‘No. Someone else.’
Lucien took Duchene by the arm. ‘We’re not looking for the guns?’
‘Not right now.’
‘But you are looking for them, right? And the priest? It won’t be good for either of us if you can’t find them.’
‘Yes, I’m looking for them.’
‘So it wasn’t the Resistance following you?’
Duchene tugged his arm free from Lucien’s grip. ‘I don’t know. Probably. What do they have over you?’
‘Philippe and Armand? Nothing.’ Lucien pulled out a cigarette and offered the packet to Duchene. ‘I know you’ve already figured out my part in this. I helped them get the guns in.’
‘So why did they come to me, specifically?’
‘The Verniers. You’re famous.’
‘Lucien, did you bring them to me? Put Marienne in danger?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You seemed nervous as hell when they were in my room.’
‘They make me nervous. Philippe is a zealot, pushed to violence, ever since he and his students were taken by the Germans. He was tortured in the grounds of the Sorbonne, right below his office window – or so I’m told. And Armand … obviously he’s unhinged. He lost his family at Oradour-sur-Glane, a couple of months ago. The SS executed the entire village as revenge for the capture of an SS commander by Maquis fighters. I didn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Or you.’
‘Of course, sure. I didn’t want to get hurt either. I’ve seen Armand stab a man in the neck just for being slow to answer.’
‘Spent a lot of time with them?’
‘More time than I would like. They’re dangerous and dangerous to be around. That much is as clear as day. Auguste, I’m struggling to understand why we’re here. They will kill you.’
‘I can’t tell you. It’s safer that way.’
‘Fine. I’m just trying to give you some good advice, for the girl’s sake and yours.’
Duchene glanced over his shoulder. The young man who’d passed them was now standing at the end of the street, watching them.
‘Those windows are covered,’ Lucien said. ‘Really covered.’
‘What do you mean?
‘The street lamp. It’s reflecting in the window.’
‘So? Lights reflect in dark windows.’
‘The reflection is too crisp. Normally the light is blurred. Someone has placed a blackout cover close to that window, it’s made it like a mirror. I know stash houses. I’ve been at this game a long time.’
‘Is that what this is?’
Lucien paused. ‘Actually, no … I don’t think so. Too little foot traffic, not enough to conceal the entrance. You want just enough so your comings and goings aren’t strange, but not so much that there are too many eyes on the place.’
‘The front door’s all locked up. Old mail on the floor below the letterbox. No one’s been through there in years.’
‘Who says that’s the front door?’ Lucien said as he stepped from the car and started to walk up the street.
Duchene hauled himself out and started after Lucien. ‘The alley’s behind us. No doors there either.’
Lucien smiled back at him and walked to the neighbouring building, a rundown townhouse. A dim light was coming through its flaking shutters, which were closed and locked in place with a padlock. He let his cigarette hang from his mouth as he removed a pair of driving gloves and knocked on the chipped door. Duchene came to stand beside him. They heard cautious footsteps approaching, then a pause – probably a peep through the keyhole – before the door was opened.
The bespectacled eyes of a bearded man looked back at them through the scantest of openings. The door chain was still in place. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Good evening,’ Lucien said with a smile. ‘We’d like to come in. We have money, and we’re looking for a good time.’ He was still smiling, clearly convinced of his course of action.
‘Were you followed?’ the bearded man asked.
‘Well, a young man at the end of the street is watching us,’ Lucien replied. ‘But I suspect he’s planning to return soon and knock on your door.’
‘You scared him off. We don’t get cars outside.’
‘We can move it if you’d like. But I think one by itself is unlikely to raise suspicions.’
The man nodded. ‘Come in,’ he said as he closed the door and unlatched the chain.
‘What’s going on?’ Duchene whispered to Lucien while their host was out of earshot.
‘You’re slipping, old man. You didn’t read the signs. And here I thought you had a misspent youth back in the twenties.’
The door was opened, and they walked into a small, sparsely furnished living room. A wooden table stood across from an ancient, unused wood stove. There was nothing to sit on aside from the four chairs around it. A staircase opposite the door led up to a second storey.
The man was wearing a suit, unremarkable except for a fresh rose pinned to his lapel. In the light, Duchene could see that his spectacles were rimmed in purple.
‘We’ll have to let you out one at a time when you’re done,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand. And please don’t congregate on leaving – best to keep walking. Bar Alphonse is only two blocks from here, and they’re open almost as late as we are. A good place to get another drink, if less sympathetic.’
‘How much?’ Lucien asked.
‘Six francs each, drinks are upstairs. Enjoy yourselves.’
Duchene looked at Lucien, then sighed and dropped the coins into the man’s hand. ‘Is this a club?’ he whispered to Lucien.
‘Slow – yes, a pansy club,’ Lucien said as they reached the top of the stairs. There was an open doorway on the landing; Lucien looked through it and returned his gaze to Duchene. ‘Ingenious,’ he said, beaming.
The doorway led to a small bedroom. An old single brass bed was scattered with a few hats. Five freestanding coat racks lined one wall into which had been cut a narrow doorway. Across it hung a bright-green curtain with two peacocks embroidered on either side of its parting.
