by Peter Watson
Then I saw the blind on the door edged with flames. After that I saw the coloured red-white sparks of the incendiary. That was followed by the cardboard displays in the windows going up. One of the displays—an outsized cigarette packet, built of cardboard but bolstered with plywood slats—fell against the window, which shortly afterwards cracked with the heat and fell outwards. The rush of air that this must have generated blew out a great tongue of orange flame.
Roland had given me the idea when he nearly sent up the office with his hand-rolled cigarettes. And Justine had talked of “fireworks” at the party meeting in the Théâtre Stendhal.
Now the fire was raging through both windows—it would, I judged, have started to eat into the wooden joists supporting Perrault’s kitchen.
I continued to wait. No one in the square seemed yet to have been awakened, though the fire was crackling now, its sound breaking into the night air.
All that changed suddenly when there was a series of explosions a few moments later.
I had taken the precaution of moving Perrault’s gun and the box of bullets he kept with it from his bedroom to his kitchen, in a drawer close to the floor.
Almost immediately after that, I saw that the fire had reached his sitting room, on the other side of the flat.
A light went on in his bedroom, and then snapped off. Had the electricity been cut?
A few moments later I saw a figure silhouetted against the flames of the living room. He tried to open the window but his hands were scorched by the heat and he retreated.
Now people were hanging out of their windows, pointing and shouting. A few ventured into the square, some in their pyjamas, others in raincoats over their nightclothes.
One looked up, then ran to Perrault’s front door and pulled at it. It couldn’t be budged.
The man kicked it. It was too sturdy for him.
He began shouting at the door. Was Perrault on the other side, trying to get out?
More people were gathering in the square. Now the flames were leaking from the top floor of Perrault’s flat, his bedroom and his study.
I saw him at the window of his bedroom. He threw open the hinged frame. He looked down. Was he going to jump?
It was too high. He would seriously injure or kill himself.
He didn’t jump.
A bell could be heard ringing a few streets away. Someone had telephoned for the fire service.
Perrault heard it too. He disappeared, only to reappear at the kitchen window. He must have decided the fire service was still too far away, that he had to escape by jumping from the first floor.
He disappeared again, then the window was suddenly shattered as he aimed a typewriter through it. He picked shards of glass from the frame, so that he could climb through. Some of these were obviously hot and he scorched his fingers again, but he knew he was fighting for his life.
Intense orange-red flames raged all around him, smoke and shadows dancing across the face of the building.
The ringing bells of the fire service were getting closer.
Perrault had one leg on the windowsill.
Then there was a loud, cracking, crumbling, crashing sound, and the flames that were licking at the kitchen window were suddenly sucked inwards. Immediately afterwards, the flames in the tabac whooshed outwards, spitting into the square and destroying all that was left of the tabac’s shopfront, save for the metal door frame.
As I had hoped.
I realised what had happened with grim satisfaction.
The floor of Perrault’s kitchen, which was also the ceiling of the tabac, had collapsed. The exploding bullets had done more damage than was at first obvious.
But it meant that Perrault had fallen with the floor directly into the inferno I had created in the tabac. He would have been incinerated instantly.
I saw the fire engine pull into the square, slowly because it was a big contraption and the streets leading into the Place Royère were narrow. But it moved steadily towards the tabac, men getting down from the truck, unravelling fire hoses as they went, looking for hydrants.
The fire engine stopped about thirty yards from the conflagration, which was now raging throughout the entire building. Hydrants had been found and some of the locals were helping the firemen unwind the hoses. All eyes were on the flames and all thoughts were surely the same: How could anyone in that building survive such an immolation?
I judged it the right time to leave.
I stepped out of the shadow and turned and walked slowly out of the square. Other people were running in, hearing the commotion, but all their eyes were on the flames.
· 27 ·
NEXT MORNING I WAS DELIBERATELY LATE getting into the office. Since I was supposed to have been in Versailles overnight, I thought a late arrival fitted with that cover story. In fact, I had walked from the Place Royère across Paris to Pigalle. At that hour the Métro was closed, I didn’t understand the system of all-night buses, and I didn’t want to take a taxi—the driver might, just might, remember the fare he had picked up near the square in the small hours.
I knew where I was headed. I picked up a girl, and she took me to a small establishment she knew. It was now gone five, I paid for four hours, she and I went through the motions, I gave her the money owed, she went home, or back to work, and I—believe it or not, given what I had just done—fell fast asleep. In fact, I slept for longer than I had paid for, but was happy to give the maître de la maison, the man who ran the place, extra cash when he came knocking on my door. I bought another hour.
Which meant I didn’t hit the streets until 10:00 a.m.
I judged that the fire had occurred too late for the newspapers, so I didn’t bother buying one.
When I reached the office, Roland looked at his watch, muttering, “Is today some public holiday in France that I don’t know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in late, Justine’s not in at all. Have you two been—?”
