecting his attention away from more important matters? Or was it just inevitable that someone who lived in the shadows would eventually disappear? He had chosen a narrow path of disillusionment and cynicism, and perhaps he was paying for it.

  But in the moment, he still had hope. There was still money on the table, options. Even if she rejected him, he would still have enough cash to get away, to pay for the right papers, a plane ticket out. It had become inconceivable to him, the notion that she might just reject him out of cause, because he was older, and conservative, authoritarian. Surely, Giraud felt, if there was one thing left in his life that was right and good and true, it would be Isab
elle Gaspard.

  'Here: take this. You look hungry.'

  Levesque's familiar voice was welcome, and Giraud nodded at him with a small, affirming smile.

  'What happened to you? You look awful,' the newspaper editor said, offering him half a tomato and cheese sandwich.

  'A run-in with an unhappy customer, that's all,' Giraud said.

  'Ah. And did this customer speak German as his native tongue, perchance?'

  'I don't really want to talk about it, Anton. It was quite painful and distressing.'

  'Yes... it's been that sort of day,' he said. 'You remember that raid, about a month ago? When the Jewess was shot?'

  'I do.' Giraud gratefully took the sandwich and chewed on it.

  'Her mother-in-law was arrested this morning for 'crimes against the state'. It seems that family knows nothing but tragedy.'

  'What do you think they will...?'

  'Oh come now: you know. They will hold her in the central jail for questioning for a week or two before they transfer her to a camp where she will scrub clothing, or bake for the Germans, or some such thing. If she is lucky, she will receive enough nutrition to survive -- assuming she can find sympathy with her fellow inmates. That's crucial to making it in there, I understand, or you die a slow death from malnutrition or disease. You need the tent leader's endorsement, as it were. I would say that, based on her advanced age -- she was in her late fifties I believe -- most likely, she will die within two years. We know this, because the first round of 'ineffectives' -- older prisoners who could not produce -- from last year's arrests were all shot by the Germans last week. So, I would give a woman of her age a year or eighteen months. Assuming the war lasts that long.'

  Once again, it almost felt as if the older man was taunting him. But Giraud had to reconcile himself to the fact that it was just his conscience, such as it was, eating away from the inside. It was unfortunate, and it was a gnawing, anxious irritation. But in the immediate, he reasoned, it needed to be ignored for him to survive. Surely that was no less than could be expected of any man? There was a distinct difference, he told himself, between the likes of the German bully Oberleutnant Friederich Wulf and pragmatists who were just trying to endure.