Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  The proprietor continued as if he hadn’t heard her, took his time putting a bottle on a shelf, then slowly returned. He said without looking at her, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want information.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He gave her a hard look. ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone. Someone who might have lived around here, or visited the Old Quarter …’

  ‘His name?’

  This was where it got difficult. But there was no way round it. She said, ‘That’s the problem … I don’t know it.’ She sighed and smiled a little. ‘All I know is that he was called the Marseillais.’

  The proprietor looked at her from under his eyebrows. ‘The Marseillais?’ He nodded slowly, as if humouring an idiot. ‘The Marseillais? Madame, can you imagine how many people are called that in the world? Eh? Every mac in Marseilles! And whenever a Marseillais goes away, guess what people call him! Why yes, madame!’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘They call him a Marseillais, that’s what!’

  Julie nodded. ‘Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous but – he must have been known here. Before he went away. Known … in bars, around the place … He was the kind of person who might have been involved in – le milieu …’

  ‘So—? Half the population of this place is involved in something!’ He was glaring at her, hostile now.

  Before Julie could say any more, he moved away and served another customer.

  It was five minutes before he came her way again, hurrying past on the far side of the bar. She leaned over the counter and said, ‘Please, another word—?’

  He hesitated for a moment, poised to walk away again.

  ‘Look … can you give me the name of someone who might know.’

  ‘Who do you suggest?’

  Julie began to get exasperated. ‘Someone who can help. Look, this man – the one I’m looking for, he’s wanted by—’ She almost said the police, but realised it might count against her. ‘By the Resistance. He was a traitor. He’s responsible for people’s deaths.’

  She had him now: he was moving closer, his eyes curious. The rest of the bar was silent, too, and five pairs of eyes watched her intently.

  Julie said, ‘He worked for the Gestapo. He has to be found to save an injustice, an innocent man. And – for other reasons.’

  The proprietor stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Ahh. Well …’ He nodded slowly. ‘That’s different. But – it won’t exactly be easy.’ He asked sceptically. ‘What do you know about him? Did he have an accent? Did he speak like a Provençal? Like me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mmm. An educated type, maybe?’

  ‘Yes, very likely. I know it’s not much to go on, but I could give you a description of what he looked like. And then – perhaps you could ask around? Perhaps you know someone—?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll ask the boys.’ He used the slang word malfrats – good-for-nothings. Taking a pencil stub and an old till receipt, he painstakingly wrote down the details she gave him: dark hair, thin, about thirty, medium height, gold ring, no accent. It wasn’t much. She made him add: clever, probably well-educated, dislikes women.

  He said, ‘I’ll do what I can, but—’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t promise anything.’

  She pressed him, ‘How long before you might get news—?’

  ‘Ah!’ He shrugged. ‘Two hours? Two days? You come back from time to time, then I’ll tell you how long it’ll take!’

  Three days later Julie thought: I’m wasting my time.

  The proprietor – Henri – was earnest and well-meaning but she was beginning to wonder if he had all the contacts he’d hinted at. He didn’t seem to be getting anywhere at all.

  But then, she thought unhappily, perhaps there wasn’t anywhere to get to. There was no proof – not even a shred of a suggestion – that the Marseillais and Fougères were one and the same man.

  And yet Fougères had been so very good at deceit and treachery that he must have been important to the Boches. She couldn’t believe he was just a casual informer. No – he was experienced.

  And yet, she had to face the possibility that the two men weren’t the same. And if so, where did that leave her? In a dead end. There were no more leads to follow.

  That was really why she had come to Marseilles – because it was the only lead.

  After an aimless walk around the harbour she went back to the bar, utterly dispirited. It would be the third time she’d looked in that morning. Doubtless she would hear the same thing again: no news. Henri’s shrugs and ‘Don’t worry’ and ‘Be patient’ were getting on her nerves.

  But when she went in, something was different. Henri was smiling slyly, his eyes gleaming. News.

  He ducked under the flap and, coming out from behind the bar, beckoned her to one side. ‘Someone wants to see you. He’s been away, that’s why there’s been a delay. He’ll see you this afternoon.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘Ahh,’ he whispered conspiratorially, ‘he’s what you might call the Patron – with a capital “P”, you understand.’

  Julie didn’t completely, but she nodded anyway.

  ‘You’re very lucky. He’s interested in your story. And if anyone can help – well, he can!’

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  ‘No problem, just be here at three. It’s all arranged!’

  She was there at two-thirty because she had nothing better to do. She drank coffee nervously and, though she’d hardly ever smoked in her life, accepted two cigarettes from Henri.

  By three her eyes were fastened to the door. By ten past three she was looking desperately at Henri. He said, ‘Don’t worry. We keep Marseillais time here. Nice and slow.’

  At a quarter past three a long black car drew up outside. Henri led her to the door. ‘Good luck!’

  The driver was standing beside the car. He had a broken nose, large shoulders and a surly expression. He looked just like a criminal. It suddenly dawned on Julie that he probably was a criminal. As she approached he slid into the car.

