Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  He interrupted, ‘How’s Tante Marie?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘Not – well. She hardly knew me.’

  ‘And Peter?’

  ‘Oh fine. I left him in the Scillies. But Michel we haven’t much time. Please tell me how I can help you!’

  ‘The boat. It got you to England all right then?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Julie said unhappily. ‘It was wrecked.’

  Michel nodded as if the news was to be expected.

  She said, ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘You did well to get there at all.’

  The time was slipping away. She said urgently, ‘But what can I do to help you?’

  ‘Help me? I think no-one can. They’re out to get me, and they will. One way or the other.’ He smiled but there was a hint of false bravado in it.

  ‘But there must be evidence! Michel, who really did it, do you know?’

  He laughed. ‘You ask me?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? All I can say is it wasn’t one of mine.’

  She reached over and gripped his hand. ‘I believe it was a man called Fougéres. A stranger in the line. He came from Paris and was meant to have survived the Meteor collapse. But I always distrusted him!’

  ‘And what’s happened to him, does anyone know?’

  She paused and withdrew her hand. ‘Well – they say he’s dead. But—’

  He nodded and gave a small shrug as if he’d expected it.

  Julie said crossly, ‘You’ve given up hope!’

  ‘I’m a realist, that’s all.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘Michel, what can I do for you when you won’t give me any help!’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Julie. My friends are doing what they can. They’re asking around …’

  ‘Have they found out anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘How do I find these friends?’

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer then he said, ‘In Paris, a bar called Chez Alphonse. Ask for Pierre.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll do everything I can. Everything!’

  There was a pause. He asked, ‘Have you any money?’

  Her face fell. ‘Not much.’

  ‘If you can get into my apartment you’ll find some hidden under the bottom plate inside the oven. Just lever it up. All right?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll return any I don’t need.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘It’s not important.’ A strange look flashed into his eyes – a look of fear and despair. It sent a chill through Julie’s heart.

  The warder said, ‘Time up!’ and moved towards the door.

  Hurriedly, she touched his hand. ‘I’ve never really said thank you for what you did. The boat … and getting us from the beach …’ She shook her head. ‘You should have kept the boat and got away …’

  ‘No, you needed it more.’ He stood up and pushed the chair into the table. He smiled and his grave, lined face looked a little less severe. ‘See you! Take care!’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can—’

  ‘Sure.’

  He turned quickly and walked to a door on the opposite side of the room. Though she waited an instant, he never looked back.

  Chapter 37

  IT WAS ALMOST as if there had never been a war. The city lay pale and gleaming under the late September sun, its long boulevards and elegant buildings apparently un-scarred by bombs and bullets. Julie was faintly surprised: it was so different from the devastation of London.

  When one looked closer, however, one could see signs of the long Occupation: years of stringency and neglect had left buildings in urgent need of repair; the streets were littered and uncleaned; and walls were daubed with slogans or, in some cases, with rough white crosses where people had died.

  Nevertheless, the atmosphere was festive. Even the shabbiest buildings were draped with bright flags, many of them home-made. More than a month after the city’s liberation the bright colours of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack still hung from dozens of balconies. But, brighter, taller, prouder than these was the tricolore, flying high above the rooftops of a hundred buildings, a symbol of many things, but to most Parisians a symbol, above all, of freedom.

  Julie found a room at a small hotel in the treizième, then went in search of the place called Chez Alphonse. It wasn’t listed in the telephone directory, but a shopkeeper knew it and gave her directions. It was a small bar, narrow and dim, its walls yellow with nicotine. When she asked for Pierre, the bartender told her Pierre might not be in for days, but it should be possible to send him a message. Julie composed a short message on the back of an envelope and left it with the bartender. He told her there was no point in coming back until much later, at about nine.

