Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  But the photograph would. That was the key.

  Chapter 38

  ‘ARE THERE ANY further charges against Le Goff?’ The examining magistrate peered at the commissaire.

  ‘Not at the present time.’

  ‘I order, then, that Le Goff be released forthwith.’ The magistrate stood up and walked out. Julie got to her feet and stared blankly at the high ornate chair where the magistrate had been sitting. She should feel triumphant, or at least relieved. Instead she felt dissatisfied, almost cheated.

  The commissaire was standing in the aisle, waiting for her. She made her way between the seats towards him. They walked towards the courtroom door.

  ‘You were very certain in your identification of Vasson,’ the commissaire said.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I wish all witnesses were as definite.’

  They came out onto the front steps of the law-courts.

  ‘You are a very determined woman, madame.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Julie demanded.

  ‘Nothing – please don’t misunderstand me!’

  They began to walk down the steps. Julie asked. ‘When will Michel be released?’

  ‘Within the hour. One of my men can take you over there, if you like.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.’

  The commissaire looked surprised. ‘You’re not going to see him?’

  She shook her head briefly.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You thought wrong, monsieur. I told you that before.’

  ‘Ah. I stand corrected.’

  They reached the pavement and paused. The commissaire said, ‘We believe Vasson was involved in other crimes. We think he may have betrayed the Meteor line.’

  Julie looked at him sharply. ‘He was Lebrun?’

  ‘Possibly. But it is difficult to find anyone who might identify him. They all died or got sent to Germany.’ He added, ‘Where can I contact you, madame – in case we have news?’

  ‘England. I gave my address to your inspector. I’m going to Paris today, then on from there.’ It was almost the truth. ‘But – will there be any news?’

  ‘In due course. His description will be everywhere by now. And his photograph. We’ll find him.’

  ‘But it’s been two weeks.’

  The commissaire threw up his hands. ‘Two weeks. That’s nothing, madame! He could be anywhere, hiding under an assumed name … It’ll take time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can only do our best.’

  She stared thoughtfully at the sky, then said abruptly. ‘Goodbye then, monsieur.’

  ‘Goodbye, madame.’

  The commissaire watched her slim figure walking briskly away and thought how deceptive appearances were. She may have soft, gentle looks, but she was like steel inside.

  Julie sat in the train and read the letter again. It was from Peter, in his best rounded handwriting. He was very well, he said. He went to tea every day with John (his best friend) and on Saturday they had been fishing all day (this last part was underlined). He was glad about Michel. He sent her lots of love.

  She put the letter away. He sounded happy enough. Julie had been away almost a month now. It was a long time to leave a child. But he was eight; quite old enough to look after himself.

  She got out her purse and counted the money in it. Five hundred francs or thereabouts. A hundred of her own and four hundred which she had taken out of Michel’s money. She had put the remainder of Michel’s money in an envelope with a letter and left it with his concierge. In the letter she had explained how the money had been spent, wished him well and excused herself for not seeing him on his release.

  She hadn’t seen him, either, during the two weeks the police had been unravelling the Fougères identity. Instead she had gone to Tregasnou and arranged for the sale of the farm to provide money for the proper care of Tante Marie.

  It was the end of her life at Tregasnou. Perhaps of her life in Brittany, too. Her debt to Michel had been repaid; she didn’t want the embarrassment of his gratitude.

  Five hundred francs …

  She already had her train ticket back to England, so the cash should last three weeks. No, perhaps that was optimistic for Paris. Perhaps only two.

  Two weeks, then. She would give herself two weeks.

  She became a good walker. For eight days she walked all day – and a lot of the night, too. She tried a hundred places – cafés, restaurants, shops – in half a dozen different areas.

  No-one had ever seen Vasson.

  After the cafés, restaurants and shops she drew in her breath and tried the clubs. It took a lot to walk into a club, a woman alone, and ask for information. Sometimes she had to wait, standing conspicuously in a corner, while someone was fetched. Then people stared, wondering what a woman like her was doing in such a place. Even though she wore the darker and plainer of her two staid suits, she had to learn how to look unobtrusive and to turn down all kinds of propositions, some blunt and exotic. Once, a man actually stuffed a thousand francs into the neck of her blouse and started pulling her towards the door.

  She hated everything about the clubs, the darkness, the stink of tobacco, the leering men. To keep sane, she forced herself to see the light side of it. It was there – if you looked hard enough.

  But she didn’t smile for long – the time was slipping away. Suddenly twelve days had passed, and no Vasson. No-one had seen him. No-one remembered him. It was as if he’d never been to Paris …

  The clubs didn’t open until nine-thirty or ten, so she spent the earlier part of the evening asking in restaurants and cafés. Then, once the doors of the clubs opened, she went in quickly, anxious to be away before too many customers arrived.

  She completed the narrow streets of Montmartre, then started on the area around Pigalle.

  One evening she managed three clubs before eleven. She came to a fourth club and, without bothering to examine the name on the neon light, went straight down the red-lit stairs. It was better going straight in – there wasn’t so much time to hesitate.

