Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  When he got to the car he went straight to the boot and unlocked it. The large leather grip was still there, as he knew it would be. It amused him to think of all the people who must have walked past the car in the last few hours without having the slightest inkling of what the vehicle contained.

  He closed and locked the boot, and got into the car. Since the Occupation almost a year ago the traffic in Paris had thinned down considerably; the trip to Sèvres should take fifteen minutes at the most.

  In fact he reached the Porte de Sèvres in five minutes and the Rue du Vieux Moulin in twelve.

  Sèvres was a suburb on the south-west outskirts of the city. Vasson had chosen it because it was quiet, genteel, and, like everything else in his life nowadays, unremarkable. Rue du Vieux Moulin was a sleepy street of two-storey late nineteenth-century houses set back from the road in their own gardens. The villas, once impressive, now had the unmistakable air of decay, as if their once-affluent owners could no longer afford to keep them up.

  Vasson drove the full length of the street to make sure that everything was quiet, parked in a nearby street, then, taking the leather grip from the boot, set off on foot for Number 22, Rue du Vieux Moulin.

  A few moments later he wished that, for once, he had parked outside the house; the bag was heavy. But it was too late now.

  He wondered if Madame Roche would be in. It didn’t really matter either way: the old woman was incapable of a suspicious thought. You could go in with a mask over your face and blood on your hands and she wouldn’t notice.

  He reached the house at last and opened the gate in the low wall surrounding the austere garden, which was laid to gravel and shrubs. In the balmy air of the warm summer day, the house was quiet and most of the shutters drawn. The old woman was probably having a nap.

  Vasson walked round to the side of the house where some steps led down to the semi-basement level. At the bottom of the steps was a door which he opened with a key. Inside, there was a passage with four rooms leading off it. The first, which must once have been a servant’s room, was now a bed-sitter; the second was a primitive washroom with a stone sink and lavatory; the other two were storage rooms.

  Vasson went into the bed-sitting room, laid the leather bag on the bed, and listened for sounds from the upper floors. Still nothing. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened the door. He kept a spare set of clothes here, as well as two sets of papers which Kloffer didn’t know about. The papers were strapped to the underside of a shelf at the bottom. They were still there.

  He picked up the bag and, leaving the room, started down the passage towards the store rooms. It was dark and he had to feel his way along the wall. Finally he reached a door and, opening it, fumbled for the light switch.

  The room was square and windowless except for four small ventilation grilles near the ceiling. Once it must have been stacked with wine but now only a few dusty bottles lay forgotten in an old rack. The room had an earthen floor which, because it kept the air cool, made it perfect for wine storage. The earthen floor also made the room perfect for storing articles like gold Louis and demi-barres.

  Vasson locked the door and crossed the room. A wooden table straddled one corner. On it was some ancient photographic equipment: two developing trays, an enlarger, and five bottles of chemicals. Vasson had picked them up for a few francs in a pawnbroker’s. Photography was what he was supposed to be doing when he locked himself in this room.

  He moved the table and, taking a trowel from the leather bag, started to dig. He made a hole ten inches deep then, removing two small canvas sacks of coins and a solid bar from the bag, carefully buried them. He spent some time flattening the earth and beating it down with his feet before replacing the table.

  That made two hundred thousand francs in gold. A tidy sum – but not enough, not enough by far.

  It had taken months and months to wrest a decent wage out of Kloffer; even then it was in paper money and Vasson had been forced to go to the black market for gold. It had cost him dear. But gold it had to be; with inflation, paper money wouldn’t be worth a sou in a couple of years. Then, in May, Vasson had finally persuaded Kloffer to pay him directly in gold. It didn’t cost Kloffer anything – he and his friends were stealing vast quantities of the stuff – but it did save Vasson a lot of time and money.

  He should have been paid in gold from the beginning, of course. It made him angry to remember how he’d had to beg, cajole and threaten to get what was, after all, only his due. He’d been shabbily treated, no doubt about that.

