He let out a shrill scream. 'You naughty girls! You wouldn't dare!'
It was six o'clock in the morning when the girls finally poured out through the employee door into the side alley. Already the blue light of dawn was in the sky. Hélène blinked. After the carnival atmosphere of the club, the big dark room with the pink-shaded lamps, the false energy onstage, the men's evening suits and the women's gowns, it was startling to be out in the fresh air and find that it was daylight.
Guy was waiting for her in the alley. As soon as she saw him, her heart lifted.
He grinned at her. 'How'd it go?'
She smiled happily. 'Come to think of it, not bad at all.'
It was true. In a strange sort of way, she had actually enjoyed it. Perhaps it was because she was finally working. Or maybe it was the girls. Denise had been right. They really weren't a bad bunch.
'Good,' he said. 'I want to hear all about it.'
Hélène felt a hand tugging on her arm. She turned around. It was Denise, her face pale and ordinary without all the makeup, her red hair hidden underneath a scarf. 'See you tonight,' she said. She glanced at Guy out of the corner of her eye and leaned forward, putting her lips to Hélène's ear. 'That's some handsome man you got,' she whispered. 'And a gentleman, too. Imagine, waiting up this long just to escort you home! You'd better keep your claws in him and get a ring on your finger real fast!' Then her voice rose to normal. She raised her hand in a wave. 'Bon nuit!' she sang.
Hélène laughed and returned the wave. 'Bon nuit, Denise.'
Guy hooked his arm through Hélène's. 'You look tired,' he said, leading her home.
'I'm beat! I've never worked so hard in my life. I've been on my feet since nine o'clock. You know the first thing I'm going to do when I get home? I'm going to boil a big pot of water and soak my feet in it.'
He grinned. 'You're going to do nothing of the sort. You're going to sit down and I'll boil it for you.'
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then she stopped and looked up at him. 'Listen, Guy,' she said softly, 'I'm sorry.'
'What about?'
'This afternoon. In all my excitement I didn't even realize that the painting was gone.'
He shrugged tolerantly. 'Well, look at it this way. We've both managed to get something positive accomplished on the same day.' He paused and looked ruefully into her face. 'I'm sorry, too, about the way I talked to you. I had no right to say what I did. You'll never be trash, Hélène.' He smiled gently. 'You'll still come to the gallery for the show?'
'You can count on it. I wouldn't miss it for the world.'
He looked pleased. 'Of course, I'm not the only one who's going to be exhibited. You've got to have twenty or thirty paintings to have a show of your own. Still, it's a start. And Monsieur Lichtenstein thinks that the chances of fetching a decent price for my painting are good. As I told you, he only picks winners. Now, about you. How did it go?'
She fumbled in her pocket and held out a wad of money. 'Look!'
'Good Lord! How much is there?'
She shoved the money back in her pocket and laughed. 'I haven't even counted it yet. I get one-third of the tips. The house keeps a third and Yvette, the other hat-check girl, gets a third. Listen, what do you say we find a cafe that's open at this ungodly hour and celebrate with some breakfast?'
He frowned. 'Do you think we should?'
'Certainly. It's only money.'
'Spoken like a true millionairess.'
Half an hour later they finished their coffee and croissants in a little hole-in-the-wall frequented by early risers of the working class. Hélène set her cup down on the tiny marble table. She looked at Guy as his laughter reverberated around the tiny room.
'Really, Guy!' she said. 'I'm serious. I had no idea! I was assured that I wouldn't have to. . .put out, you know? With men. But anyway, this old white-haired man took a fancy to me. He wanted me to sit with him and have some champagne. I didn't want to, but Yvette told me I couldn't possibly refuse. So I left the hat-check room and went over to his table. He was very courteous and invited me to sit down. Then one of the waiters—they're all Algerians, you know—came over and said, 'Would you like a drink, mademoiselle?' And I said, 'Yes, please. I'll have a glass of mineral water.' Anyway, not three minutes had passed when the waiter returned with orders for me to see Monsieur Blond immediately. He's the boss, you know. Well, I thought he was going to insist I go to a hotel or someplace like that with the old man. On the way to the office, I started making up all sorts of excuses. But when I got there, I received the worst tongue-lashing of my life! 'Mademoiselle,' Monsieur Blond said in a cold, quiet voice'—she mimicked him, her own voice taking on a chilly, whispery tone—' 'I do not know what remote region of this country you hail from, but let me make something clear to you. Do you have any idea how we make our money?' I looked at him stupidly. 'From the cover charge?' I asked in confusion. 'No, mademoiselle. Off the house champagne. Anytime a customer wants to buy you a drink, you order champagne. Is that clear?''