‘Didn’t you notice that young man watching us?’ Lucien asked.
‘I saw him.’
‘You didn’t notice his makeup? Subtle, but visible. A brave choice considering the state of Paris.’
Lucien held open the curtain, and Duchene stepped through to the top floor of the storehouse. The transition from the shabby bedroom to the large and overdecorated space was almost surreal. From the ceiling beams hung loops of pattered fabric – dark greens and blues, ornate and luxuriant. Spread around the floor were divans and sofas, most of them reupholstered in the colour palette of the cloth above them. Palms and vases were scattered throughout the room, which also contained a limited dance floor at the far end and a bar closer to the entrance.
About fifteen people, in suits and dresses, sat in pairs or larger groupings on the couches. Not enough to fill the club, but the night was just starting. Some were truly beautiful, while others looked like Duchene often felt – worn down and rumpled.
A gramophone with an oversized horn played upbeat music: the Glenn Miller Orchestra. The sound was softer towards the front of the storehouse, and the makeshift acoustic baffles seemed to be working.
Duchene and Lucien approached the bartender, who offered a meagre selection of drinks: mostly beer, and some wine bottles that appeared to have had their labels reapplied. Duchene placed a few francs on the bar top. ‘Is this enough to get us each something?’
The bartender, in a red crepe gown, smiled. ‘More than enough. We try to forget the lean times here. Your drinks and change.’
Duchene sipped his beer, an Excelsior. It was sour, out of date.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said to the bartender.
‘You may.’
Duchene took out the photo of three Germans standing beneath the Eiffel Tower. He held his finger under Kloke. ‘This man. Have you seen him here?’
‘You’d better speak to Florette. The boss. She’s over there.’ The bartender nodded towards the far side of the warehouse. Lying on a chaise longue, next to the gramophone, was an Algerian woman. A flowing drop-neck gown ran all the way to her feet and was spread across the end of the couch. At the top she rested, her lithe arms draped next to the gramophone; from there she replaced the records as each song ended.
‘Thank you,’ Duchene said to the bartender as he turned to approach Florette.
Lucien was staring at the photo with a furrowed brow. His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re looking for a German.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have to say, Auguste, that’s going to rub the wrong way with Philippe.’
‘Then don’t tell him,’ Duchene said, striding across the room.
Lucien scrambled to keep up. ‘You’re putting me at risk. Marienne too.’
‘No, I’m working on getting us out of this nightmare. I’m knee-deep in shit, and it’s steadily rising.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A friend of Max.’
‘Bullshit.’
Duchene stopped. ‘You’re free to go, but leave the car.’
‘Why won’t you say?’
‘Those men who have been following me. They’re not with Philippe.’
‘Another cell?’
‘They’re not Resistance.’
Lucien’s brow furrowed again; an instant later, it smoothed out. He looked like a child, with all certainty, all confidence, stripped from him. Perhaps, if the room hadn’t been lit by candles, Duchene would have seen the colour drop from his face. He gripped Duchene’s arm and leant so close his lips were touching his left ear. His whisper was more like a hiss. ‘The fucking Gestapo?’
For the second time that night, Duchene pulled his arm free. He held a finger to his lips and continued towards the club’s host.
As they drew near, Florette looked up at them with an amused expression. ‘Lover’s quarrel?’
‘Something like that,’ Duchene replied.
‘Oh, well. This is a place of vanity and drama, where lovers are made and broken. Although being a romantic, I’d always prefer it to be the former.’
‘May we sit? Duchene said, indicating the small couch opposite her.
‘You’re my guests. Of course. But please don’t ask me to change the record – there’s nothing so tedious as requests from the floor.’
‘Wouldn’t think of it,’ Duchene replied. He sat on the couch, which seemed to draw him in.
Lucien observed this and perched on its end, avoiding a similar fate.
‘I appreciate that this is a sensitive question,’ said Duchene, ‘but I’d like to ask you something.’
‘About what?’
‘A young man. He’s missing.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Then, please proceed. But I make no promise you’ll get answers. Without discretion, we’d run the risk of being rounded up. Times being what they are.’
Duchene offered her the photograph: Kloke with his lopsided grin, easy swagger and finger to the authority of his own uniform. ‘The man in the centre,’ Duchene said as Florette took it.
She examined the photo closely. ‘He’s German.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s easy to answer.’
‘I understand, but why would he have this address in his personal effects? If he never visited?’
‘You’re mistaken, Monsieur …?’
‘Duchene.’
‘Monsieur Duchene. It’s an easy answer – not because he’s a German and wouldn’t come here. It’s easy because he’s the only German to spend time in this establishment.’
‘You let a German in?’ said Lucien.
‘But of course.’
‘Could you explain?’ Duchene asked.
Florette held up a hand, soft and manicured, as she drew a record out of the pile beside her. This was well-worn jazz, Benny Goodman. As the previous song ended, she timed her replacement with confidence. The staccato peal of a trumpet announced the first piece, and two older men got up to dance. Florette nodded to them. ‘I always play it for them when they’re in.’ She took a sip of her drink, a martini. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘The German soldier,’ said Duchene.
