Thomas Lieven sat huddled in his chair, twiddling his champagne glass.
"If you had gone aboard that boat you would probably be dead at this moment," Debras remarked.
"Yes," said Thomas Lieven. "That is, to be sure, an uncommonly consoling thought"
[181
In the early morning hours of November 26, 1940, Thomas Lieven, silent and brooding, left the Hotel de Noailles for the Old Quarter of Marseilles. He went back to the fiat on the second floor of the house in the rue Chevalier Rose. In the company of Josephine Baker and Colonel Debras he had drunk a good deal more champagne and discussed at length certain plans for the immediate future.
For some seconds he had been tempted to wake Chantal, asleep in her rumpled bed, with a sound thrashing. Then he decided to take a hot bath first. Eventually his seductive mistress, led by the sound of his singing, had discovered him there.
While Chantal scrubbed away at his back, he told her a few details of his miraculous escape, though not many, only the most essential. For he no longer had unlimited confidence in her.
Finally he said: "They let me go because they needed me. I'm to do a job for them. And I need you, once more, to help me with it If you agree to do so I think we might be friends again on that basis."
Chantal's still submissive gaze brightened. "You can forgive me?"
"I shall have to, because I need you ..."
"I don't care whether you have to as long as you do," she whispered, kissing him. "I would do anything for you. What do you want me to do?"
"Get me some gold bullion."
"B-bullion? How much?"
"Well, some five or ten million francs' worth."
"Genuine gold?"
"Oh, no. Lead fillings, naturally."
"Well, if that's all you want."
"You damned slut!" he cried. "You miserable wretch! It's all your fault that I'm back again in this mess! Don't scrub so hard!"
But she scrubbed all the harder, exclaiming: "Oh, how glad I am that they didn't kill you, my sweet!"
"Will you stop that scrubbing?"
She uttered a low laugh and began tickling him.
"Stop it, or I'll dust your pants for you!"
"That won't be easy, I haven't got any on!"
"Just you wait!" He seized her. She shrieked. Water shot up. Then she was down on top of him in the warm, soapy bath water, screaming, squealing and gurgling, till she lay still in his arms.
Suddenly he found himself thinking of the unfortuante Lazarus Alcoba, of the unfortunate Walter Lindner and his wife, of the passengers aboard the sinking steamer, of the sailors, of the unfortunate soldiers in the trenches and of all the other unfortunate people in the world. How short their lives were, how lamentably they died and how little happiness there was anywhere.
[19]
On Wednesday, December 4, 1940, three men sat down to a vegetarian lunch in a private room at the Hotel Bristol in the Cannebiere. One of them had drawn up the menu with the prudence of an experienced connoisseur and attentively supervised its production in the hotel kitchen.
The three gentlemen in question were named Jacques Ber-gier, Paul de Lesseps and Pierre Hunebelle.
Paul de Lesseps, a taciturn, haggard, sharp-featured individual, was about thirty-seven.
Jacques Bergier, older, rosier, stouter and somewhat overdressed, with affected gestures, a high-pitched voice and a mincing gait, wore a dark red velvet waistcoat with his dark blue suit and a rather oppressive perfume.
Pierre Hunebelle, finally, he who had taken so much trouble over the lunch, was the living image of our hero Thomas
Lieven. Thomas had a new bogus passport in his pocket, supplied by the French secret service.
It was the first meeting of Bergier and de Lesseps with M. Hunebelle. Bergier in particular observed that ^charming young gentleman with growing approval. He never took his sentimental, girlish gaze off the fellow. Thomas had invited both gentlemen to lunch after telephoning to Bergier, who was a lawyer, to ask for an appointment.
"Perhaps we might discuss the affair over a good meal," he had proposed.
"With pleasure, M. Hunebelle. But no meat, if you please, on any account," the sensitive Bergier had replied in his high voice.
"You are a vegetarian?"
"One hundred per cent. And I don't smoke and I don't drink." Nor, thought Thomas, do you care much for ladies' society, my friend. You only work for the Gestapo, you pure soul...