  He replaced the trowel in the bag, closed the store room door and went back to the bed-sitting room. He left six months’ rent money on the bed with a note saying that he wouldn’t be back for some time, and left. The old woman thought he was a commercial traveller.

  The house was still quiet, the old woman probably on the point of getting up. It was the perfect place for a cache. But then it was bound to be: he’d taken a lot of time and trouble to find it.

  The drive to Clichy took thirty minutes. The lock-up garage still had quite a lot of stuff in it – stockings, perfume and petrol – but there was just enough room for the car. He parked it and locked up carefully. As he walked towards the nearest boulevard he thought about the remaining stock and wondered whether it would be a good time to sell. But he couldn’t make up his mind; he hadn’t been following the market recently and he didn’t know how prices were. What he did know was that new stock was almost impossible to come by; most of his old sources had dried up. Also … what? He’d lost interest, that was what. The market bored him: it was too restricted and the profit too hard to come by. Besides, the big boys had moved in and begun to squeeze everyone out, just like they always did. Diversifying was the wisest thing he’d ever done.

  He reached the Rue Jean Jaures and looked for a vélo-taxi, but it was almost five-thirty, the rush hour, and the few that he saw were already occupied. He cursed and walked towards the nearest Metro at Porte de Clichy.

  He hated the idea of taking the Metro: it was too – well, public. Ever since the last operation he had kept away from crowds. He’d had a feeling, an indefinable but distinct feeling, that he was no longer safe. The project had been straightforward. He had bust a small escape line taking shot-down pilots from North-East France through Paris to Spain. The members of the line had been typically trusting and weak on security, but somewhere, somehow he’d disturbed something else. There was a loose end somewhere. He didn’t exactly know what … But he was certain, absolutely sure, he was no longer safe. Someone was on to him. The word was out; it was time for him to go.

  The Métro was even worse than he’d feared. He hated confined spaces and, after changing at St Lazare, the train was horribly crowded. The bodies pressed close against him and he shuddered with the beginnings of panic. He changed again at Miromesnil. The train was slightly less crowded this time, but he still had to stand. After a few moments he felt a tingling in his spine. It was a feeling he never ignored. Without moving his head he looked at the reflection of the other passengers in the window. A man behind him seemed to be staring at him. Vasson studied the face desperately. Did he know him? No. He was certain he didn’t. He relaxed again. It was his nerves. He was imagining things. Christ, it really was time to get away.

  He got back to the apartment in Auteuil at six-fifteen. He stripped off and washed the whole of his body. Washing always made him feel good. He lay on the bed, smoking thoughtfully, until six-fifty, then dressed. When the bell rang he picked up the suitcase, locked the apartment behind him, and slid the key under the concierge’s door.

  A car was waiting at the kerb. It looked like a taxi, though Vasson knew it wasn’t. Even the driver looked French. Vasson thought: Kloffer’s learning at last.

  Kloffer was sitting in the back, looking like a fat cat. Vasson sank on to the seat beside him. The car moved off and the German asked ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No.’

  Vasson waited. Kloffer was here for a reason; he wasn’t see
ing Vasson off out of the kindness of his heart.

  Eventually Kloffer said, ‘This car will take you all the way to Brussels.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘We decided against the train. We don’t want anyone to see you leave.’

  Vasson shrugged. ‘Very well.’

  ‘I think you’ll agree that it’s wise …’ Kloffer turned and looked at Vasson. ‘Your old apartment – we caught someone waiting outside. He had a weapon. It seems he wanted to kill you.’

  I knew it, Vasson thought.

  Kloffer smiled. ‘We don’t want you dead when I’ve promised you to Brussels. They would think me most inefficient!’ He giggled slightly.

  Vasson was wondering where he’d gone wrong. He hated loose ends, he hated not knowing. He asked, ‘Who was the man? The one who was waiting for me?’

  ‘Oh, the brother of one of the girls we arrested last week.’

  ‘Was he working on his own?’

  ‘We don’t know. He says nothing.’

