Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  ‘None at all.’ Jojo replaced the cutting and handed the wallet back to Vasson. ‘No harm at all. Just as long as you don’t try to get it the easy way.’ He grinned broadly to soften the words, but Vasson thought: Goddam you, you’re treating me like a child too.

  He said lightly, ‘I know there’s no easy way.’

  He pocketed the wallet and, moving quickly down the bar, went through a door into the back. Hamid was there. Vasson asked, ‘Mind if I use the telephone?’

  Hamid looked up. He was a Tunisian Arab who, after twenty years in Marseilles, still wore a jellabah. He indicated the telephone on the desk. ‘Salam, my friend. Please, please.’

  ‘It’s a private call. Do you mind?’

  The old man smiled. ‘Of course, of course.’ He disappeared into the bar and closed the connecting door.

  Vasson thought carefully. There was a second extension in the bar itself, but he would know immediately if anyone listened in because of the noise. It was possible there was another extension upstairs, but doubtful. Hamid was a careful businessman. He wouldn’t spend money on luxuries like that.

  He raised the receiver and asked for the number he’d been given. There was a long silence and for a moment Vasson was worried in case he’d memorised the wrong number. But then there was a voice on the line, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Have you any news?’

  ‘Yes, ten tonight, at a warehouse named Laborde et Fils, behind L’Entrepôt du Midi, on the other side of the harbour.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘And the other address?’

  ‘When you deliver what you owe me.’

  There was a silence. ‘All right. A briefcase will be delivered to you at the corner of Rue Caisserie and Rue Roger at exactly ten-thirty. Make sure you have that address written on a piece of paper ready to hand to the driver. Goodbye.’

  Vasson replaced the receiver. He moved round to the other side of the desk and found a pencil and a piece of clean paper under the piles of till receipts. In block capitals he carefully wrote the address of the heroin processing laboratory that the Patron maintained in a quiet suburb on the south side of the city, beyond the hill of Notre-Dame de la Garde. He had delivered some stuff there once. They had told him it was only a safe house, but he had checked on it. He had gone back and watched the place: two men arrived at eight and left at four on the first day. And the second day. And the third. Regular little workers, they were.

  He had followed one home. A garrulous neighbour had informed him that the worker was a chemist who used to work for a big pharmaceutical company somewhere. No one was sure where he worked now. Vasson hadn’t bothered to check on the second worker: he knew he’d found the laboratory.

  He put the piece of paper in his back pocket and went through into the bar. Jojo had obviously been watching the door: as Vasson looked round he found the other man staring at him. Vasson smiled and waved. But something else was expected. Of course: he smacked his hand in the crook of his elbow in the age-old obscene gesture.

  Jojo laughed and shouted, ‘Lucky devil!’

  Yes, thought Vasson, how right you are.

  Vasson peered up and down both streets again. Occasionally the headlights of a car came sweeping up the Rue Caisserie, but none of them slowed down. He felt sure it must be after ten-thirty, but without a watch he couldn’t be positive. He had left Hamid’s just before nine and gone to a strange bar in the north of the Quarter until just before ten. Since then he’d been walking the streets for at least half an hour. He decided a watch was one of the first things he was going to buy with the money. He rather liked the new metal Rolexes: smart yet practical.

  He’d never had real money before, but he knew exactly what he was going to do with it. There would be a small rented apartment in the 18th Arrondissement, a D8SS Delage – though he probably wouldn’t be able to afford a new one – and a nice little business. A club probably, with high-class girls and some expensive décor. But whatever the business, he would work hard at it and it would be a success. He couldn’t understand people who spent wildly instead of investing for the future. There was no way he was going to be caught in that trap. Apart from the Delage which would have to be bought for cash, he was going to invest every penny.

  There was still no sign of a car. Vasson began to feel nervous. They must come soon; they needed that address.

  Suddenly a terrible thought came to him. Suppose … suppose they had got the address out of Jojo …

  He felt sick and groaned. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? If Jojo had talked … then they wouldn’t turn up in a million years. And they wouldn’t bring the money.