‘So, yes, we weren’t sure to start with. When he first came here, he came with a lover – one of ours. The German didn’t seem like a soldier. I mean, of course he was, but he didn’t have their demeanour. He was quite jolly. So, while his French was a train wreck, he was one of us, clearly. Besides, he was in the most danger of anyone in here.’
‘Most?’
‘Well, as you’re probably aware, the Vichy have raised the age of consent. Many of our friends here are under twenty-one. But for the most part, the Germans have left us alone. I heard the rumours about Berlin after the Nazis got in – terrible, and in such a wonderful city. Have you ever been?’
‘Yes,’ said Duchene.
‘In the twenties?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just so free-spirited.’ She sighed. ‘But here, in Paris, the Germans tend to turn a blind eye. You’ve heard, of course, about the Hyena of the Gestapo?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Violette Morris, a French weightlifter working for the Germans. She handed over many Resistance fighters. Thankfully, she was assassinated earlier this year. But her openly being a lesbian was never an issue for the Germans, as long as she gave them Partisans to kill.’ Florette’s eyes hardened. ‘If worst came to worst – and I hate myself for having planned this – but if we were raided and Christian was in the club, I would hand him over. For them, that would be the greater crime. There’s nothing the Germans hate more than a homosexual in their army. Not really in keeping with the Aryan ideal.’
‘Thank you for your trust in sharing that with me.’ Duchene leant forward. ‘I have no way of demonstrating that you should trust me further. But I am trying to find Christian. There’s a fear he might be in danger.’
‘Well, he is German, my love. That would be his just deserts. Homosexual he may be, but Frenchman he is not.’
‘What about his lover? He could be in danger?’
She sniffed at the suggestion. ‘“Could be” isn’t “is”.’
‘No chance of a name?’
‘We spoke about discretion. As I said, I had plans for the German. I’ve forfeited him to you. But a Frenchman? That is a polite no. You don’t build trust in the city by betraying your friends.’
Duchene nodded. ‘But if Christian’s lover returns, would you pass on my name? My number? Let him decide for himself.’
Florette waved a hand in Lucien’s direction. ‘A packet of those cigarettes he’s smoking, and you have a deal.’
Duchene looked at Lucien.
‘Jesus, Auguste, I’m not made of tobacco – this is the last of the Lucky Strikes.’
‘You’ll find others. You always do.’
Lucien scowled and dug into his jacket pocket. He produced an unopened packet and held it in his hand, as though weighing it. He gave it to Florette.
‘Thank you,’ she said and placed it on the pile of records beside her. ‘Now, gentlemen, feel free to finish your drinks. After that, please leave.’
Duchene nodded and went over to stand at the bar, where he half finished the stale beer. He watched as Lucien remained sitting on the chaise longue while talking closely with Florette. He held her hand as they spoke, then kissed her farewell on the cheek.
When Lucien moved up from the lounge, Duchene started walking to the door. Lucien was soon at his side, smiling to himself.
‘Business?’ Duchene asked.
‘Of course,’ he said, placing his unfinished beer on an empty table. ‘A place like this could do with a better supplier.’
***
Their trip back in the car had been uneventful. Even so, Duchene asked Lucien to pull over a block from his apartment. Taking his umbrella from the back seat, he stepped out and walked around to the driver’s window. Lucien cranked it down.
‘The car,’ Duchene said. ‘I might need you to get me again.’
‘Again?’
‘A bottle of cognac is worth more than a trip out to Clignancourt and back. Tonight, you made a business contact because of me.’
‘All right. But only once more, unless you can turn up with something else worth trading.’
Duchene turned the corner and walked down his street, keeping a close eye on the time. Although he had Faber’s letter exempting him from curfew, he didn’t like the kind of attention it drew.
As he neared the apartment entrance, he increased his speed and quickly let himself inside. Monsieur Junet was balanced on a ladder, rattling at the light fitting in the darkened lobby. Light was spilling in from the open door of the Junets’ downstairs apartment while Madame looked on. They wore matching slippers, old and threadbare.
‘You know you shouldn’t be up there,’ Duchene said as he closed the door behind him.
With a glance back out to the street, he saw the point of a lit cigarette in the darkened doorway of the office block opposite. More watchers.
‘It’s the light,’ Monsieur Junet said. ‘It’s out.’
‘That is a problem,’ said Duchene.
‘And the boiler too,’ added Madame Junet.
‘I’ll go down and stoke it up again when I’m done,’ Duchene said as he moved over to pop open the fuse box. ‘Monsieur, if you could stand back for a moment?’
Junet stared, his mind clearly needing a moment to catch up to Duchene’s intention. Then the older man took two steps down the ladder.
Duchene slid the fuse back into its socket, and the light flicked into life again.
Madame Junet gave a brief clap. ‘Well done, Monsieur Duchene.’
‘I would have had it, eventually.’ Junet slowly finished climbing down from the ladder, then crossed the lobby to shake Duchene’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
The Paris Collaborator Page 11