  There was no-one at the desk so, without slowing down, she walked across to the bar where a barman was polishing glasses. She pulled out the photograph, which she had masked with black paper to hide the other figures, and thrust it across the counter.

  The barman looked at it then asked, ‘So who’s looking for him?’ That was what they always asked. That, or, ‘In trouble, is he?’

  She replied, ‘I’m looking for him. It’s a personal matter.’ It was the answer she always gave. It usually brought a knowing smile and a comment about all poor sods being on the run from some woman or another, and she wasn’t going to give him a hard time when she found him, was she?

  This time the barman said, ‘You’re looking for him, eh?’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’

  Julie looked at him in surprise. ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘You don’t look the sort to have mixed with him.’

  Julie tensed. ‘You know him?’

  The barman took another look at the picture. ‘Used to. Used to work here, the slob.’

  ‘When? When was he here?’

  ‘Ohhh. Must have been before the war. Yes, just before …’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘He was around for a while at the beginning of the war, so I heard. Started dealing in specialities. You know, stockings, cigarettes, fancy underwear, that kind of thing …’

  ‘Then?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He wasn’t seen again.’

  ‘You’ve heard nothing since?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not that I’ve asked, you understand. And he wouldn’t exactly be welcome in this place. He half-killed the boss.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘What did he call himself then?’

  ‘Ah …’ The barman frowned. ‘Can’t remember exactly … Wait a minute. Ah yes … Biolet. That was it. Biolet.’

  Yet
another name. Julie asked, ‘Where did he live, do you know?’

  ‘No. Never knew. Never cared. Always changing rooms, I believe.’

  Julie racked her brain for more questions. ‘Did he have money in those days?’

  The barman laughed. ‘Money! Never. Always broke, he was. Tried to get into the big time, of course, but never made it. A real loser. Too clever-clever, see. No-one around here liked that, not one bit.’

  And that was it. He knew nothing more.

  Two days later Julie found another person who thought he recognised the photograph. A café proprietor up a steep hill above Pigalle. But he, too, hadn’t seen Biolet for a long time. After some thought he remembered that the last time must have been ’39 or ’40 – before the Occupation. He, too, mentioned that Biolet had always been broke. But he couldn’t remember any more.

  After that – nothing.

  She had been in Paris fifteen days. And she had nothing.

  Wearily she went back to her cheap cheerless hotel in the treizième and fell on to the bed, exhausted.

  Clubs, cafés … Montmartre, Pigalle … He’d been there all right before the war.

  But after—? Nothing!

  Had he gone away? To another large city?

  Perhaps …

  Another area. Another name. Another job.

  But would he need a job? The Germans must have paid him well; he was their most important informer. Yes, he must have money, and for the first time in his life!

  She opened her eyes wide.

  Of course. That was the difference. He had money.

  The big time at last. All the things he’d ever dreamed about. She tried to imagine him with money … dressing well, wearing gold jewellery. Indulging those expensive tastes …

  All the things he’d ever dreamed about.

  She remembered what the Patron had said. Perhaps there had been something in it after all. It was worth a try—

  Just one more day. She’d give it one more day.

  *

  Julie trudged along the Champs Elysées, looking for the right number. Most of the buildings didn’t seem to have any numbers, but at last she spotted one in small figures high above a doorway; there was still quite a way to go. She eyed a passing bus longingly. It would be quicker and easier by bus, but they cost money and she was running dangerously short.

  She was down to her last fifty francs and her train ticket home. In Paris fifty francs would last two days, maybe three if she really spun it out and cut down on her food.

  She walked on, watching the numbers. Nearly there. It must be on the next corner …

  There was a smart shop selling handbags, a cinema … It must be the next one.

  She walked faster. The shop front was clearly visible now. She stopped in front of it and stared.

  It was empty. Most of the windows were boarded up. Only one window still had glass in it and that was whitewashed on the inside.

  She went up to the window, found a tiny gap in the whitewash, and peered through. There was a large empty showroom, littered with rubbish and a few posters of cars.

  She stepped back and looked up. The sign, made of letters fastened on to a marble facia, had largely fallen off. But the shadow of the letters remained. The name of the agents. Then, in small letters: Delage.

  She went round to the side. There was a side door, again firmly closed.

  Dead end.

  She leant against the wall. She’d got this address from a garage. Obviously their information had been a little out of date.

  She should try another Delage dealer – if there was one.

  She tramped along until she found a post office. She looked up Delage in the telephone directory. Not listed.

  Next idea.

  None. She felt weak and tired. The thought of pressing on was terribly depressing. She decided to go back to the hotel for a rest. It was a real indulgence: she’d never allowed herself that luxury before. She saw a bus stop and, weakening, caught a bus in the direction of the treizième. She began to plan what she’d do when she got there: she’d go mad and buy cheese, fruit and bread and take them back to the hotel and eat the lot.

  She had to change buses twice. At the second change she was overcome by guilt at her extravagance and decided to walk the last mile or so.

  On the way she looked up and saw a garage. Without hesitating she walked straight in. A mechanic was working on a car. She asked, ‘Where would I buy a Delage if I wanted one?’