  Oh God, please don’t let it be true, please.

  He leant back against the wall and stared through the darkness at the building opposite. The thought of not having the money was so appalling that he couldn’t imagine it. The money was everything …

  He stayed immobile against the wall, as if by freezing his body he could postpone the moment of truth.

  The time must be at least a quarter to eleven.

  There was a sudden flash of light and he looked up. A long low car was sliding into the kerb. He stared at it uncomprehendingly.

  A car … The car …

  Oh dear God, thank you, thank you. He stepped forward, half-chuckling, half-crying.

  The rear door opened and a voice called, ‘Get in!’

  Vasson stood by the open door. ‘No, I’d rather not.’ Through his elation he thought: I’m not going to be caught by that old trick.

  The voice said, ‘I thought you’d want to count the money.’

  Vasson considered. They were right, of course. But it was still too risky to get in; he would take a quick look at the cash and he’d soon know if there was a lot missing. ‘No, just hand it over.’

  ‘You have the address ready?’

  An old attaché case appeared from inside the car and Vasson crouched on the pavement to open it. In the dim light of the street lamp he saw piles of clean new bank notes. ‘They’re new! I asked for old!’

  ‘They’re straight out of the bank. Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘But how do I know they’re not hot?’

  ‘They’re not pinched, if that’s what you mean.’

  Vasson cursed, but he knew he was beaten. He’d have to accept the new notes and like it. He thrust the piece of paper into the car and a hand reached out to close the door. Vasson leapt for the door and held it open. ‘Stop! You promised! You promised to tell me what happened.’ He clung on to the door. No-one was going to close it until he had an answer.

  There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘Okay, okay. We gave the news of the pick-up to our friends at the commissariat.’

  ‘Why? Why them?’

  ‘We owe them a favour. Anyway we want them to get the odd conviction; it keeps everyone happy.’

  So, it was prison for Jojo. He’d got off lightly then. Vasson was glad: he’d quite liked the guy.

  The voice had fallen silent. Vasson prompted. ‘Well? What about the Patron?’

  ‘We’ve already dealt with him. He had … a little accident, about half an hour ago. And the laboratory, the technicians – we’ll be taking them over ourselves.’ There was a pause, then the voice said mockingly, ‘Does all this meet with your satisfaction?’

  Vasson ignored the sarcasm and grinned, ‘Oh yes, oh yes!’

  The car revved up. ‘You won’t be staying around, will you? The Algerian doesn’t think it’ll be very healthy for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going on a long trip. To Algeria.’

  As the car drove off, Vasson laughed. To Algeria. He liked that. Very neat.

  He walked rapidly, the attaché case swinging in his hand. God, what a coup! What a strike! Perfect – the whole thing had gone perfectly.

  And it felt so good! Sweet – yes! That’s how it felt.

  He had only one regret: that he hadn’t been able to see the Patron’s expression whe
n he realised he’d been outmanoeuvred. The bastard, that would teach him.

  Vasson paused near the house. The place seemed quiet. If possible he wanted to get to his room without meeting any of the girls.

  He crept up to the doorway and into the hall. No-one. He ran lightly up the stairs to the landing outside his room. He put his ear to the door and listened carefully.

  There was no sound; nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be all right.

  He put the key into the lock and in that instant he knew that it had all gone dreadfully wrong.

  The door was already unlocked.

  As it swung open he saw the bottom drawer gaping at him. The lock had been broken. He stared stupidly at it until a slight movement caught his eye.

  There was someone in the room.

  It was Jojo’s woman.

  She was staring at him, her eyes wide and angry.

  For a moment neither of them moved. Vasson noticed that the woman was panting heavily. Slowly he looked round the room and understood why. The bitch had been through the place. Magazines spilled off the shelves; his new suit lay in a crumpled ball on the floor. The beautiful white silk shirt hung off the side of the bed, a smear of dirt showing grey on its sleeve.

