by Kurt Magenta
That week they were on duty together as usual. When Chenard suggested a drink Lucien made an excuse and headed back early.
On Thursday night he was reading on his bed and toying with the idea of sleep when there was a knock at the door. It was a flustered Mrs Shaughnessy.
‘I’ve just had an odd phone call,’ she said. ‘I think it was from Mister Chenard. He asked for you, but he rang off before I could fetch you. He was in a terrible tizzy.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He said to ask you to meet him at a Mrs Lowe’s, or something like that. In Limehouse. It doesn’t sound very safe.’
No, it did not. Which was exactly why he would go.
Mrs Lau’s was something of an open secret in sybaritic circles. A nightspot and gambling house; a place to drink, dance and watch Chinese songstresses sway through a repertoire of Shanghai jazz. It helped that the club was located in an area of legendary seediness.
Deciding to take a taxi despite the outrageous expense, he found one near Paddington Station and gave the driver the address. ‘Do you know the place?’
‘I do. And if you don’t mind my saying so, son, you don’t look like the average punter.’
‘It’s for a friend. I think he’s in some kind of trouble.’
‘In that case, I’m at your service.’
The driver floored the accelerator. Speeding in the blackout was beyond hazardous, even though there was little traffic. Lucien squirmed on the back seat – partly from fear of an accident, partly because he was worried that something had happened to Chenard. The entirety of what he knew about Limehouse came from the jazz number ‘Limehouse Blues’ and half-remembered chiaroscuro scenes from books and films, in which the district and its Chinese community were portrayed as exotic and menacing.
‘Hold onto your hat,’ said the driver. He jerked the wheel and the taxi careened past a bus.
Incredibly, they got to the club in under thirty minutes. The taxi eased up outside its ‘entrance’, which was a black door with a grille in it. Another taxi was departing as they arrived, leaving behind a mixed group of two sailors, an older man in evening dress and a trio of young women wearing what Lucien thought were Auxiliary Air Force uniforms.
‘Want me to come in with you?’ asked the driver. ‘Got a gammy knee but I’m still handy in a scrap.’
‘That’s all right.’ Lucien got out of the taxi and paid the man through the window, giving him a large tip. That was the last of his aunt’s money.
The driver said: ‘Take care then, son. Ever need me, most mornings I’m at the cabbies’ shelter on Victoria Embankment. Ask for Reg.’
Lucien nodded and the taxi rattled away.
He confronted the entrance. It would be a bitter irony, he thought, if he had come all this way only to find that he couldn’t get in. But a silver trapezoid of light spilled onto the cobbles as the door opened for the group in front of him. He imagined that the older man – the dandy in the tux – knew the drill and had pressed a buzzer of some kind. They strolled in and Lucien glided in behind them, with all the confidence and sense of entitlement he could muster. The Chinese doorman, also in evening wear, didn’t ask any questions. Perhaps he didn’t care.
Lucien was in. Now to find Chenard.
He moved through a lobby area. To his right, a cloakroom and a pretty Chinese attendant. The mock-Victorian décor featured burgundy velvet damask wallpaper and gaslights. The theme continued in the main room, where chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling. Straight ahead there was a cluster of round tables, each with its own fringed pink-shaded lamp and all crammed with drinkers.
To the right, on a small stage, a three-piece jazz band backed a stunning Chinese vocalist. She was clad in a scarlet silk cheongsam dress, high at the neck but split at the thigh. As she sang she snapped her fingers. The lyrics were in Mandarin, but that didn’t seem to bother the couples whirling on the tray-sized dance floor. Somewhere behind them, he imagined, there would be a bar. Perched above this scene was a mezzanine balcony from which more revellers looked on. The noise and the mingled odour of cigarettes, perspiration and perfume were almost overwhelming.
He skirted the dance floor and headed for the bar, an obvious place to start. Perching on a stool, he asked for a gin and scanned his surroundings. He could see no sign of Chenard’s bulky frame and dark wavy hair, or even of a Free French uniform – although Chenard might have come in civvies.