  Vasson cursed. That meant it would be unsafe for him to return … Not until he knew for sure. Damn. He said suddenly, ‘I must know – whether he was on his own. Also if he had a description of me, and how he knew where I was living. Everything!’

  ‘We will do our best.’

  ‘You’d better. Otherwise—’ Otherwise I’m as good as dead. ‘Otherwise I won’t come back here. You understand?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Kloffer looked quite happy about it. Vasson had the feeling that there was more to this Brussels trip than Kloffer was admitting to. Perhaps there was a deal. If so, Kloffer would never tell him the terms.

  ‘Have you any more information about the Brussels operation?’

  Kloffer shrugged. ‘Not really. But apparently there is just the one organisation. It seems that they collect the airmen not only in Belgium but some in France too and send them all the way down to Spain. A long way – there must be hundreds of people involved. Yet we haven’t succeeded in stopping them. Amazing. You’d think someone would talk!’ He sniffed with irritation. ‘Your operation against the Paris couriers – that was excellent while it lasted. But we have evidence that all the people we removed have been replaced. No, there’s only one way to get these pests, and that is from Brussels. Otherwise we’ll just go on wasting our time.’

  ‘What’s been tried so far?’

  ‘I’m not sure – you must ask them. But I gather that attempts at infiltration have failed.’ Kloffer looked pleased.

  Ah, thought Vasson, so that’s it. The Brussels people had failed; Kloffer was coming to the rescue with his own man. No wonder Kloffer wasn’t shedding any tears. All the more glory for him.

  They were approaching the Avenue Foch. Kloffer said to the driver, ‘Drop me on the next corner.’

  Vasson said, ‘And the money? Are they clear about the method of payment? I want that agreed before I get there.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Kloffer said impatiently.

  Gold was to be deposited in the Banque de Paris and the receipt slips sent to Brussels, poste restante. It was quite simple, Vasson thought, but you’d think I was asking for the bloody moon.

  The car came to a halt and Kloffer opened the door. ‘Goodbye. All success. I know that if anyone can do it, you can.’

  Praise indeed. Kloffer was getting quite pleasant in his old age.

  Kloffer got out of the car and leant in through the door. He was smiling, though Vasson noticed that his eyes were sharp as a cat’s. Kloffer said softly, ‘Oh, by the way, are you happy with your papers?’

  He never usually enquired. Vasson was instantly suspicious. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I thought you might not like the name we chose.’

  Vasson waited.

  ‘Well, it’s Paul Lebrun, isn’t it? I thought you might not care for the Paul.’ Kloffer grinned briefly and was gone. The car drew rapidly away and Vasson was thrown against the seat. He stared blindly ahead, unable to breathe, a vice around his heart.

  Kloffer knew his name.

  God!

  He felt angry, then sick with fear.

  Kloffer knew his name.

  Kloffer must know that Vasson was wanted in Marseilles … Kloffer could blackmail him … Kloffer was blackmailing him?

  Vasson tried to assimilate the awful fact into his brain, but it hurt, it hurt. And it was being vulnerable, the dreadful realisation that he could be pressurised – humiliated – that hurt the most.

  Where had he gone wrong? How had Kloffer found out?

  He didn’t know, and he would never know unless Kloffer chose to tell him. And he was sure Kloffer wouldn’t choose to tell him; instead the German would let the question fester in his mind. Yes, that was Kloffer’s way.

  He was sure of another thing too: the timing of Kloffer’s little bombshell was carefully planned. The German wanted to remind Vasson who was in control; he wanted Vasson to come back afterwards, like a good boy.

  Vasson shuddered with humiliation. To hell with Kloffer!

  But even as he thought it he knew he had lost. Kloffer had him, just there.

  As the car sped into the gathering darkness Vasson pressed his head into the corner, his face contorted with rage and bitterness, and thought: It’s all so unfair. Why does it always happen to me? Why me?

  At midnight the car stopped outside a cheap hotel. Vasson had no idea where he was, except that it was somewhere in Brussels. The driver said he’d been told to take Vasson there. The hotel wasn’t expecting him. At first the proprietor said he had no rooms, then he decided he had one after all, but, being his best room, it would cost a bit extra. When Vasson saw the room he realised he’d been had again – the room was dreadful: depressingly airless and none too clean. A single unshaded light hung from the ceiling. It was not his day.