Guy was laughing so hard that the tears were rolling down his cheeks. It was contagious. She found herself laughing hysterically too.
'You know,' he said, 'if anybody can single-handedly destroy that place's reputation, it will be you!'
4
A week later, just past midnight, Jocelyne came into the Folies de Babylon. Casually she dropped her fur coat over the hat-check counter, took the plastic tag stamped 47, and floated after the maitre d' to table 21. She was seemingly unaware that every male eye was hungrily following her. In her path she left behind the thick sweet scent of lavender.
Lavender. The bitch still wore lavender, Hélène thought as she clutched the counter and found herself slipping back in time, back to 1944 in Nazi-occupied Paris, to a luxurious bordello run by an elegant, diminutive Madame Chang. Back to the night they had spent hidden in Gisele's room and she had been awakened by furtive taps on the door. Jocelyne had worn a peignoir of pale blue chiffon then, and her conversation with Gisele had been a throaty whisper.
'But why should the SS be out looking for children?' Gisele had whispered.
'They're killers,' Jocelyne hissed.
Gisele had laughed. 'Killers? Those sweet little darlings?'
'They're killers, all right. .. they shot a Boche soldier yesterday. . .now there's a reward out for information leading to their capture .. . half a million francs. . .we could go and get three, maybe four dresses at the couturiers'!'
That was what the price had been. Four children delivered into Nazi hands in exchange for three, maybe four dresses. For Jocelyne and Gisele, dresses were expensive, but life was cheap.
Hélène stared after Jocelyne. The initial shock was wearing off, and she could feel the chill of deadly hatred beginning to swell up inside her.
Yvette looked at Hélène. 'Is something the matter?' she asked in a worried voice.
Grimly Hélène continued to stare out over the counter. There was a faraway look in her eyes. 'Nothing's the matter!' she said huskily.
'Well, hurry up and hang up the coat, then.'
Hélène drew back from the fur as if it were covered with snakes.
'Pardon me!' Yvette glared at Hélène, grabbed Jocelyne's coat, and went to hang it up.
Hélène kept her eyes on Jocelyne all night long. Jocelyne had presence; she had to credit her with that. The moment she was in a room, everybody became aware of her. She was graceful and poised. Not once did she glance up at the tawdry show on the stage. It was as if she was the star of the Folies de Babylon. In a way, she was.
She was even dressed like a star. She wore a strapless red evening gown and white shoulder-length gloves. She still had that captivating beauty. That slender body that burst into voluptuousness at her breasts. That spun-gold hair, those thin gold eyebrows. Only the blue eyes had changed. They looked curiously vacant now.
So Jocelyne wasn't working in a high-class bordello anymore, Hélène thought to herself with satisfaction. She had become
a common bar hustler. But she deserved far worse! That whore had blown the whistle on Edmond, Catherine, Marie, and her. She was a traitor. A collaborator.
Hélène's eyes narrowed. Jocelyne had been responsible for having Gisele's sketches plastered all over the Boche newspapers. She was as responsible for Catherine's and Marie's fate as the Boches themselves. It was because of her that Marie had been burned with the cigarette. That Catherine and Marie had disappeared, never to return.
Yes, fate had been kind to Jocelyne. Much too kind.
For an hour Jocelyne sat at her table sipping champagne, chain-smoking cigarettes, and answering her pink telephone. But as time dragged on, she began losing her composure. She looked worried about something. Hélène wondered what. Certainly not about finding a man. Her phone was ringing off the hook.
