The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Come now, we’re both too old for this. I think you knew the moment I walked into the room, I was going to think about your involvement in the priest’s disappearance.’

  ‘My involvement? I have helped you. What do I have to hide?’

  ‘Something. Two people have access to the crypt key. It is well hidden. We can surmise that Father Ramelle didn’t have it on him or else it would have disappeared with him.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘And this discussion about my daughter … it was a valiant but failed attempt to draw me away from my questions.’

  ‘It’s still good advice.’

  ‘It is. But now I’d like to know everything. The truth. I promise none of this will be revealed to Philippe and his men.’

  Madame Noirot poured herself another whisky and lit another cigarette. ‘I lent the key to my niece.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last Thursday night. She swore she’d have it back to me by Friday morning.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you don’t know what she did with it. How long did she have it for?’

  ‘She borrowed it around seven in the evening. She returned it by eight the following morning.’

  ‘Thirteen hours … What did she say she needed it for?’

  ‘Money.’ She refilled her glass. ‘I’m no idiot, Monsieur. I suspected it was to do with the guns. I hoped they’d be taken – but I just never anticipated Father Ramelle would go missing as well.’

  ‘How could you be sure it wasn’t the Germans who were paying her?’

  ‘Since when do they behave like that? That is not their way. If they had any idea, they would have simply broken down the door. That is their way.’

  ‘You’re right. The one thing we can be sure of is that the Germans didn’t take the cache.’ Duchene smoked, sipped. ‘Why does your niece need money?’

  ‘She’s not well off. The war is bad for her. And unlike me, she doesn’t have a church to live in.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to her.’

  She took hold of Duchene’s hand. Her skin was thin. Her hands cold. ‘I didn’t expect that Father Ramelle would disappear. You must believe me.’

  He looked back into her eyes, and while there were no tears forming, she held his gaze with sadness, an unmoving stare.

  ‘I do. But you must understand, my daughter, my life, it all depends on knowing what happened to him and where the weapons went. Your niece – I need her name.’

  Madame Noirot moved to pour him another whisky. He held his hand over the glass.

  She returned the bottle to the table. And looked at him, her eyes fixed on his.

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Her name is Eliane. Eliane Payet.’

  ‘And where will I find her?’

  ‘I can give you her address, but she’s rarely home.’

  ‘After curfew, surely.’

  ‘I’m afraid to say that’s when she’s usually at work.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Monsieur, I’d rather you didn’t make me say it. These past four years have been difficult for her.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ***

  It was a ridiculous extravagance to drink more of the cognac. Just one, he thought, before trying to sleep. A few hours, he needed a few hours of rest before heading out into the city again to race the clock and search for the missing men.

  His arrival home had stirred Ernest. Or perhaps the creature was also struggling with sleep. The sound of it stirring up the gravel of its tank was the only noise in the room. Duchene chided himself for not grabbing some of the lettuce from the salad Marienne had served. ‘Forgive me,’ he said in the direction of the tank. Tomorrow he would make amends.

  He sniffed the cognac – dried fruit. Floral sweetness.

  Marienne’s mother.

  They had been drinking Hennessy on the day she left. In a small apartment not unlike this one, in a room that had much the same view. They were in Boulogne, on the outskirts of the city, its beige stone residential buildings interspersed with factories and smokestacks.

  They had argued, so many times, about her leaving. So often that the patterns were the same, the debate already mapped, their words drawn from a limited vocabulary. The more he insisted she should stay, the more she seemed determined to do the opposite.

  Perhaps it was the difference in their years. He was forty, she twenty-eight. She still had passion, energy to give, to find meaning, to change. Work on a factory floor was not what she’d intended for her life. She couldn’t stand to one side and watch the world burn.

  Funny how the passion that had drawn him to her, the vitality for life that buoyed him up from his growing sense of the futility of it all, had become his greatest enemy.

  The International Brigades were fighting the fascists in Spain, she said. He had fought for what he believed. How could he not understand?

  So, there he stood, a hypocrite, while he presented one last case for her remaining: it would change her. Like it had changed him. If it did not take your life, the war took your spirit.

  She smiled, sad and disappointed in him. If she had spirit to give, to make a better world for their daughter, then that was a sacrifice worth making. She reassured him of his worth – his place as a good father – that she would always love him. And then she made love to him, and left.

  TEN

  A convoy of German trucks, laden with supplies and men, rattled past Duchene as he waited to cross the street. The sun had risen, although it hadn’t been seen all morning, hidden as it was behind the grey clouds that loomed over the city. The trucks were heading north, out of the city – to fight the Americans, to fight the Free French. The tarpaulins had been lowered onto the trucks to limit sniper fire from the roofs above. Duchene had heard the stories – grenades rolled into clusters of soldiers staring at the sex shops on the Place de Clichy, pistol fire in the Soldaten Kino – but these were rare. The coverings were as much a precaution as an instruction to the men beneath them: ‘Remember who your enemy is.’