  ‘A new one, impossible. They haven’t been making them recently, or hadn’t you noticed?’ he said with heavy irony. ‘A second-hand one …’ He shrugged. ‘Wherever you could find one. There must be plenty about if you have the money.’

  She thought: A real help. ‘What about servicing one, then. Where would I go?’

  ‘Juno’s. Juno’s garage. They’re the only ones who do them nowadays.’ He gave her an address. It was on the other side of the city, near the Bois de Boulogne, back the way she’d come.

  She hesitated, thinking of the cheese, fruit and bread, and the nice soft bed, then marched firmly back towards the bus stop.

  Juno’s was a large garage full of smart cars in various stages of repair. There was a sporty racing-type car, a limousine, and a long, sleek open-top – all magnificently expensive.

  A fierce-looking woman was perched inside a glass booth, guarding the working area. She raised a sliding window and asked sharply, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Delage,’ Julie asked.

  ‘What do you mean looking?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone who might have bought one recently.’

  The woman looked Julie up and down and raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t buy and sell.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask if you knew of any Delages for sale – or recently sold, in the last few years’.

  ‘We don’t have records. Look, the answer’s no, and that’s all there is to it.’ She slammed the window shut.

  Julie went past her into the garage. The woman spotted her and, pushing up the window again, started yelling. Julie walked briskly on.

  She found a mechanic who was working on a long silver touring car. She said, ‘Hello.’

  He looked up and smiled appreciatively. ‘Hell-o!’

  She admired the car. ‘Lovely. I didn’t know people could still afford things like this.’

  ‘Not many can! This one’s been locked away all through the war. Now we’re trying to get it going again. Anyway – what can I do for you?’ He had a friendly grin.

  ‘I want to find someone who owns a Delage.’

  The mechanic made an extravagant gesture. ‘For you, I’d buy one myself!’

  Julie smiled. ‘If I wanted to buy a Delage where would I look? A second-hand one, I mean.’

  ‘You want to buy one!’ Wiping his hands on a dirty rag, he gave a long low whistle. ‘Well, well …!’

  ‘No, not me exactly,’ Julie said hastily. ‘In fact I want to trace someone who may have bought one. In the last few years.’

  He shook his head. ‘You ask a lot … My goodness, it would be difficult to know where to begin! And there aren’t a lot about nowadays. Most of them are still off the road …’ He looked over Julie’s shoulder and made a face. ‘Ooops!’ Julie followed his gaze and saw the fierce-looking woman waddling aggressively in their direction.

  Julie said hurriedly, ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘What about the police? They have a register of all owners.’

  ‘No – this person wouldn’t be using his own name, you see.’

  The mechanic laughed. ‘More and more mysterious!’ The fierce woman panted up to them, prepared for a speech. The mechanic took Julie’s arm and led her quickly away, back towards the main doors. ‘There is something called the Delage Society. Well, there used to be anyway. I’ve got the address somewhere. Would that be of any use?’

  ‘Yes please. Anything.’

  He opened the door of the glass booth and riffled through some papers on a shelf.
He came out with a slim magazine in his hand. ‘Here. They used to send out these things every few months. The address of the organiser will be in there somewhere.’

  The fierce woman had followed them and was standing a few feet away, hands on hips, eyes blazing.

  The mechanic shrugged apologetically. ‘Better get back to work. Good luck!’ He grinned at her, his expression full of many meanings, all of them nice.

  Julie smiled back. He had cheered her up.

  A few yards along the street she paused and opening the magazine, glanced through it. On the first inside page there was the name of the publisher and further down, the editor, with an address in Paris.

  The editor’s address was on the other side of the city.

  She sighed and looked for a bus.

  *

  It was an apartment building. There were two long rows of bells with names on them. Some of the names were very faded and she had trouble in reading them, but then she found the editor’s name. He still lived there; it was something at least. She pressed the bell.

  There was a buzz. She pressed against the street door and it opened. The apartment was on the fourth floor. When she arrived, breathless, at the head of the stairs a man was standing on the landing, waiting.

  The editor of La Societe des Proprietaries de Delages was a man of about sixty, who wore shabby clothes and smelled strongly of garlic and old vegetables. He welcomed her warmly. ‘I don’t get many visitors. Please come in. Come in!’

  The apartment was none too clean and rather shabby, like its owner.

  The editor bounced around like a small boy, offering her a seat and a cup of coffee. Then he sat absolutely still, listening to what she had to say.

  He nodded slowly and promised to help all he could. But there was a problem. ‘We had to cease publishing at the beginning of the war,’ he explained. ‘And even before the war, only about half the owners belonged … As for finding out what’s happened to the cars since then – new owner and so on …’ He shook his head. ‘… it would be difficult…’

  ‘This person might have been an owner before the war. It’s just possible …’

  He shot out of his seat like a jack-in-a-box. ‘Say no more!’ He disappeared into another room and a few minutes later returned in triumph with a dusty box full of yellowing papers. He pulled out the papers and looked at her expectantly. ‘Name?’