MENU
Genevan Celeriac Fungi Cutlets Belle Helene Pears
4 DECEMBER 1940
A special dish of fungi extracted a sum of several million francs.
Genevan Celeria
Well wash and brush a few medium-sized celeriacs, parboil in salt water, peel and cut into thin slices. Place some fresh butter in a deep casserole, cover with slices of celeriac. On the slices sprinkle grated Gruyfere cheese and dabs of butter. Repeat the process till the celeriac is all used. Sprinkle top layer with cheese and butter as before. Place lid on casserole and the casserole itself on a saucepan of boiling water. Leave to steam for at least an hour. Serve in the same casserole.
Fungi Cutlets
One pound of fresh chanterelles are cleaned and quartered. Two large onions are chopped and braised in butter with chopped parsley and the chanterelles until the latter are browned. Two soaked and squeezed bread rolls are then added. The mixture is well stirred and left to cook a little while longer, after which it is passed through the mincer with one or two boiled potatoes. Stir well and when cool enough add one egg and a few bread crumbs if the mixture seems too soft. Then spice with a little anchovy paste and a few drops of soya sauce or any other extract made from yeast (not meat) such as marmite. Salt and pepper are next added and cutlets are formed, dipped in flour, egg and bread crumbs and fried in butter to a golden brown. They are then garnished with lemon slices and capers.
Belle Helene Pears
Place portions of vanilla ice cream in individual glass dishes and cover each with half a tinned pear. Cover this with a thick, very hot chocolate sauce and serve immediately. For the sauce take four squares (ounces) of bitter chocolate, melt in a steamer and add as much milk or cream as will form a thick sauce.
Conversation began over the first course of Genevan cel-eriac. The well-groomed Bergier remarked: "Wonderful, M. Hunebelle, simply wonderful. The slices just melt on the tongue."
"That's only what they should do," replied Thomas gravely. "The celeriacs should always be fine specimens, but not too large."
"Not too large, eh?" repeated Bergier, devouring Thomas with his eyes.
*They have to be well washed and brushed and then cooked in salt water until soft, but not too soft."
"But not too soft," the lawyer echoed. His perfume tingled in Thomas's nose. "You must write the recipe down for me, monsieur." He wore four rings with differently colored stones on his well-manicured fingers. He watched Thomas incessantly, with ever more melancholy eyes.
That one will be an easy fish to play, thought our friend. I shall have to be more careful, though, with de Lesseps.
At that very moment de Lesseps demanded abruptly: "Well, monsieur, what can we do for you?"
"Gentlemen, Marseilles is a small city. I have heard rumors that you have come from Paris to settle certain business matters."
Just then an old waiter brought in the main course and Thomas said no more for a while. The lawyer moaned, looking at the plates: "Oh, but I specially said, no meat!"
De Lesseps interrupted him rudely. "What sort of business matters, M. Hunebelle?"
"Well—er—currency and gold. You're said to be interested in that sort of business."
Lesseps and Bergier exchanged glances. Quite a long silence ensued in the private room. Finally de Lesseps—in 1947 he was accused of collaboration by the French Government and found guilty—observed coldly: "That's what they say, is it?"
"Yes, that's what they say. Won't you have some soya beans, M. Bergier?"
"My fr
iend," replied the lawyer, looking deep into Thomas's eyes, "you have impressed me. What I thought was meat is actually nothing of the kind and yet tastes marvelous. What is this stuff, really?"
De Lesseps interposed irritably. "M. Hunebelle, you mentioned gold and currency just now. Suppose we really were interested in such items, what then?"
Thomas turned to Bergier. "They are fungi cutlets. Delicate flavor, don't you think?" He turned back to de Lesseps. "I might have some gold ingots to sell."
"You have gold?" de Lesseps asked tensely.
"I have."
"Where?"
"I don't see why that should interest you," Thomas retorted coolly. "I for my part am not interested in the parties for whom you are acting."
De Lesseps' eyes reminded him of a shark's. "How much gold can you supply?"
"That depends on how much you want."
"I hardly suppose you have as much as that," de Lesseps told him.
The silken-smooth lawyer suddenly giggled. "We are ready to buy up to the value of two hundred millions," he announced.