The drink had a solid bite and he finished it too quickly.
Mezzanine next. Fighting panic, he climbed the stairs. He remembered meeting Chenard for the first time, at Olympia Hall. It seemed an eternity ago. He had to admit that the place was impressive, with a dissolute glamour that in other circumstances might have thrilled him. He pushed through the bodies, eliciting grunts of surprise and indignation. Still nothing. He glanced at his watch – nearly an hour had passed since the phone call. His mouth was dry and his skin hot.
He forced his way to the balcony, in search of a fugitive trace of air. Having found a gap, he peered over the rail. He saw a dinner-jacketed figure weaving briskly through the tables. A solid build but not Chenard – more like a doorman, or security.
He watched the man vanish through a discreet padded door behind the tables. Offices? Basement bar? Gambling den? In any case he had to give it a try.
He struggled again through the crowd and made it back to the ground floor. As he moved through the tables he noticed that the songstress had switched to English, assuring her audience that ‘it was just one of those things…’ The heat and the smoke and the music combined to give him the impression that he was moving too slowly, his feet dragging. He reached the door and pushed its padded silk surface. It gave easily.
Another staircase, this one raw concrete spiralling downwards, illuminated by a caged bulb on the red-painted wall. Flares of conversation drifted up to him. He followed them down.
At the bottom, double doors with portholes in them. Standing before the doors, a dinner-jacketed guardian with his arms unambiguously crossed.
Lucien went to push past him. The man blocked his path. ‘Pardon me, sir. You a member?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m meeting a friend here.’
‘I’ll need to see the card, sir.’
Lucien took out his wallet and made a show of looking through it. ‘I’m sorry, I must have…’
‘Left it at home, sir?’
‘Yes. As I said, my friend’s in there.’
‘Now, sir, why don’t you –’
He didn’t finish his sentence because Lucien had darted past him and through the doors. He was quick enough to get his paw on Lucien’s shoulder, but Lucien shrugged it off and at the same time drove his boot fiercely into the man’s instep, feeling it connect. That would buy him a few seconds. He kept moving, scanning the room: green baize tables under low-hanging fringed lights; the vivid flash of playing cards; uniforms, dinner jackets and evening dresses. This was where Chenard would be, he was sure of it.
The second man came in from his right, just out of his line of sight. The original doorman was still on his tail. An arm went around his neck and at the same time a fist crashed into his chin. The room blurred and his legs wobbled. Fireworks popped across his retina. He struggled to remain conscious as he was stumble-walked back the way he had come. The arms that held him were clamped tight.
‘You should let your pal fight his own battles,’ said the well-dressed man in the untidy office. He was clean shaven and wore a shark grey three-piece suit with a silver watch chain. He paced back and forth in front of a scrolled and lacquered desk, his hands in his pockets. The office was dimly lit and thick with oriental bric-a-brac: fans, paper lanterns, advertising posters from old Shanghai. But the man was not even remotely Chinese. ‘It is him you’re after, isn’t it? The other French officer?’
Lucien had been plonked into a deep
winged chair upholstered in cracked brown leather. He was in no hurry to move: the blow to his chin had hit some kind of nerve centre and left him jittery and disoriented.
‘He was just a private. Like me.’
‘And you came looking for him. The “private” eye.’ The man seemed amused by the pun. ‘Know who I am, do you?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Name’s Solomon Cantello. I’m a foreigner, like you. People round here, they never let you forget it. But I did all right. Found a business that suited me, didn’t I?’
‘You own this place?’
‘Lots of people own it. One of them is me. Know who Mrs Lau is?’
Lucien shook his head. His brain skidded like a bar of soap.
‘Nobody. I made her up. See, all that Fu Man Chu stuff, all the opium dens and drug lords, it’s rubbish. Most of the Chinks who live around here are good as gold. Talented, too – you heard my girl sing? But I go to the pictures. I’ve watched George Raft and the rest. So I thought: give the public what they want.’
