She said, ‘No. He tried two or three times.’
‘You helped? I mean, you were willing?’
‘Oh yes, I was willing. I was eager. I did everything I knew or had heard of, but it was no good. After the third time, he stopped trying. Now if I touch him, he rolls away. If I persist, he grows angry.’
‘Do you think he goes elsewhere?’
Janine shook her head, but it wasn’t a negative. It was her inner turmoil made visible as all her emotions were.
‘I don’t know,’ she cried. ‘He goes off by himself. I don’t know what he does, who he sees. It could be a woman, it could be a whole army of whores. I don’t know! He doesn’t answer when I talk to him. Oh Bubbah, what does he do? Where does he go? Sometimes I think it would have been better if he’d never come home at all!’
Jean-Paul Simonian stood in a doorway in a narrow side-street within staggering distance of the Place de Clichy. From the building into which this side-door led came a distant rasp of raucous music. Round the corner, the building’s garish front proclaimed it as the Golden Gate Club; back here where its detritus spilled over the pavement in boxes, sacks and bins, it preferred to remain anonymous.
Further down the street, and not before time, a sanitation department truck was moving slowly towards him, its loaders exchanging loud and vulgar abuse above the noise of their work. Simonian ignored them. His thoughts were concentrated entirely on the Golden Gate. He knew what it was like in there, even during daylight hours. Expensive booze, loud music, close dancing and girls - any size, shape or race you wanted, any tricks you fancied, everything available as long as you had the money.
He found he was trembling in anticipation, like a young man close to having his first woman, weak with excitement, terrified of fiasco.
The sanitation truck was very close. Out of the main door of the club burst a couple of young women in a fanfare of laughter. They were closely followed by two German soldiers, flushed with drink and anticipation. As the girls turned into the side-street the soldiers caught up with them, one on either side, and putting their arms round their shoulders, formed a chorus line across the narrow pavement. The girls’ heavily made-up faces split with mock-protests as the soldiers’ heavy hands reached round to cup their breasts.
They were almost opposite the doorway when Simonian stepped out. The pistol he had been holding loosely in his hand came up without any conscious effort of will, and at point blank range he fired twice into the soldiers’ gaping mouths. The men remained standing with blood bubbling from their paling lips, but it was only their dying grip on the women’s shoulders that kept them upright. Now, screaming, the girls dragged themselves free and at last the soldiers fell.
A hand grasped Simonian’s arm. He felt himself forced to mount the sanitation truck which accelerated noisily away towards the Rue de Clichy. It was only after a few minutes had passed that he realized he had come.
The truck came to a halt in what looked like a timber yard and Simonian was led through into a workshop which smelt of glue and woodshavings. A man was working at a foot-operated lathe, turning a table-leg. He was middle aged with a farmer’s high colour and a Mexican bandit’s droopy moustache. The truck driver, a bullet-headed man with a huge beer belly, spoke to the wood worker in a low voice.
‘OK Henri,’ he said when the driver finished. ‘Better get the truck back to the depot. You get paid today, don’t you? Mustn’t be late for that.’
With a cheerful wave, Henri left.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Simonian.
‘Call me André. I’m in charge. What do you think? OK, eh?’
He held up the leg for inspection.
‘I thought Henri was in charge.’
‘Henri’s in charge of entrance tests,’ replied the other with a smile.
‘Did I pass?’
‘You’d not be here if you hadn’t! But don’t kid yourself you passed with flying colours, Monsieur Jean-Paul. You were told to shoot them in the back after they’d passed you. Henri tells me you stepped out and shot them in the head.’
‘I’m sorry. They were my first. I wanted to see them face to face. From now on, I won’t need that.’
‘That’s nice to know, monsieur! Also Pierre here got the impression you were tempted to shoot the girls.’
A tall lugubrious man in his twenties who was standing alongside Simonian nodded confirmation.
‘Yes,’ admitted Simonian. ‘Whores! If anything they’re worse than the Boche!’
‘You think so? What stopped you shooting them?’ asked André curiously.