  He thought: God, why did she have to spoil everything? Why couldn’t she have left me alone?

  Then he saw the money. The thirty thousand francs advance payment lay neatly stacked on top of the chest. Next to it were some papers.

  Oh God. The papers.

  He closed the door slowly behind him and faced her. ‘Why? Why did you come here?’

  ‘You bastard! You shopped Jojo! You bastard!’ She started to scream at him.

  Vasson thought: Damn, damn. He had to think clearly but it was impossible while she was still yelling. ‘Shut up!’ he shouted.

  Her mouth closed in surprise.

  Quickly he said, ‘What gave you that idea? That I shopped Jojo?’

  ‘Oh, I know you did! My friend told me, my Inspector friend.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Oh he didn’t say it was you.’ She was beginning to scream again. ‘But as soon as he told me someone had, I knew it had to be you. And what do I find, eh? All this!’ She picked up the money and shook it at him.

  He thought: Perhaps she hasn’t seen the papers, perhaps it’s all right after all. But then he realised she must have, when she took them out of the drawer.

  She had seen the papers.

  She knew his new name.

  He took a step forward and said quietly, ‘Give me the money.’ She started to move to one side and he saw her glance at the door. God, she was stupid. He took a step sideways and cut her off.

  She stared at him defiantly. ‘You bastard, take your bloody money!’ She threw the notes at him and they fluttered down to the floor.

  She’s done it again, he thought. Dirtied everything unnecessarily, spoilt it all.

  He reached for her and saw the fear leap into her eyes. He would have to be quick otherwise she’d scream. He grabbed at her but she pulled free and ran for the door. Even before she got to it, he knew he would be able to catch her and he felt a surge of power. She was grappling with the handle. He came up behind her and got a hand round first one arm then the other. Then he thought: God, what do I do next?

  She was kicking backwards at him and he pulled her closer so that her legs would lose their momentum. She started to yell and he suddenly realised what he would have to do. He put an arm round her throat and as her hand shot up to pull it away, he raised his other arm. After that it was a simple matter to slide his hands on to her neck.

  He squeezed and the yelling stopped. Her breathing changed to a series of loud agonising rasps. It was too noisy: he would have to squeeze harder. The noise changed to a gurgle and he thought: That’s better. Then she started to fight, writhing her body from side to side and kicking her legs again. It occurred to him that it would be much easier on the floor.

  He twisted her round and started to push her down. At the sight of his face she went for his eyes and he felt her nails digging into his skin. Panicking he squeezed harder and she grasped desperately at his hands again. Her eyes began to pop and he stared at them, amazed at the enormous size of the human eye.

  He wondered how much longer it would take. He was running out of strength. It was much more difficult than he’d thought: she was so strong. He looked down at her. She was purple now and her tongue was protruding from her mouth. The sight was disgusting and he closed his eyes.

  At last he looked again. Her eyes were staring blankly and the obscene tongue was hanging swollen from the mouth. Tentatively he let go. The head lolled back. The body lay still.

  He backed away on hands and knees and crouched, crying quietly. God, what a stupid bitch. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

  His stomach heaved and he lurched to the basin to throw up. Afterwards he dipped a cloth in the water jug and washed his face for a long time.

  Eventually he realised it was late. The last night train left in half an hour. He picked up his crumpled clothes from the floor and began to change. By facing towards the basin all the time he could avoid looking at the body. When he had changed he picked the money up from the floor, leaving only one note which was protruding from under the woman’s head. He packed the money into the money belt along with the notes from the attaché case. The new identity papers went into his jacket pocket.

  At last he was ready. The clothes didn’t look too bad, though the shirt was dreadfully creased. He would have it dry-cleaned when he got to Paris.

  He looked in the mirror. He looked just the same but he didn’t feel it. He would never feel the same again. That woman had tainted him with her dirt. It must never happen again. He would make sure of that.

  Thank God at least for the money, the sweet, beautiful money. That made him feel clean again.