  It was only five. Julie went to a brasserie and ordered a meal. It was difficult to make rabbit stew last four hours, but she managed it by ordering coffee afterwards, then water and then coffee again. The bread coupon she’d proffered entitled her to a full three-course meal, but she wanted to economise. She had money all right – she’d taken Michel’s from the hiding place in the oven and there had been quite a bit – but she didn’t want to squander it, not only because it might have to last a long time, but because it was Michel’s.

  To pass the time Julie watched the people in the street. The Parisian women looked incredibly well dressed, though how they managed it when materials were so short amazed her. They made Julie feel inadequate and inelegant; her frumpy, second-hand suit must look dowdy by comparison. She tried hard not to mind but failed.

  At last it was almost nine and Julie headed back towards the bar. The streets were busy. Everyone seemed to be out for a stroll, talking in groups or wandering in and out of cafés.

  When she reached Chez Alphonse it was crowded and noisy, and the atmosphere thick with smoke. The barman was busy serving and it was some minutes before she managed to catch his eye. He nodded and turned to speak to a man at the far end of the bar. The man stood up and came over to Julie.

  He smiled and said, ‘I’m Pierre.’ He was about forty, fair and boyish and jolly-looking: not at all how Julie had imagined a hardcore communist to look. He took her elbow and said above the noise, ‘Come. We can’t talk here. Let’s go for a stroll.’

  He led the way out of the bar and waited for her to join him on the pavement. They began to walk slowly up the street. Pierre said, ‘So! They’re still trying to hang everything on Michel, are they?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Ha! He always made enemies, Michel. Always attracted trouble, even in the old days.’

  ‘The old days?’

  ‘At university. I was his tutor.’

  Julie looked sideways at him. She asked, ‘Have you found out anything? That might help Michel?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not directly. I’ve asked around – my friends in the police and so on. Nothing. No rumours, nothing. Mind you, they have a basinful at the moment, sorting out the black marketeers from the collaborators, and the collaborators from the informers.’ He snorted. ‘Most of the real villains will get clean away, of course!’

  He made it sound hopeless. ‘But why?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, they’ll have covered themselves well and in a little while they’ll pop up as magistrates and bankers and swear they were never fascists …’

  They came into a wide boulevard full of light and activity and crowded cafés.

  Julie said, ‘The traitor, the man I’m looking for, he came from Paris. At least I’m fairly sure he did. Someone must have known him … or seen him. His name was Fougères.’

  ‘The name means nothing. He probably used a hundred different names. Do you have a photograph?’

  Julie shook her head. She wished she had. But when she had prepared the identity cards she was always careful not to keep any spare photographs. It was maddening when she thought about it now.

  ‘Never mind. Let’s go and see what we can find.’ He indicated with his head and quickened his pace.
>
  ‘Find—? Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m not promising anything, but there’s someone you should see. Someone who might know something.’ He emphasised, ‘But I’m not promising a thing.’

  Julie ran a little to keep up. ‘Who? Who is this person?’

  Suddenly Pierre gave a short laugh. ‘Ah … Well, you see, we like to help the police out. In our own small way.’

  She looked at him questioningly.

  ‘We’ve caught ourselves someone. Someone who might otherwise have avoided the full force of justice.’

  Julie tensed. ‘Who—?’

  ‘An informer.’

  ‘And he might have known—’

  Pierre said firmly, ‘Not necessarily. But he knew the Gestapo well enough. He worked for them for at least two years. He might have heard something about your man, you never know. Anyway, let’s go and see.’

  Julie followed, trying to absorb the full meaning of what Pierre had said. This informer – would he have known about other informers? Would they have met? It seemed very unlikely. And would they have had the same contacts? Again, it seemed unlikely. She decided not to raise her hopes too high.

  She found the idea of the captured informer rather disturbing; she couldn’t help wondering what they would do with him afterwards. She thought of asking more, but in the glow of the occasional light Pierre’s face looked stern and unboyish and she decided against it.