Finally a tall dark man with a beard approached Jocelyne's table. Hélène perked up. He didn't sit down. He exchanged a few words with Jocelyne, discreetly put one of his hands into a pocket, and slipped her something. Jocelyne palmed it, and the man went away. Then she glanced around warily and rose to her feet. Hélène thought she was leaving. Instead, she headed for the powder room.
Hélène hesitated a moment, then turned to Yvette. 'I have to go to the bathroom. Can you cover me?'
'Sure. Are you all right?'
Hélène nodded. 'It's something I ate,' she said quickly. Before Yvette could ask any more questions, she let herself out and followed the path Jocelyn had taken.
The powder room was located off a little corridor. When Hélène closed the door, she stood in the starkly illuminated room for a moment. It was relatively quiet in here. The sounds of the show were weak and distant. She glanced at the three doors leading to the toilet stalls. She knew that they had locks. She knew, too, that the locks were broken. The girls said it was because Monsieur Blond didn't like hanky-panky going on in the toilets. One of the hookers had once brought a john in there.
She crossed over to the first door and pulled it open. The stall was empty. The second was empty, too. Then she pulled open the third. She stifled a gasp.
Jocelyne was sitting on the toilet. Her eyes were closed, the long white glove on her left arm was rolled down, and a hypodermic needle was stuck in the crook of her arm.
Quickly Hélène closed the door. In her oblivious euphoria, Jocelyne hadn't even noticed her. Quickly she left the powder room and went back outside. For a moment she just stood there. Then she noticed the pay phone on the wall beside the powder-room door. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. But she needed small change. She rushed back to the hat-check room.
Yvette looked at her suspiciously. 'What do you need change for?' she asked.
'Don't be so nosy. I've got a telephone call to make.'
Reluctantly Yvette reached into the tip box and handed her a coin. 'Make it fast. Monsieur Blond doesn't like to see his employees goofing off.'
Hélène looked over her shoulder, but Jocelyne still hadn't come out of the powder room. 'Thanks for the advice,' she said dryly. Then she hurried off to call the police. One of the bouncers passed her while she was on the telephone. She stopped talking until he was out of earshot.
When she returned to the checkroom, Hélène kept her eyes peeled for the gendarmes. She had given them Jocelyne's description, the location of the powder room, her table number. Anxiously she turned to Yvette. 'What time is it now?'
Yvette sighed and looked at her wrist. 'Two minutes later than the last time you asked,' she said wearily. She looked suspiciously at Hélène. 'What's the matter? You waiting for somebody?'
Hélène shook her head. 'No. . .' Suddenly she stiffened. Jocelyne was returning to her table. Hélène watched her sit down. The whore was no longer nervous. The heroin was doing its stuff. One of the waiters came over, took her champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, and refilled her glass. She smiled up at him. Then she answered her telephone, looked across the room, and smiled professionally. Her head bowed in a kind of little nod. A moment later Hélène saw a short fat man in an evening suit getting up from table 16. He waddled excitedly across the room toward Jocelyne, pulled up a chair, and leaned across the table, lighting her cigarette.
A few minutes later there was a commotion at the door. Hélène leaned out over the counter. Two uniformed gendarmes were pushing the bouncers aside. They looked around and walked straight over to Jocelyne's table. Jocelyn looked up in surprise. The short fat man shot to his feet, gesturing nervously. One of the gendarmes grabbed Jocelyne's purse, dumped its contents out on the table, and then pulled her to her feet. She let out a shriek. Roughly he yanked her gloves down. She stood there motionless, her shoulders sagging, her hair falling down over her face as she stared at the floor. Conversation in the club had come to a halt. Monsieur Blond and one of his bodyguards hastily approached the table. The club owner's dark suit and sunglasses contrasted with his yellow-dyed hair. He took one of the gendarmes aside. His face was devoid of expression as he tried to throw oil on the troubled waters. Onstage, the orchestra didn't skip a beat and the showgirls were doing their best to continue the performance. But no one was watching. Customers were signaling for their checks. The hookers were gathering up their purses.
'What's going on?' Yvette asked curiously. She pushed Hélène aside in order to get a better view.