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS A CLEAR, cloudless September day. In Plymouth Sound anchored warships were silhouetted black against the sparkling sea and twelve miles away, on the horizon, the tall Eddystone Lighthouse was clearly visible, a dark needle against the pale blue sky. A fresh south-westerly breeze was blowing in from the sea and on the exposed height of Plymouth Hoe it was rather cold. Only a handful of people were braving a stroll along the historic pathways where, according to popular legend, Drake had played his game of bowls.

  Julie Lescaux sat on a bench and stared out beyond the breakwater to the wide English Channel. She thought: I could always kill myself.

  But she knew she wouldn’t. She hadn’t the nerve to do something like that. Even at school she’d never had the nerve to do anything daring or risky. When some of the other girls had dressed up to look eighteen and gone dancing in the city, she’d ducked out. They’d called her a goody-goody. And they were right: she had always been – well, anxious to do the right thing.

  Julie thought: If only they knew the truth.

  It was strange how life changed – and so quickly, without warning. She’d always thought of herself as an ordinary sort of person who would always have an ordinary life. Well, perhaps ordinary sounded a bit dull. Average was better.

  Yes, she thought: That’s what I am – average.

  And yet it was she who was going to be different from all the others. She, the goody-goody. Bad things were half-expected of girls like Maggie Phillips, who had begun pencilling her eyebrows and wearing high heels at sixteen; Maggie who had lots of boyfriends and was considered ‘flighty’.

  But it hadn’t happened to Maggie; it had happened to Julie.

  Julie could imagine what people would say. They would use all the stock phrases, all the old clichés.

  But there was no way round it. No way round the bald facts.

  She was just nineteen and pregnant.

  She had got into trouble.

  She had been ‘easy’.

  She had ruined her life.

  She tried to imagine what it was like, to have people whisperi
ng and sniggering about you, talking behind your back and pointing you out. It would be terrible, she knew, not just for her, but for Mother. Mother would find it unbearable, worse than anything else that could possibly happen. Her mother believed in respect and being able to hold your head up. She set great store by what people thought.

  It would be like stabbing her in the back.

  Unless Julie got married. But she knew there was no chance of that, none at all.

  Her mother … Julie had no idea how she was going to tell her. Whichever way she did it, her mother would die of shame and anger and bitterness. She would accuse Julie of ingratitude and disloyalty and selfishness and say she had ruined both their lives. Julie could hear her very words.

  The only thing worse would be another interview with Doctor Hargreaves. Julie shrank at the memory. It had been deeply humiliating, much worse than she’d ever imagined. He had called her shameless and ungrateful. He’d asked her why she’d gone and thrown herself at the first man who’d asked.

  She hadn’t replied. She’d thought: Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps I am shameless, ungrateful.

  In the end he had told her he would keep her as a patient, but only out of loyalty to her mother. Then he said – and the words had taken Julie by surprise – that the baby would need to be adopted and that he would arrange it.

  She hadn’t thought about what would happen to the baby. How strange! The whole fuss was about having a baby, and she hadn’t thought about the actual baby, the object of it all. A baby … She knew nothing about babies, she’d never even held one. Did she want a baby? Would she love it? She had no idea.

  A gust of wind blew across the Hoe and lifted the hem of her frock. She pushed the skirt down again and pulled her coat round her knees. When she looked up she was aware that someone was staring at her. It was a sailor walking slowly towards her. Julie looked quickly away and waited nervously for him to pass.

  For an awful moment she thought he was going to stop and try to pick her up. But, after pausing for a moment, he suddenly quickened his step and walked away.

  Julie relaxed and sat back on the bench. It would have been surprising if he had tried to pick her up. She rarely had trouble of that kind. She supposed it was because she didn’t look the type. She was wearing the white gloves her mother insisted she wore, and a frock at least two inches longer than the current calf-length fashion; not exactly the outfit for a scarlet woman. She didn’t look easy, even if she was. Julie groaned and shut her eyes tightly.