My word, thought Thomas Lieven. This is going to be something colossal!
The old waiter, who was listening outside the door of the private room, also thought, My word, this is going to be something colossal! Clicking his tongue, he entered the small bar of the hotel, which was almost empty at this hour. A thick-set fellow with hair brushed straight up from his forehead was sitting at the counter drinking Pernod.
The waiter addressed him with a "Hey, Bastian."
The man looked up. He had small eyes like those of an elephant and big hands like those of a furniture mover.
The waiter told him what the gentlemen in the private room were talking about. The man, whose name was Bastian Fabre, whistled through his teeth. "Two hundred millions! Good God Almighty!" He slipped some money into the waiter's hand. "Go on listening. Remember every word. I'll come back."
"Right you are, Bastian," said the old waiter.
Bastian, who wore a leather jacket, a beret and gray trousers, left the bar, mounted an old bicycle and pedaled alongside the Old Port up to the Quai des Beiges. Here stood the most famous cafes in the city, the Cintra and the Bruleur de Loup. In both establishments illegal transactions of all kinds were arranged. The Cintra was more up to date and had the better clientele, consisting of rich Greek merchants, Turks, Dutchmen and Egyptians.
Bastian entered the smaller, more old-fashioned Bruleur de Loup. The dark-paneled room, with its great mirrors mistily reflecting the gray light outside, was occupied almost exclu sively by native Frenchmen. Most of them were drinking pas* tis at this midday hour, a sweet aperitif which still cost only two francs in 1939 and now cost ten, a source of perpetual resentment for all patriots.
Wine merchants, forgers, smugglers, emigrants on the run and racketeers sat in the Bruleur de Loup. Bastian knew many of them. He distributed salutes and was saluted in return. On the handle of a door at the end of the room hung a card marked club.
The big man knocked four times slowly and twice rapidly at this door. It opened and he entered the room behind it.
Here electric light was burning, there being^ no windows. One could have cut the fog of tobacco smoke with a knife. Fifteen men and one woman sat around a long table. The men looked a reckless lot. Some were bearded. Others had
222
had their noses knocked in or bore scars. There were Africans, Armenians and Corsicans among them.
The woman sat at the head of the table. She wore a red cap perched on her blue-black hair, trousers and a jacket of undressed leather. It would have been clear, in any stranger's first encounter with this peculiar version of the Round Tables that Chantal Tessier ruled her band of rascals with a rod of iron, that she was a lone she-wolf, an ungracious queen.
"Where the hell have you been?" she snarled at Bastian the moment he entered. "We've been waiting for you for the last half-hour!"
"Those three took their time," he stammered, with a cringing expression. "The lawyer was very late."
Chantal snapped: "How many more times am I to tell you to change that beret of yours? You people make me sick! Is everyone to see at a glance that you come from the gutter?"
"I'm sorry, Chantal," Bastian murmured humbly, putting his dirty beret away with an embarrassed air. Then he report* ed what the waiter had overheard. When he mentioned the figure of two hundred millions a wave of excitement surged through the room. Some of the men whistled. One banged the table with his fist. They all started talking at once.
Chantal's icy tones rose above the tumult. "Would you gentlemen be so very kind as to shut your bloody traps?"
Complete silence fell.
"No one's to say anything unless they're asked to, do you hear?" Chantal leaned back in her chair. "Give me a cigarette." Two of the gang hastened to comply with her request.
She blew out a cloud of smoke. "I want you all to listen to me carefully now. I'm going to tell you what you have to do."
Chantal Tessier, female boss and lover of undressed leather, - issued her orders. And the whole gang listened very carefully.
f [21]
On Thursday December 5, 1940, it was already very cold in Marseilles. Two gentlemen were standing in an ironmonger's shop in the rue de Rome.
One of them said: "Four baking tins please."
The saleswoman asked the other gentleman: "And you, sir?"
The other replied: "I'd like three baking tins, my dear, if you can spare them."
The first gentleman, a muscular giant with reddish hair
standing straight up from his forehead, was known as Bastian Fabre, which was in fact his real name.