  Henri ushered Julie into the back, closed the door, and the car moved away. Julie sat stiffly in her seat. The back of the driver’s head didn’t invite conversation.

  The car eased gently through the narrow streets until they reached a wide boulevard. Then they accelerated past the harbour, across several junctions and onto the hill topped by the magnificent church. After five minutes or so, the driver braked and turned the car into a street full of small shops. They stopped. The driver turned and swivelled his eyes in the direction of the pavement. Julie guessed she was meant to get out.

  As she opened the door the driver murmured, ‘In there,’ and indicated with his finger. Julie looked: it was a restaurant. The driver added something in slang that she didn’t understand. Then he translated. ‘The waiter,’ he explained, ‘ask the waiter.’

  She crossed the pavement and pushed open the door. It was very dark inside. She paused, trying to get her bearings.

  Someone appeared from the shadows. ‘Come this way.’

  She followed the man to the back of the room and saw the figures of four men dimly visible at a table. As she approached, one of them rose to his feet and extended a hand. The conversation at the table petered out.

  Julie shook the man’s hand and sat in the chair he offered her. As her eyes got accustomed to the light she took a good look at him. He was well dressed in a conventional but slightly flashy way. His suit was obviously expensive, and there was a gold chain visible across the waistcoat and another round his wrist. Several rings glinted dully on his fingers. As he sat back in his seat she caught the whiff of liberally applied cologne.

  He smiled. His face was pleasant, his eyes twinkling under a high forehead and receding hair line.

  He enquired, ‘Would you like some wine? Or a coffee?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  He said, ‘My friend Henri tells me you’re looking for someone.’ He had a strong Provençal accent, but the voice was soft and soothi
ng.

  ‘Yes. Someone who came from here. Probably a long time ago.’

  He sipped some wine and smiled again. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘As much as you know.’

  She told him about Brittany and the escape line and the betrayal and how Michel had been accused; and she told him about the man from Paris, the outsider with the narrow face, the lanky hair, the dark almost black eyes, and the sallow skin. She finished, ‘… And he was cruel, that’s what I remember most.’

  The Patron frowned with concentration. ‘And his manner?’

  ‘Cold. Always – watchful. And underhand. Devious.’

  ‘And – how did he speak?’

  ‘He had no accent,’ she admitted, ‘not that one could catch anyway. Certainly nothing like—’ She hesitated.

  ‘Like mine?’ He smiled again.

  Julie nodded.

  ‘And you said something about women. About him not liking women.’

  ‘No … he hated them, I would say. And he was frightened of them – well, wary, anyway.’

  The Patron sipped his wine again. ‘No facial scars or anything like that?’

  ‘No.’

  There was the sound of the restaurant door opening and closing. The Patron looked up. ‘Ah here we are!’

  A man came up and put an envelope into the Patron’s hand. He opened it and shook out the contents. ‘Some pictures for you to look at. Just a few ideas.’ He placed them in a pile on the table and turned to one of the others. ‘Throw some light on the scene, will you, Isso?’

  A lamp was switched on and the table was flooded with sudden light. Blinking, Julie picked up the first photograph. It was a snapshot of a family group. There were five people: a middle-aged couple and three young men, presumably their sons. The faces were blurred but she knew immediately that none of them was Fougères. She put the picture back on the table.

  The second was in fact two photographs: a front and side view of an unsmiling man with frightened eyes. The pictures looked like the police shots she’d seen at the Police Judiciaire. She didn’t recognise the face.

  She picked up the third picture and, as she did so, she caught sight of the one now visible on the top of the pile. It was of a formal group, a dozen or so young men standing stiffly in a garden with, at either side, four black-robed men: priests. The picture was blurred and indistinct and had been taken in strong sunlight, so that the participants were frowning against the glare. But there was something – familiar.

  For a second she didn’t move then, with a trembling hand, she reached for it. Very slowly.

  But even before she picked it up she knew.

  It was him.

  It was him.

  She looked closely. Very young, perhaps only fourteen, but the hair, the narrow face … It was him all right. It was a moment before she could speak. Then she whispered. ‘This one. This is the one.’

  The Patron took the photograph gently from her hand and stared at it. He looked up at her. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Positive!’

  He shook his head and murmured, ‘So! I knew the bastard would turn up again somewhere! Scum always do.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ she demanded. ‘Who is he?’

  The Patron was staring at the photograph again. ‘His name? Vasson. Paul Vasson.’

  She said it over to herself. ‘And what was he? Where did he come from?’

  ‘He was the illegitimate son of a whore – a junkie whore at that. The authorities found him starving in a cupboard when he was about eight and handed him over to the Jesuits. The priests did what they could. They educated him well – Vasson was always a clever sod.’ He paused. ‘Later he became a small-time pimp with ambitions. He wanted to make the big time. He had expensive tastes …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He disappeared in ’35. No-one’s seen him since. Not that we haven’t been looking.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘We would love to find the cheap bastard again, believe me!’

  She was gripped with excitement. ‘But now we’ve got him, haven’t we!’