‘I had orders not to,’ said Simonian flatly.
‘Wrong!’ laughed André. ‘What would have stopped you shooting them was Pierre who’d have blown your head off if you’d tried! Look, here they are now. The blonde’s Arlette. She’s Pierre’s friend. The little brunette’s Mathilde. She’s my daughter. So you did well to obey orders, monsieur!’
On cue the two women had come into the workshop. The brunette, whom he now saw was very young beneath her make-up, had clearly been upset by the ordeal and ran straightaway to hug and be comforted by her father.
The blonde, however, who was several years older, looked completely at home in her role. She strolled towards them, a cigarette in her mouth. She blew a jet of smoke at Pierre then turned to Simonian.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Arlette.’
‘Jean-Paul.’
‘Hello, Jean-Paul.’ They shook hands, her red-nailed finger caressing his palm as her sharp brown eyes took stock of his person.
‘Hope to know you better,’ she said languorously. ‘I like a man who enjoys his work.’
Her hand brushed against the front of his trousers as she turned to Pierre and Simonian flushed with shame. André meanwhile had produced a brandy bottle and poured his daughter a drink. Now he filled another glass and brought it across to Simonian.
‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘You won’t get much in the way of romantic, heroic gestures from us. We’re serious businessmen, remember that, and our business is getting rid of the Boche. On the other hand, never miss an excuse for a drink, especially in hard times. So here’s to you, Jean-Paul. Welcome aboard!’
He tossed back his drink and then said seriously, ‘And now you’re aboard, how do you fancy a bit of fishing?’
6
‘To tell the truth, I’m getting a bit worried, lieutenant,’ said Michel Boucher.
‘About our little arrangement you mean? I shouldn’t like to think I was causing you a problem of loyalties.’
‘What? Christ no! I mean, what’s telling one bunch of you lot what another bunch is doing got to do with loyalties?’ enquired Boucher with no irony whatsoever. ‘No, what I mean is, well, you’re not going to be here for ever, are you? You squareheads, sorry, Germans, I mean.’
It’s a real puzzle, thought Mai. Does the fact that Boucher feels able to talk like this mean that I’m very good at my job, or hopeless at it? They were sitting at their ease on the pavement outside Le Colisée with the sun at its height crushing the shadows of the chestnut trees into pools of black around their boles. Most of the tables were full; there was a buzz of casual talk, a clinking of glasses, a flutter of white-coated waiters, and the world strolled past along the pavement of the Champs-Élysées. It was difficult not to feel relaxed and confidential and full of good will to Boucher, particularly as the man had supplied him with the excellent tobacco he was packing into his pipe.
‘What then, friend Miche? Is it the thought of what your countrymen might do to you after we’ve gone that’s bothering you?’
’Do to me? Why should they do anything to me?’ said Boucher. ‘They can’t blame a man for earning a living, can they?’
He sounded quite genuine in his assertion. Perhaps he mistook his own easy-going temperament for the national character? If so, he was wrong. All over France, the German authorities were being snowed under by an avalanche of anonymous mail in which the ‘easy-going’ French denounced
each other in the most virulent terms imaginable.
‘What then?’ Mai repeated.
‘It’s that lot,’ said Boucher. ‘Them zazous. I mean, a country depends for its future on the young ones. What’s going to happen to France when that bunch of bananas grows up, if they ever do grow up!’
He was looking at a group of young people a few tables away. The men wore tight trousers and long jackets, with greasy hair curling over soft shirt collars. Some of them were wearing anoraks, despite the clear blue skies. Similarly, the girls favoured unseasonal fur jackets and most had umbrellas. Their stockings were striped which for some reason Mai found rather titillating. Both sexes wore dark glasses and heavy, flat, unpolished shoes.
These were the zazous, the disaffected ‘swinging’ young. Mai had taken a long hard look at them for the Abwehr and pronounced no risk. True, this was an attempt to sabotage the adult world which allowed crap like wars to happen, but the attack was general, and the method a stylistic gesture.