“Be very careful what you say next,” I shot back quickly. “I spent the night in Versailles, at a conference. Yes, we went drinking afterwards, but Justine wasn’t with us. Has she not phoned in?”
“Not a dickie bird,” he said, looking puzzled.
“Well, let’s get to it,” I sighed. “Anything new this morning?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your Pforzheim papers have come through. But I’m having a problem with transport.”
“Oh yes?”
“It’s a problem if you want a driver or a car—”
“You’re not suggesting we take a train into Germany?”
“I was just looking into that—”
“Don’t bother. It won’t work, that I do know. Keep trying to find me a car.”
“Okay, will do. But don’t expect a positive answer any time soon.”
We broke off and I went into my office and closed the door.
When last night’s fire reached the papers, if it did reach the papers, and the victim was named, my superiors in Churchill’s bunker in King Charles Steps would draw the obvious conclusions. But I couldn’t rely on the newspapers. I had to tell London right away. I should probably have done it already, but part of my orders were to make it look like an accident if possible and that meant I’d had to make my movements fit my cover story.
I sat down and drew my typewriter to me. I had to type this telegram myself, in code, and transmit it myself.
It didn’t take long:
+HAVANA·SMOKING+
There was no need to sign it.
I was just folding the flimsy paper when the door to my office barged open, and there stood Justine.
Her face was red, her hair was all over the place, her blouse was pulled out of her slacks here and there, her hands were dirty, and one of her shoulder pads had disappeared.
I stood up and prepared to put on a performance.
“What is it? You look dreadful. Something’s happened. What is it?”
She stepped forward and lean
ed on my desk, looking up at me.
“François is dead. He has been murdered.”
I went cold, and I hope I showed it. What she said confirmed Perrault’s death—but how did she know he had been murdered?
“What do you mean, murdered? You mean he’s dead? How? Didn’t you have dinner with him last night?”
I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, where I kept half a bottle of Scotch I’d brought all the way from Ardlossan. There were two glasses on a shelf, and I poured us a shot each. I handed one to Justine.
She gulped at it, making a face but finishing it in one, so I gave her another. This one she nursed.
She slumped into the chair behind her and held the whisky glass to her forehead, steadying herself.
“Yes,” she breathed softly, “I had dinner with François last night. Afterwards, we went back to his flat—he lives in a square called Place Royère, I think I told you that—it’s not far from Pigalle. I didn’t stay long but he wanted to give me some papers. I left about—oh, about eleven thirty and he told me he was going to bed straightaway.”
She gulped some of the whisky.
“Then, so far as I can make out, according to what the local police told me, at about four o’clock this morning a fire started in the tabac that he lives above. It’s a small shop—his kitchen is directly over it.”
“How did the fire start?” I said.
“That’s just it. The fire people said there were some cigarette papers in a waste bin that might have been where the fire started, but that an incendiary bomb had been used, to make the fire spread much more quickly, and that lighter fuel had been spread everywhere—”
“Hold on!” I leaned against my desk. “You’re saying the fire was started in this tabac, under François’s apartment?”
She nodded and sniffed. “The firemen, or the police—I forget which—found a tin, a tobacco tin, near the door of the tabac. The door had a metal frame—all the rest of the shop was lined with wood.”
She sniffed again, close to tears.
“In this tin there were…” She looked up at me again, her nose wet.
“In the tin…were some German-made contraceptives—condoms. The police think the woman who owns the shop was—”
“What?” I did my best to look astounded. “You mean…you mean this was an épuration, payback for…what’s it called…a collaboration horizontale? In that case, François wasn’t the target—”
“No! No! That’s just it!” Now Justine was crying. “Don’t say that! That’s what the firemen said, and the police, that it was an épuration that got out of hand, went too far—”
“It’s happened before. Look at Monique Brèger—”
“Yes, but…the woman in the tabac was a member of the party, she was a communist—”
“Oh, come on,” I said, shaking my head. “Are you telling me no communist ever slept with a Nazi? How do you know she was a member of the Communist Party?”
She sniffed again. “I told you: the communists were and are the backbone of the Resistance. We do not sleep with the enemy. How do I know she was a communist? Because there is a café in the square and the waiter there is also a member of the party—and he told me. Didier something, that’s his name. She is his…They are lovers. He says she never slept with any Germans.”
“Justine! Would the waiter know? He might be the very last to know.”
She said nothing.
“You really think François was the intended victim? How could whoever did this be sure the woman wasn’t there?”
She nodded. “The tabac is a lock-up, as you say. The woman is never there at night. Someone must have watched François yesterday evening—and maybe me as well—after we had dinner. And…when everything was quiet, he set fire to the tabac. François had a gun with some bullets and they were exploded by the fire. The floor of his kitchen collapsed and he…he fell into a room of flames.”
She was crying again now.
“And the police?”
She sniffled. “No. There have been so many cases of épuration. They think this is another that went too far.”
I stepped around the desk and put my hand on her shoulder.