  For a few moments he sat on the bed and looked in despair at his surroundings. The room brought back memories of other squalid rooms: the ones in Montmartre, all shabby, all depressing; the ones in the Old Quarter, hot and claustrophobic; the bare cell at the Jesuit school, white and unspeakably barren; and – so long ago – that other room. God …

  He undressed slowly and got into the bed. At least the sheets were clean.

  Tomorrow he would spell it out to the Boches: no more cheap hotels, no more squalor. Lots of cash, lots of information, and no interference. In one way it was irritating to have to educate them, the way he’d educated Kloffer, but at the same time he was rather looking forward to it. It was a challenge, and he would win it, the way he’d won with Kloffer.

  Except that Kloffer knew his name …

  After a long time he fell asleep.

  He was in the old lady’s house in Sèvres, walking along the passage, when he saw that the door to the store room was open and the light on. There were voices inside. He tried to get to the door but he couldn’t move. He looked down and saw he had weights on his feet. Then Kloffer came out. He was carrying the gold. Kloffer grinned and said, ‘I knew it was here all the time! I knew! Goodbye! Goodbye!’ Then Vasson’s arms were grabbed from behind and he was dragged out. Kloffer called, ‘They’re going to cut off your head, isn’t that interesting?’

  They put him in a cell. It was like the one at the school: bare, soulless, destroying. Father Ignatius was leaning over him. ‘Eternal Father, I confirm; Eternal Son, I confirm; Eternal Holy Spirit, I confirm. May the Lord forgive you, Paul, for you have sinned. Like your mother sinned.’

  What had his mother done? What sin could be so terrible? He heard himself ask, ‘What sin? What sin?’ and Father Ignatius shook his head gently and said, ‘It is better that you do not ask, my son.’ ‘But why doesn’t she come?’ ‘She doesn’t choose to, Paul, and it’s better that she doesn’t.’ ‘But Father Francis told me she was dead.’ ‘Well, she is in a way, Paul.’ ‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand!’ ‘It is not for us to understand, my son, we must accept God’s will – and with love in our hearts.’

  I don’t understand. I never have. Why doesn’t s
he come to me? What has she done that is so terrible? Why did she beat me? Why does she hate me so?

  I don’t understand.

  German efficiency was enough to drive anyone mad, with its rigid structures, its unyielding demands and its inevitable duplications. But it did mean everything got written down.

  It was all there in the files. Every operation against the escape line which operated from Brussels. There was tons of it, much of it irrelevant, but Vasson wasn’t complaining, although it took hours to sort out what was useful and what wasn’t.

  Generally, reports to be seen by senior officers were far too optimistic and evasive to be useful. Much better were the situation reports with limited circulation. Names, places, hypotheses, action to be taken … it was all there.

  Gradually Vasson built up a picture. The airmen got themselves to a farm or whatever, presumably having buried their parachutes and any other evidence of where they had landed. The farmer harboured them, or quickly passed them on to someone who would. Then, as soon as could be arranged, they were picked up by the organisation proper. How were they transported? Impossible to say, but for the longer parts of the journey it was certainly by train. Several of the couriers arrested so far were young girls. Vasson could imagine them: innocent-looking, charming, pretty enough to distract if necessary. Yes, the system must work well.

  The couriers were probably changed at Brussels and again at Paris and maybe a third time on the way down to the Spanish border. He wondered how careful they were: whether or not the couriers actually met and knew each other or whether they operated a cut-off system whereby the airmen were taken to a park bench by one courier and left there for ten minutes before the next came to pick them up.

  He looked up the interrogation reports. Some of those arrested had talked, but they appeared to be small fry – collectors or minor couriers. None of them had known the names of the main couriers, those who must be in touch with the central organisers. Other hadn’t talked even when they were about to die. Extraordinary how little value people put on their own lives.