‘Where’s Georges?’
‘Zhaaaawj. I love the way you lot speak. Well, I’m afraid your friend Zhaaaawj got mixed up with the wrong people. Very bad people. Owed them money, he did. First a little, then a lot. Earlier tonight they took him out the back for a talking to. Afraid I was unable to…intervene. I got a business to run.’
‘So where is he?’
Cantello stopped pacing, shook his head. ‘Are you dense? If these people take you out the back, you don’t walk off whistling. At best you turn up in hospital. At worst the river.’
Lucien stood. ‘But you can’t just –’
Cantello talked over him, raising a palm. ‘I can do whatever I bleeding well like, son, in my own place. You’re lucky I told you at all. Could have let the bugger vanish, no difference to me. Now, it’s time you weren’t here.’ He raised his head. ‘Lads!’ The two heavies bulged into the room. ‘Show him out. The front way. Gently now.’
He looked Lucien in the eye. ‘Make yourself scarce.’
One of them shoved him out of the door with the flat of a hand on his back. But that was the extent of the violence, and he staggered out into the night ruffled but unharmed. A black taxi slid to a halt in front of him. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Hop in.’
To Lucien’s astonishment it was Reg, the driver who’d brought him there. He slid gratefully onto the back seat.
‘Got a boy your age,’ Reg explained. ‘Serving his country. Couldn’t leave you in the lurch. Where to?’
Lucien felt dazed. In his mind, cogs turned but refused to engage. He said: ‘The nearest phone box.’
Flaxman 9358. The number was branded on his brain. But what if Anna didn’t answer? Or what if – his mind recoiled at the thought – she was with someone? He went through the motions: coin, slot.
‘Hello? Who is this?’ A sleepy, irritated voice. Lucien was astonished to find tears squeezing into the corners of his eyes. He sent the coin tumbling into the machine.
‘C’est moi…’ He swallowed. The French tended to resurface when he was agitated. ‘It’s me, Lucien. I need help.’
She didn’t ask him what had happened; simply gave him her address and said: ‘Come right away.’
‘I’m far. It’s late.’
‘Quick as you can.’
Another white stucco façade with steps up to the porch. The neighbouring buildings faced the night like an army of ghosts. He rang the bell and she buzzed him in. When he reached her door on the second floor, it was open a crack. He knocked lightly and entered.
‘Here,’ she said, greeting him in the hall. ‘You’ll need this.’ She gave him a tumbler half-filled with whisky. He noticed she was carrying a glass too. She wore a long satin robe, silver with a tasselled sash. Her feet were bare. Her toenails were varnished bright red, a detail he would always remember.
‘Forever the fashion plate,’ he said.
‘Come through. Sit.’
The room was furnished in soft pearl and oyster tones. There was a sofa with curved arms, a matching armchair. White orchids sat loftily in vases on either side of the mirror above the mantelpiece. Ivory drapes with a faint grey stripe were drawn over the blackout curtains.
Lucien took the armchair, Anna curled onto the sofa. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
He took a gulp of whisky, waited for it to take effect, and then began to talk. When he had finished she said, ‘First we need to get daddy out of bed. If your friend is in hospital, he’ll know how to find him.’
She went back into the hall. He heard her picking up the telephone, and there was a long silence. Finally: ‘Yes, it’s me. I know – I’m sorry.’ She briefly repeated what Lucien had told her. ‘He’s still here. Yes, of course. Very good. Tomorrow then. And daddy – thank you.’
When she came back into the room she said, ‘If anyone can find Georges, it’s him. And knowing him, he’ll make sure that terrible nightclub is shut down while he’s about it. I’m so awful to him I sometimes forget what a darling he is.’ She registered her empty glass. ‘Another? Because I think I will.’
He shook his head and she wandered over to the cocktail cabinet. With her back to him as she poured her drink, she said, ‘I should go to sleep, but I find I’m quite unable.’