  They walked in silence for ten minutes, into a darker quieter area with few cafés or restaurants. Julie had no idea where they were. Eventually they came to a tall, redbrick apartment building.

  Pierre guided her into a narrow alleyway at the side and then to some steps which led down to a cellar. The alley was dark, filthy and oppressive. Julie hung back.

  Pierre turned. ‘It’s all right. Just follow me.’

  He led the way down the steps and knocked softly on a door at the bottom. There was a long pause. Finally the door opened slightly. Pierre put his head to the crack, murmured a few words, and the door swung open.

  Pierre stepped forward. Julie followed, half-impatient, half-frightened of what she might see.

  It was a bare cellar, cold and damp, its floor scattered with rubbish. There was a blinding electric light hanging on a wire from the ceiling. It cast a pool of white over the centre of the room, leaving the walls in deep shadow.

  Immediately under the light was a chair. A man was sitting on it. He was bound to the chair by rope which had been passed several times round his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. The front of his shirt was covered with blood which seemed to have come from his face, though it was impossible to be sure because his head was lying forward on his chest. He seemed to be asleep.

  Pierre strode across and, grasping the man’s hair, raised his head. Julie gasped. The face was a mess, the nose bloody and the eyes blackened.

  She stared hard for several moments.

  Then she exhaled.

  She had never seen the man before in her life.

  She kept looking, just to be sure. But there was no doubt.

  ‘You don’t recognise him?’ Pierre asked.

  ‘No.’

  Pierre nodded. ‘No reason why you should.’ He let the head fall again.

  There were two other men in the room, the one who had opened the door and another who came up to Pierre and said under his breath, ‘I think we’ve got the lot. Shall we—?’

  Then they were whispering and Julie didn’t hear any more. Eventually the conversation finished and Pierre came back to her.

  Julie began, ‘What exactly—?’

  Suddenly, the man in the chair jerked up his head and moaned. Julie held her breath. Then he slumped forward again.

  She asked again, ‘What exactly did he do?’

  ‘Oh, he was a little sneak, a tell-tale … He shopped people to the Gestapo. For money. Not much money, either! That’s because he enjoyed doing it, you see.’ He shouted, ‘Didn’t you, you con? Eh!’

  The figure in the chair whimpered and began rocking his head from side to side.

  ‘But he doesn’t enjoy it so much now,’ Pierre snorted contemptuously. ‘His national socialist principles didn’t last very long. In fact, he’s prepared to swear to anything just at the moment.’

  Suddenly the figure began to wail, a continuous whine that rose and fell like a dog howling in the night.

  Pierre regarded the sight with distaste. ‘Four of my comrades died because of him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s always the spineless little shits who do the damage. Look at him! He’s frightened, the yellow-belly! Terrified of what we might do to him! Spineless little shits!’

  She shook her head. ‘Our traitor wasn’t like that. He was clever … hard … and cunning. Not like that.’

  ‘Ah. Well, let’s find out what this creature knows.’

  Pierre went up to the chair and pulled up the man’s head again. There was a shriek and the man started sobbing and whimpering. ‘No, no … please … please …’

  ‘Your masters sent someone to Brittany. Do you know who? Do you know who?’

  The man shook his head from side to side, his eyes wide and staring. ‘No … No … Brittany … no!’

  Julie stared, repulsed by the bloody face.

  Pierre was getting impatient. He waved to one of the other men. ‘Encourage him, Charles, will you?’

  ‘No, please!’ Julie exclaimed.

  Pierre paused in surprise.

  Finally he shrugged. ‘All right. If you wish.’ He said to the figure in the chair, ‘The lady is kind. She doesn’t want you to suffer. Tell her what she needs to know, eh? Otherwise we’ll go back to the other way. Tell her! Who else did your masters use? Who was sent to Brittany? Eh?’

  The wild eyes swivelled round and fastened on Julie’s face. The mouth opened and closed, like a fish. Eventually the man whined to Julie, ‘They’re – going – to – kill me!’ And started to cry. ‘Please – stop them. Please!’