  He regarded her patiently. ‘Got him? Listen, people have been looking for him for a long time … The police – they would like to find him. Me – I’ve had the word out for a long time now.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Oh, once someone said they’d seen him in Toulon. But we never found him there. Another time someone saw him in Paris …’ He shook his head. ‘But never a real lead.’

  He held up the photograph. ‘Then I got hold of this. In about ’40, it was. One of my men flogged it round. Thought I’d got the swine then. He’d been seen all right, in Paris, round the dix-huitième. Working in clubs, that kind of thing. Thought I’d got him. I put the word out. Then …’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He disappeared again. Vanished. Never a trace.’

  Julie was crestfallen. ‘Oh … I see.’

  ‘We’ve tried, believe me. But he’s a cunning little sod. He’s kept out of sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He’ll still be in a big city somewhere – Paris probably. With his liking for the big time he wouldn’t be caught dead in a provincial town. But apart from that …’

  Julie sighed heavily. ‘Well … at least I know who he is, that Vasson was Fougères. That should be enough to free my cousin.’

  ‘You don’t seem very happy …’

  She frowned and looked at her hands. ‘I can’t bear to think of Vasson not being caught.’

  ‘Well …’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps the flics will pick him up straight away …’

  ‘Yes, but … suppose they don’t?

  There was a silence.

  ‘Where will you go now?’ he asked.

  She considered. ‘To Rennes first to free my cousin, then – Paris.’ She seemed to make up her mind. ‘Yes. Paris.’

  He watched her for a moment. ‘And what are you going to do there?’

  ‘See if I can help the police, identify him if necessary …

  ‘You’re going to look for him.’

  She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do herself. Eventually she murmured, ‘If I have to.’

  The Patron shook his head. ‘He’s a dangerous man – a lunatic!’ He sighed and leant forward. ‘Please, be very, very careful! Look – if you’re really determined, then you’ll need help. What about money?’

  ‘I’ve got enough for the moment.’

  ‘Well, if you need more, just phone this number in Paris.’ He wrote it on one of the restaurant’s cards. ‘I’ll tell them you’re coming. They’ll be able to help in other ways, too.’

  ‘Other ways?’

  ‘Manpower … That kind of thing.’

  Julie nodded uncertainly.

  The Patron tapped her hand. ‘Look, if you should happen to find him, keep clear, won’t you? And let my people know straight away – they’ll be neater than the flics, you understand. Whatever you do, don’t approach him yourself, will you? He’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Just let my people know – they’ll deal with him, eh?’

  She had no doubt they would. She said, ‘Thanks for your help. May I take the photograph?’

  ‘I’d like it back when you’ve finished with it.’ She nodded and put it carefully in her bag along with the telephone number. He got up and helped her to her feet. As they walked to the door she asked, ‘What did he do? When he was in Marseilles, I mean?’

  The Patron opened the door and the sounds of the street flooded in. He said quietly, ‘He bought me three years inside, that’s what he did.’

  ‘Oh!’ She didn’t know what to say.

  He looked thoughtfully out into the street. ‘And …’ His face clouded. ‘… he killed a woman.’ There was a pause. ‘My woman.’

  Julie stared, aghast. Eventually she stammered, ‘I’m sorry …’

  He shrugged and said briskly, ‘Now remember, if you do come across the bastard, whatever you do don’t go anywhere near him. Just call th
at number and mention my name.’

  She stretched out her hand. ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Jojo. Just say Jojo sent you.’

  There was a midnight train to Paris. Julie packed her case, paid the outstanding money on the room, and, with plenty of time to spare, went to the bar to say goodbye to Henri.

  He welcomed her effusively and pressed a drink on her. It was a cognac. She rather liked it. She liked it even more a few moments later when the alcohol sent a warm glow round her body. Suddenly she felt tremendously optimistic.

  She knew almost everything about him, his name and his background. And most important of all, she had the photograph. What a bit of luck that was! Somebody somewhere must have seen him. Somebody somewhere would know where he was. The photograph must find him in the end. It would just be a question of looking hard enough and for long enough in the right places …

  The telephone at the end of the bar rang. Henri answered it, put it down on the counter and came over to her. He indicated with his head. ‘Telephone.’

  ‘For me?’

  He nodded. She went to the end of the bar and lifted the receiver cautiously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Madame? It’s me.’ She recognised the Patron’s voice. ‘I remembered something …’

  Julie gripped the receiver. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not very much, but it might help?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember I said he had expensive tastes? Well, he always longed for a fancy car. He was quite mad about it. Always had pictures of it in his room, even in his wallet … A Delage. He always wanted a Delage. Nothing else would do. You know the car I mean?’

  Julie tried to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, it’s not much … But he really was mad about that car.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A Delage. Nothing else would do.’

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Julie put the receiver down.

  A car … A Delage …

  She shook her head. A long time had passed. Vasson had probably forgotten he had ever wanted a Delage – dreams didn’t last. At sixteen she herself had wanted – what was it? – a fur coat. She never thought of having one now.

  No, the car wouldn’t lead her to Vasson.