  At the back of the trucks, through the canvas doorways, the soldiers looked at the city they were leaving. Their faces were set with a grim determination as they pondered their future. They were dressed in rain smocks patterned with oak leaves. The dark grey helmets had been repainted with daubs of camouflage green. The Germans were now concealing their men, giving them equipment to help them hide. To them, their victory was no longer certain.

  Fear. It makes men more dangerous.

  He’d already visited the home of Eliane Payet on the outskirts of Montparnasse. It was an old terrace house, clad in silver timber and not much to look at. As her aunt had predicted, she wasn’t home. He’d been let inside by another woman who wore only a shift and he passed three grubby children on his way to her door, where he left a note. The letter had made him uncomfortable, but he was desperate and couldn’t take his time getting a response.

  Mademoiselle Payet,

  I’d like to meet with you to discuss some advice your aunt gave me – a key lent and returned. I’m looking for Father Ramelle. The priest is missing, and I believe you might be able to help. These are troubled times and I try to make a difference. You may have heard of my few successes. Perhaps you can help me with one more.

  Kindest regards,

  Auguste Duchene

  He would have preferred to call and speak to her in person. But it was clear that the house had no running water, let alone a phone.

  The convoy passed on the road ahead of him. He crossed in a break in the traffic and turned onto Rue du Mont-Cenis.

  Major Faber’s missing soldier had kept a room in the Hotel Saint Clair. As Duchene walked up the hill towards it, he could see the basilica itself. This was a good location, a popular tour
ist destination. In the attics and apartments around him, the artists and performers of Paris had congregated. Who knew how many remained? It was rumoured that Picasso had holed up somewhere, painting while the Germans marched into the city. Perhaps he was still here.

  Duchene had taken Marienne to see Guernica when it was exhibited at the World Fair. They’d waited for an hour to reach the front of the line. He’d expected something different, perhaps. Something more overt. It wasn’t a painting of any war he’d ever seen. Cubism left a lot to the imagination, which was probably the point. But Marienne found it gripping; she spoke about it all afternoon and into their dinner in a small brasserie by the Bateau-Lavoir. Had that been its purpose? Not to document, from the view of someone who’d seen war’s devastation firsthand, but to provoke emotions in someone who’d never been to war? There was definitely a value in that.

  The Hotel Saint Clair was narrow and tall. It sat between a café and a gallery, the walls of which bulged under their age on uncertain foundations.

  Something green caught his eye at the base of the gallery, between a downpipe and a cobblestone. He hunched down and teased out its leaves. Sorrel was growing wild in the city. He looked above him, searching for its origin, and saw the remnants of a shattered window box. Perhaps this small plant was the lone survivor from a kitchen window, with herbs coaxed into growing on a windswept ledge. He plucked the sorrel from its mooring and wrapped it in his handkerchief.

  He pushed the hotel door open and walked into the foyer. Dark-red, tasselled curtains framed the windows that looked out onto the street; although dusty, they were free from holes and fraying. They complimented the rich red timber that lined the walls and made up the balustrade of the staircase that led to the upper levels of the building. The reception desk was unattended. By the number of keys hanging in their pigeonholes, it was clear that almost every room was vacant. On the wall opposite were over two dozen oil paintings and watercolours of the hotel and its neighbouring businesses at various seasons by various hands. These had been painted from the street outside, and the dates and signatures of the artists told a story of visitors from around Europe. The most recent of which marked history too: Mahler, Lietz, Falsch.

  Duchene rang the bell on the counter, and a ruddy-faced concierge emerged from the office door behind it. His waistcoat was too large and billowed in front of him as he walked up to Duchene. ‘You are looking for a room?’ he asked. There was no pleasure or interest in his tone.

  ‘I’m wondering if you can help me?’

  ‘I can help you with a room.’

  ‘Monsieur, I need to visit the room of one of your guests. He’s been missing now for some days.’

  ‘Christian Kloke?’

  ‘Yes. Others have come looking for him?’

  ‘His commander, I think. You’re the first Frenchman to visit. So a risk for me, do you understand?’

  ‘Would this help?’ Duchene said, sliding across the two packets of cigarettes he’d been given by Lucien.

  The man took them back into his office. Within a few moments, he returned holding a master key and gestured towards the stairs. ‘It’s at the top.’

  The stairs bowed and creaked as they walked up them, a testimony to the age and frequency with which the hotel had once been used. Their footsteps stirred up motes of dust that fell past them, lit by a skylight above.

  ‘Do you live here?’ Duchene asked the concierge.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did you hear anything strange coming from this room, over the weekend or on Monday morning?’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Anything that might make you suspicious?’

  ‘He was German. His visitors were German. Everything about them is suspicious.’

  On the fourth floor, there were six doors arranged in the same sequence as on the floors below them. The lifting and puffed wallpaper was the same too, a burgundy fleur-de-lis.

  ‘Four zero one,’ the concierge said, making the short journey from stair to door.