'They're arresting somebody,' Hélène said softly.
Yvette looked at her accusingly. 'It was you, wasn't it? You called the police. That's why you needed the change for the telephone. That's why you were so nervous!'
Hélène looked down silently.
'You bitch!' Yvette hissed. 'Don't you know that this place is already operating at the very fringes of the law! Do you want it to be closed down? Do you want all of us to lose our jobs?'
Hélène shook her head. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured. 'I didn't think of that.'
'You didn't think! For God's sake, where are your brains? If the others hear about this, they'll scratch your eyes out!'
'You won't tell them, will you?'
Yvette's face suddenly broke into a smile. 'Not this time. Jocelyne's the nastiest cunt I've ever met.'
After Jocelyne was taken away, the atmosphere in the club slowly returned to normal. Monsieur Blond quickly spoke to each departing customer; most of them were persuaded to stay. Then Hélène saw one of the bouncers whispering to Monsieur Blond and pointing toward her. It was the same bouncer who'd seen her use the telephone. Then Monsieur Blond nodded and went back to his office. The bouncer walked over to the hat-check room. He gestured at Hélène. 'Monsieur Blond wants to see you,' he said gruffly. 'Now. In his office.'
Yvette shot Hélène a worried look. Hélène smiled tightly and followed the bouncer.
Monsieur Blond's office was located at the end of the same corridor where the powder room was located. When she was shown inside, Monsieur Blond was sitting behind his desk. He was still wearing his sunglasses. She had never seen him without them.
He looked up at her expressionlessly and pointed to the bouncer. His voice was thin and cold. 'Houari tells me he saw you using the pay telephone in the hallway.'
Hélène took a deep breath. It was useless to deny it. Any number of people might have seen her leave the hat-check room. 'Yes,' she said softly.
'And you called the police?'
Hélène nodded.
Monsieur Blond steepled his fingers. 'Would you mind telling me why?'
Hélène looked down at the expensive carpet. It was an antique gold- colored Tabriz. Her eyes followed the intricate pattern. Finally she shook her head. 'It's personal,' she said softly.
'You are full of surprises, mademoiselle. It seems that you are intent on ruining us.'
'I didn't mean to cause any trouble,' she said hastily. Then she bit down on her lip. She felt like a fool. What could she say? That calling the police had been a personal vendetta? That she hadn't given the repercussions any thought?
'I'm afraid you leave me no choice, ma
demoiselle,' Monsieur Blond said flatly. 'As of this moment, you no longer work here.'
Hélène looked up at the imposing stone building on the Faubourg St.-Honore. It was Parisian architecture at its best. Solid, eighteenth-century neoclassical. It had a facade covered with columns and was crowned with a steep mansard roof. It looked more like a palace than a commercial building. The Andre Lichtenstein Gallery took up most of the ground floor.
'It looks rather awesome,' Hélène said nervously.
Guy laughed. 'Don't let all that grandeur intimidate you.'
'I just feel somewhat out of place. I don't think I'm ready for high society.'
'Who says they're ready for you? Come on, let's go in.' He took her arm and led her to the big glass door. The doorman held it open for them.
The gallery was full of people. Most of them were in fancy dress. Hélène could tell the artists from the buyers. They were more poorly dressed and their hair was unruly. She noticed at once that The Hyperbolic Ascension had the place of honor. It was hanging high on the back wall of the main room, opposite a mezzanine, so that it could be appreciated from two levels.
A waiter circulated with a tray of glasses. Guy reached for two of them and handed one to Hélène. She smiled and clinked her glass against his. 'To The Hyperbolic Ascension,' she said.
'Amen.'
Andre Lichtenstein made his way through the crowd toward them. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in a perfectly tailored evening suit. He looked more like a stockbroker than an art dealer. But then, art was fetching a lot of money nowadays, Hélène thought. His hair was dark, his temples streaked with gray, and he wore small gold-rimmed glasses. 'How's the genius?' he asked in a smooth voice.
Guy smiled nervously. 'All right, I guess.'
Lichtenstein turned to Hélène. 'And who is your beautiful companion?'
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