‘They’re all right,’ said Mai, suddenly envious of these apparently careless youngsters. ‘Let them enjoy themselves while they can. They’ll grow up too damn quick.’
‘You think so? I doubt if they ever will,’ said Boucher lugubriously. But it was not in his nature to remain depressed for long.
‘Let’s have another drink,’ he said, producing his own bottle. No waiter ever objected. ‘Slips down your throat like a whore’s tongue, eh?’
Mai drank again. It wasn’t yet midday and here he was, supping brandy and feeling very inclined to sit here till dark! But there was work to be done, even here.
He said, ‘All right, Miche. What’s new?’
‘Nothing much. Since that funny little bugger - what did you say his name was? - Iceman, Eichmann? that’s it -dropped in from Berlin last month, they’ve been chuntering on about geeing up the Yids, but you probably know more about that than I do.’
Mai frowned and nodded. Not that he knew much except that some large-scale operation was being planned by the SD from their offices in the requisitioned Canadian Embassy on the Avenue Foch.
‘Anything else?’ he said. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Boucher. ‘In fact I’ve been neglecting my patriotic duties a bit recently. Pressure of personal business. Pajou’s been moaning like mad. Threatening to take me off the payroll. Oh, don’t look so worried. I’m off to the Avenue Foch in a couple of minutes to show my face. My job’s safe. Pajou may be more to their taste, but he doesn’t know Paris like me. He’s a nut-case, Pajou. Always speaks highly of you though. Says you’re the cleverest Kraut he’s met.’
‘Does he now?’ said Mai without much enthusiasm.
‘Too true!’ laughed Boucher. ‘Talking of old friends, there’s someone else mentioned you. Seems to think you were OK too.’
Mai sensed an approach of some kind.
‘Oh? Who’s that?’
‘Little poof called Melchior. Maurice Melchior. Says he met you a couple of times in 1940.’
Mai nodded and said, ‘Yes, I remember him. Didn’t he get friendly with one of your new bosses? Colonel Fiebelkorn, wasn’t it?’
‘For a bit, so I gather,’ said Boucher. ‘That’s Maurice’s way. He gets friendly with people for a bit, then he goes over the top and they fall out. He says his life’s been one anti-climax after another, but he doesn’t half enjoy the climaxes before the antis!’
He laughed affectionately. Mai regarded him with puzzlement. Surely Melchior wasn’t Boucher’s type.
He said, ‘And what’s your interest, Miche?’
‘Hey, I’m not bent, if that’s what you mean!’ said Boucher with the lack of indignation of a man who doesn’t believe his sexuality could be seriously called in question. ‘I just like the little twerp. He worked for me in a manner of speaking, you know, essential supplies, nudge, wink. He was rather good at it too, only that’s all behind him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he’s screwed things up. For a start he’s a Yid but he’s not registered and he’s not running around with a yellow star, which is all right if the Boche - sorry, the Germans -don’t know you’re a Yid, or don’t care. But in his case they know and they care. What he needs is a long holiday in the Free Zone, if I can persuade the silly little bastard to go. So I wondered if you could fix him with an Ausweis. I could do it myself, only Pajou would probably sniff it out, and that twat would sell his own mother for a pickled onion! What do you say?’
The man was quite incredible. His mind dealt with issues in the most pragmatic fashion. He judged people and situations as they impinged upon him personally. He found no contradiction in being a patriot, a collabo, and a crook. Like Janine, he saw things clearly and simply. The difference was, of course, that Boucher’s judgements related to his own interests first and foremost, while Janine’s concern was all for her family.
The thought of Janine made him prickle with anticipation.
After several weeks without seeing her he had contrived to bump into her at the bakery. When he had suggested another meeting, she hadn’t demurred. Once again the rendezvous was safely out-of-doors, this time in the Jardin des Plantes which was very handy to her new apartment, and it was scheduled for this very afternoon. He tried to think of a good professional reason for the meeting but was hard pushed. So what? he asked himself.
But one member of any family was quite enough for an Abwehr officer to be unprofessional with.