  Within moments the room was opened, and Duchene was standing at its threshold. The curtains were open, letting the grey day in and showing a view up the hill to the stairs and entrance to Sacré-Cœur. The room itself was unkempt. The bed, which faced the window, was a mess of sheets and pillows. A small pile of books, all German, sat on the nightstand, on top of which rested a Baedeker Guide to Paris. This was well-thumbed and dog-eared. Duchene picked it up.

  ‘I offered to clean the room for him, but he refused,’ the concierge said. ‘Most of the Germans did. They treat it more like an apartment than a hotel. They even cooked in the rooms on camp stoves, made the place smell like a hostel.’

  Duchene opened the book. The folded corners of pages marked all the main tourist sites. A black-and-white photo had been tucked into the entry for the Eiffel Tower: three young German officers smiled beneath the monument. Kloke stood in the centre. He was taller than the others, with dark hair and a strong frame. His eyes were a piercing dark-blue or brown, and his smile was off-centre. It suggested he was smirking at the absurdity of his situation, or perhaps he was reacting to a joke that had just been said. While the others posed, he was relaxed, leaning on a rail, arms spread wide to grip it. He even had the top buttons of his jacket open. From Duchene’s experience in the French Army, this would have risked a citation, but for a German soldier … it was almost unthinkable.

  In the back of the guide were ticket stubs from cabarets, dance halls, galleries and tourist sites. Kloke had kept himself busy.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked the concierge.

  ‘How much to go through the room in private?’ Duchene asked.

  ‘It’s not really how things are done.’

  ‘But, as you said, Germans frying up Spätzle in your rooms isn’t how things are done either.’ Duchene held out the last of Lucien’s cigarette packets. ‘How’s this to leave me to go through this place alone? I won’t be long.’

  The concierge took the packet and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘Don’t steal anything. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  The door shut, and Duchene sat on the edge of the bed as he continued to work through the guide.

  The front of the book had an inscription in French: Welcome to Paris, my love. The hand was neat, the words tucked in between title and credits.

  Perhaps this was from a lover, a woman not unlike his daughter who had found herself drawn to the handsome young soldier. Duchene sniffed at the pages. Cologne and cigarettes. Nothing on which to form an opinion. A German book that might have been bought by a Frenchwoman – not a difficult task. There were Baedekers on sale throughout the city. Less so these days, but in the early years of the occupation Paris was rife with them. It had seemed that every German had a copy in their hand.

  The last pages of the guide were given over to maps. These grids tried to contain the city’s winding medieval streets and the wide flow of the Seine. Pencilled circles marked out the sites. A quick audit suggested each of these corresponded to the dog-eared pages.

  Duchene paused for a moment. Weighed the book and its spilling contents in his hand. Then tucked it into the inside pocket of his overcoat.

  As noted by the concierge, the room wasn’t intended for a long-term stay. The small closet that stood against one wall was overflowing. The clothes had been left where they fell: uniforms, civilian suits, some still on the hook. Duchene felt along the top of the closet: dust, dead flies – nothing else. He wiped his fingertips on the lapels of Kloke’s dress uniform.

  The story was the same for a chest of drawers. Nothing was hidden behind it. Inside its drawers were undergarments and socks, most of them dumped, the socks not even partnered. This was not the usual behaviour of a soldier during active service. But thus far, nothing about Kloke was usual.

  Under the bed, Duchene found an old hatbox. Its white fabr
ic was stained brown around the edges of the lid. Parisian, and from the 1800s given the stamps on the side. It was the type sold at flea markets throughout the city. He pulled it out and placed it on the bed, then hunched in front of it – before reconsidering. Knees cracking, he repositioned himself beside the box on the bed.

  As the lid lifted, it sucked air. Duchene blinked at the contents.

  A Webley revolver lay on top. He carefully took it out and scanned for the safety latch. It was in position. He sniffed at the gun. It hadn’t been fired recently. He pushed out the chamber – it was full. There was no spare ammunition in the box.

  Under the pistol was a smaller tin that rattled when Duchene picked it up. Popping it open revealed medals and pins, a collection documenting some of the men Kloke had fought. A British epaulette. Several Red Army Patriotic War medals. Half a dozen French uniform buttons.

  War trophies. It was what young men did. Like the British Webley, collected and stored.

  Duchene couldn’t judge. Somewhere in his apartment was a trench knife along with several badges and medals taken from fallen Germans as they lay dead in the mud.

  To one side of the box was a Risinetten medicine tin. Inside this were several pieces of wax paper folded into neat rectangles. Duchene opened one and found a white powder. He dabbed his finger against his tongue, into the powder and back again.

  A chemical taste. Methamphetamines.

  He took one of the packets then returned the tin to the hatbox. He replaced its lid and slid it back under the bed. Lifting the mattress, he felt under it, checked both sides. Nothing.

  He left the room and started back down the stairs.

  The concierge was waiting for him in the hotel foyer. He had one of the cigarettes in his mouth, and he let it hang at its edge as he spoke. ‘Is he coming back?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What do I do with his room?’

  ‘That’s probably a question for the Germans.’

  ‘I asked. That commander of his, he said leave it untouched. There would be an investigation. Now that you’ve been –’