The two gentlemen bought seven baking tins at the excessive wartime price. But they did not seem to intend them for baking cakes. For they next purchased, not butter, sugar, saffron and flour, but nine kilograms of lead, a large sheet of fire clay and a steel cylinder of propane gas, all at a junk shop in the short rue Mazagran.
They then set out for the Old Quarter. They hardly spoke on the way, for they had only just met.
Thomas Lieven was thinking: So now I'm off with this orangutan to manufacture bogus gold ingots. What a monstrous idea! And the worst of it is that I'm really curious to see the technical process.
Another thing Thomas didn't yet understand was Chantal's attitude. For when he told her about the two buyers he had met she had at once replied: "Well, that's fine, sweetie, that's fine! My organization will be at your disposal. Fifteen first-rate specialists. We'll put those two Gestapo swine in the cart, plus your Colonel Sim6on and—"
"No. Leave the colonel out of it. Fve promised to help him."
"You're crazy! Is that your German idealism, or what? Enough to make one weep! If that's your game then you can play it alone. Go and get your own gold. Not one of my mob will help you."
That had been three days ago. But since then she had apparently changed her mind. He had never known her so tender and passionate before. During one of the few quiet spells of the previous night she had whispered in Thomas Lieven's arms: "You're quite right. You must keep your promise ..." She kissed him. "Oh, how much more I love you now for being so decent ..." She kissed him twice. "I'll let you have Bastian ... you can have the whole mob ..."
As Thomas strolled beside the gigantic Bastian Fabre, who was pushing a wheelbarrow containing the articles they had bought, he wondered, while they made their way through the dirty, winding lanes of the Old Quarter, whether he could trust the bitch Chantal. She had already once lied to and betrayed him. She had something in mind. But what could it be?
Bastian Fabre could have told him, in detail. Bastian was thinking, as he pushed that barrow beside the slim, elegant Thomas: I'm not at all keen on this youngster. He lives at Chantal's place and it's quite clear what's going on there.
There have been plenty of others who did the same. But it's more serious with this fellow Pierre Hunebelle, obviously. The boss is much more open about the whole thing than she ever was
before. Damn and blast it!
Bastian remembered what Chantal had let slip about the lad at the business meeting of the gang at the Bruleur de Loup. "He's a genius. Not one of you blockheads is fit to pass him the water jug."
"Well, well," Bastian had dared to remark.
Chantal had hissed at him like a rocket. "Shut your trap, you! From now on you're going to do whatever he tells you!"
"But just a minute, Chantal.. ."
"Hold your tongue! That's an order, do you hear? You're to go with him to Boule and get those ingots made. And you others are to arrange to have him watched day and night. And report to me everything he gets up to."
"So far as the night's concerned you ought to know best what he—"
"One more word and I'll sock your jaw for you! He's my 0 man, d'you hear that? The boy's too decent by half. When he starts on those two Gestapo swine it's we who'll have to think for him. He doesn't know what's good for him ..."
That was what Chantal had said.
Bastian thought grimly, as he shuffled along beside Thomas through the Old Quarter, I've got a feeling that the lad knows quite well what's good for him!
That was what Bastian thought. But he didn't say what he was thinking. He merely said: "Here we are." He stopped in front of No. 14 in the rue d'Aubagne. To the right of the door an old, cracked enamel plate bore the legend:
DR. RENE BOULE
DENTIST Surgery 9-12 and 3-6
They entered the house and rang the bell of an interior door. It opened immediately.
"So there you are at last," said Dr. Rene Boule. He was the smallest and neatest man Thomas Lieven had ever seen. He wore white overalls, gold-rimmed pince-nez and an exceptionally fine, glittering set of false teeth.
"Come in, boys." The doctor hung a card on the doorknob with the inscription: no consultation today.
Then he closed the door and led the way through a surgery
containing an adjustable patients' chair and some gleaming apparatus to a laboratory beyond, with a small kitchen adjoining it. There Bastian hurriedly introduced the gentlemen to each other. He explained to Thomas: "The doctor works regularly for us. He has a standing contract with the boss."
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 24