‘Sorry, Miche,’ he said firmly. ‘I can’t see how I can help.’ Then he heard himself adding the unnecessary qualifying excuse, ‘I’m going home on leave in a couple of days.’
‘Hey, that’s good. I’m pleased for you,’ said Miche benevolently. ‘No sweat. I’ll be away myself for a few days. Line of business, you know. So Maurice will just have to keep his head down. If he doesn’t that’s his own stupid fault. Otherwise we’ll fix up something when we both get back. OK? Hey, it’s time for the circus! Christ, I’m late already!’
A clock had struck twelve. In the distance they could hear a band - drums, trumpets and glockenspiel - playing martial music, and soon they could hear the tread of marching feet and see the eagle perched on the swastika as the standard of the Paris garrison was borne on its triumphant daily parade down the Champs-Élysées.
A couple of minutes later Boucher’s Hispano-Suiza roared up the Champs, passing perilously close to the marching band whose heavy rhythms it mocked with a flourish on the horn.
It wasn’t just the extra burden of commerce thrust upon him by Melchior’s need to stay out of sight that was bothering Boucher. Hélène was putting pressure on him too. How was it that a glamorous dancer could suddenly become a bourgeois housewife just because she was pregnant? She would like to live in the country, she’d announced. It was better for bringing up children. Coincidentally Boucher had the chance of buying a very nice little property near Moret on the Loing from a black-market contact who’d decided the time had come to head for Spain. The price was right, but Boucher hesitated. It was such a commitment. It wasn’t just putting down roots, it meant putting down capital.
He was still debating internally as he entered the group’s headquarters in the Avenue Foch.
‘Pajou?’ he said to the man on duty in the vestibule.
‘Top floor. Interrogation room,’ said the man.
Boucher ran lightly up several flights to the top landing.
He could hear the splashing of water and a voice slowly counting.
He pushed open the door and looked inside.
The curtains were drawn to cut out the sunlight. Directly beneath a bare light bulb a tin tub full of water had been placed. Crouched over it, stripped to the waist, was Pajou. With both hands he was pressing the head of a kneeling figure into the water.
‘Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…hello, Miche. Christ you’ve made me lose count. Where was I?’
Two young SS men, who were lounging against the wall with tunics removed and sl
eeves rolled up, laughed appreciatively.
‘Let’s say twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Now let’s see if that’s dissolved that blockage in your throat, my dear.’
He dragged the head up by the hair which Boucher now saw was long and golden, and the white, water-puffed face was a woman’s.
‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed involuntarily.
‘Hey, Pajou, I think you’ve killed her,’ said one of the SS men anxiously glancing into the shadows at the far end of the room. Boucher became aware there was another person present. It was Fiebelkorn sitting on a stool in a corner.
‘No!’ said Pajou. ‘She’s all right. Watch.’
He pressed his hand lightly into the woman’s stomach and doubled her up. Suddenly she began to cough and retch water into the tub.
‘There!’ said Pajou triumphantly. ‘What did I say?’
The woman groaned terribly and tried to flop on to the floor, but Pajou held her up. Her head moved from side to side and her eyes fixed on Boucher not in appeal but because behind him was the open door and the glimmer of daylight on the landing.
The return of animation to her face far from reassuring Boucher brought a new horror as incredibly but insistently these bloated features overlaid and merged with another very different image.
‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that little Arlette from the Golden Gate?’
‘The very same. She always was a gabby little cow. She talked too much on the job one night to one of our boys. Dead proud she was of how her regular boyfriend was fucking up the Boche, begging your pardon, gents. Funny, but once we got her here, she stopped being so gabby. I thought a good gurgle might clear her throat.’
Boucher looked down at the distorted face and desperate eyes. She was a tart, acquisitive, unrepentant, had been nothing else since she was twelve. But she’d sheltered him when he had no money and nowhere to go.
He said, ‘For Christ’s sake, does it have to be like this?’
‘If you’ve got any better ideas, better tell us, Miche.’
He didn’t reply but turned abruptly and left. As he walked along the landing, Pajou came after him, still dripping water from his arms.
The Collaborators Page 18