She wouldn’t be comforted.
I sat back on the edge of the desk. “If François was the target—let’s assume he was for the moment, despite what the police say—why do you think he was killed? Who would have wanted him dead?”
She sniffed. “Political opponents? De Gaulle’s people? François was so talented, so popular.”
I had been nervous at one stage. Now I was beginning to relax. This was a long way from me. But her words brought home the scale of what I had done.
“Would de Gaulle’s people go that far? The war’s still on.”
“It’s the perfect time.” She sniffed again. “While there’s so much chaos and uncertainty. Easy to make it look like épuration.”
“What are you going to do? What can you do?”
“I don’t know.” She looked distraught. “Well, I do know one thing. As I told you, I talked to the waiter in the café—Didier Roque, that’s it, I remember his name now. He is a party member and knew François a little bit, and when I said to him that François and I used to be…close, he told me there had been one or two customers in the café recently who were strangers, sitting at the tables for hours on end, just reading newspapers or books and drinking coffee. He thinks they could have been sizing up François’s flat ahead of time. I’ve asked the waiter to come with me tomorrow, or the day after, and we are going to wait outside the headquarters of de Gaulle’s organisation and see if he recognizes anyone. It’s a long-shot, I know, but it’s something.” She sniffed again. “I must do something.”
This was an interesting development. It didn’t feel immediately dangerous but…you never can tell. Something to keep an eye on.
She finished her second whisky, refused a third, and handed me the glass.
“You haven’t shaved,” she said suddenly, surprised.
“No. The conference was followed by drinks, followed by more drinks—we went on quite late, one bar after another. It was too late to come home, so I stayed in a hotel and, well, I was quite late getting up this morning. So I came straight into the office.”
She nodded. “I know Versailles slightly. Where did you go drinking?”
Was she suspicious? Why would she be suspicious?
“We were fed in the conference, by the military. It was in one of those outbuildings by the Petit Trianon. I haven’t a clue where we went drinking and as for the hotel…well, some of us picked up a group of…ladies, and they took us to, well, I think you French call them a maison de passage.”
She looked at me dubiously, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Do you have any more of these conferences planned?”
I shook my head. “But I can’t rule it out.”
She nodded. “Well, I want you to see a doctor and have yourself examined before you come anywhere near me!”
She was too busy being outraged to query my alibi.
I waved the piece of paper I was holding. “Justine, I have some things to do right now, following on from the conference last night. But we can still meet for dinner. I can try to cheer you up. Meanwhile, is there anything I can do for you, anything to help you?”
She stood up and tucked her shirt into her slacks. “Well, there is one thing. Will you come and look at the site of the fire, in the Place Royère? I’d like to know what you make of it—you told me you’ve got experience with incendiaries and explosives. You might have some ideas. And I’d like you to meet the waiter, see what you think of his story.”
—
“I’M SORRY, MATHIEU, I CAN’T EAT. I’m too upset. Do you want my food?”
Justine pushed her plate towards me, but I shook my head.
“The chicken was good, but I’ve had enough. How did you hear about this restaurant? It’s new, isn’t it?”
She nodded glumly. Tears weren�
�t far away.
“François told me. We should have come here last night—he had booked a table. But we worked late, so we had a bite near his office instead, just some soup and an omelette. I haven’t eaten anything since then, so I should be hungry, but instead I feel sick.”
“Have some bread, you must have something.”
The restaurant we were in, Bistro Victoire, was on the Left Bank, near St. Germain de Prés, in a little side street. The tables were crowded together but there were only a few other people besides us in the restaurant. The walls were covered in posters, travel posters and Communist Party posters if I wasn’t mistaken. The tablecloths were red, of course—red gingham.
I waved to the waiter to bring us another pichet of wine and I leaned towards Justine one more time.
“Shall I ask him to bring some bread? Will you eat that?”
“I’ll try. No, don’t waste your money. I’m really not hungry.”
“Be careful what you drink, then. Don’t drink too much on an empty stomach.”
“You sound like a priest.”
I made a face.
“When are you going to see a doctor?”
“What?” I was thrown for a moment.
She lit a cigarette. “Many women who find the man they are sleeping with has been with a prostitute, they would be more, much more…”
She glared at me. “How are we going to be tonight, in bed? François is dead, murdered. I want you to…to hold me, make me feel safe. We could have the oblivion of sex—except that we can’t.”
She blew cigarette smoke in my face. “I hate men!”
How long would Justine’s grief last?
How long would mine?
The pichet arrived just then, and I thankfully busied myself refilling the glasses.
I still didn’t know what I was going to do about visiting the devastation at Perrault’s flat and the tabac, the scene of my crime. Trust that damned waiter to be a member of the Communist Party. He would surely remember me, and that I had been in the square on the night immediately preceding the fire. I had to worm my way out of my promise.
I tried to say something comforting to Justine.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know François better. He was obviously a fascinating man.”