She padded across the thick grey carpet, set her glass down on the coffee table and kept moving until she was standing over him. Then she bent and kissed him. He felt the soft dart of her tongue. His empty glass tumbled to the floor as he reached up for her. She joined him on the armchair, curling this time into his lap.
Clothes were loosened so fingers could explore. Their breath quickened. In time they made it to the bedroom, where the pace became more languorous. At one point Anna gasped and said, ‘You have done this before, haven’t you?’
Yes, he had done this before. Her name was Natalie – or at least, that’s what she called herself. Perhaps a year older than him. Dyed blonde hair, a round friendly face, a generous mouth, wise brown eyes.
One of the men at the paper had mentioned the place, which was just off the Avenue de Clichy. It took him a while to pluck up the courage to go there, and on his first visit he stayed only for a drink. Next time he stayed a little longer. The third time, Natalie took him in hand.
He remembered her washing herself at the small basin; that thrilling V of black hair. He had waited on the bed, smoking a cigarette, feeling terribly adult. She worked with the little sponge, taking her time because she knew it excited him, water trickling between her thighs.
Now he was in a different bed, beside a gently sleeping Anna. He felt dazed and hollowed by the evening’s events. It was probably close to dawn, but he had no idea – the blackout saw to that. He had put his watch down somewhere when they took a bath together.
Presently the telephone rang. Lucien decided not to answer. Because it wasn’t his flat. And because he didn’t want to know.
The ringing cut out and then – about three minutes later – started again. This time Anna stirred. She flung off the sheets and padded out of the room. Her voice filtered in from the hall, indistinct.
When she returned she came to sit on the bed beside him. She held out her hand and he took it. Cool skin, fine bones.
‘They’ve found him,’ she said.
Chapter 14
Bad Penny
Chenard had half-walked and half-crawled to a police station, where the sergeant on duty was appalled by his appearance. They put him in a car and rushed him to hospital. On the way a constable had tried to question him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His face was a terrible misshapen thing, suppurating blood.
He had died an hour later in a hospital bed. Among other internal injuries, a splintered rib had pierced a lung.
After a post mortem, he would be buried at St Mary’s Catholic Cemetery in Kensal Green. There
was little chance that his parents could be contacted.
All of this Lucien learned from Maddox over the scuffed and ringed table of a café behind Piccadilly Circus. The light beyond the frosted glass windows should have been a sullen grey, but the brightness suggested it was going to be another beautiful day. The police, Maddox continued, would inform the Free French. Solomon Cantello would be questioned – but since the beating had taken place outside his nightclub, it was doubtful he would be charged with anything.
Lucien peered gloomily into his mug of dishwater tea. Anna had dropped him off and evaporated, melting back into her perfumed and ethereal world, far from early morning cafés and the talk of death.
‘Lucien.’ Maddox sliced into his thoughts. ‘Anything you want to tell me? Was Chenard a gambler?’
He looked up. ‘Yes, of course. Well, I mean he played cards. But I had no idea he was borrowing money.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Maybe that’s why he was meeting…’ He shook his head – it didn’t make sense.
‘Meeting who?’
‘I saw him in a pub with Vauthier. They were talking. Perhaps he was asking Vauthier for help. After all, he never despised the man as much as I do.’
‘Perhaps.’ Maddox slid a cigarette from the packet of Player’s on the table. ‘Did Chenard ever express any interest in your line of enquiry? Collaborators, fifth columnists and the like?’
‘Only offhand. Everyone talks about it. I mean, the propaganda posters are everywhere.’ Lucien saw where this was going. ‘You think he was doing some investigating on his own? And that he came up with something?’
‘I can’t dismiss the idea.’ Maddox shook out his match and dropped it into the tin ashtray. ‘Allow me to prove myself wrong, if I may? I’ll get in touch if I find anything.’
‘And what am I supposed to do?’
‘Lie low. I’ll call you when I need you.’
‘In other words, I do nothing.’