  Julie looked to Pierre for help. He said roughly, ‘Tell the lady what she wants to know.’

  The man’s eyes were fastened on Julie. ‘I know n-nothing! Nothing! I was innocent! The Gestapo blackmailed me. They forced me into it. Save me! Please! Please!’

  She said quietly, ‘If you could tell me what you know … I’d be grateful.’

  The man gulped. ‘… I heard very little. They were very careful. They forced me to tell them things, then they made me go away. Really.’ He was sobbing gently.

  The sight was pathetic, cruel. Julie made herself remember that this man was a murderer, just like Fougères. She pressed, ‘But gossip … rumours … there must have been something.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t think … I can’t think!’

  Pierre said roughly, ‘Who was in charge of informers?’

  ‘Kloffer.’

  Pierre said quickly, ‘And did Kloffer ever talk about his – agents?’

  ‘No! Kloffer was too grand for me. I never talked to Kloffer! Never! I wasn’t important enough! I wasn’t one of their informers. I only dealt with stockings, perfume – I was never an informer. Never!’

  Pierre said to Julie, ‘He’s lying,’ and made a sudden movement towards the chair. The man threw back his head in terror.

  ‘Who did you deal with then?’ Pierre demanded.

  ‘There was a sergeant – and a junior officer. Not important people. They never told me anything!’

  Pierre was getting impatient. ‘Try harder!’

  The wretched man rocked his head slowly from side to side. ‘Please … I was never told anything …’

  ‘Try harder.’

  ‘Oh please, oh please!’ He was whining again. Suddenly he stopped. There was a long pause. He frowned with mental effort. Finally he gulped and said, ‘The sergeant … he was in charge of false papers. I never had any, of course! I was only a black marketeer. I wasn’t important enough. But … I know others did.’

  P
ierre urged, ‘Others?’

  ‘No names were ever mentioned. Never. But—’ His bloodshot eyes fastened on Julie again and he spoke quickly through swollen lips. ‘Once or twice I heard things. F-from the sergeant mainly. He’d talk about successes. Things they’d found out, groups they’d smashed, th-that sort of thing. There was one man I heard about, a t-top man, someone who w-worked for them all the time …’

  Julie held her breath. ‘Yes?’

  ‘… the tip of one of his fingers was m-missing! So the sergeant said …’

  The man desperately searched Julie’s face for a sign that he had said the right thing. She looked at Pierre and shook her head.

  Pierre said coldly, ‘No good, con.’ He began to move away. ‘That’s it then.’

  ‘No-o-o!’ It was a great wail. ‘Please, I beg you.’ Then he was looking from her to Pierre and talking so fast that she missed the first few words. ‘… and there was another. Someone they gave false papers to all the time. He was important, I knew. He’d started as a dealer, like me. Usual things – petrol, stockings, perfume. Then he became an informer. The sergeant talked about him a couple of times. I never heard a name, never a name. But they called him the Marseillais. Or the Man from Marseilles. Something like that.’ He looked desperately up into their faces. ‘He was important, I know that – but nothing else. They never told me anything else! Believe me.’

  A Marseillais. Julie tried to recall Fougères’s voice. It had been an educated voice without, as far as she could tell, any regional accent. Not very likely, then.

  She asked, nevertheless, ‘Did this sergeant ever say what this Marseillais had done exactly? What sort of jobs?’

  The prisoner’s head fell to one side and she thought he was going to faint. But he mumbled, ‘Infiltration. His s-speciality. Very s-successful…’ The puffed eyes reopened. ‘Réseaux … he got inside an escape line … for airmen …’

  Julie stiffened and put her face up to the prisoner’s. ‘Yes—?’

  ‘That’s all I know. He was very important!’ The man grimaced as if in pain.

  ‘But which line?’ Julie took him by the shoulder and shook him slightly. ‘Which line?’