The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  “It’s possible.” He stared upwards to where the attic lay beyond my ceiling. “All we know is someone - and I’m guessing those two shits who attacked me last night - wanted them badly enough, particularly that trunk But why, after all that time?”

  “Perhaps Herman found the firework, but you, John, lit the blue touch-paper.”

  He really liked me saying his name...

  “Look, Karen, I’m as nervous as you are, but I’m not giving up. Not now. I’ve two questions for you before we go on. If we go on…”

  If?

  “Please continue.”

  “You must help me like you did when we went out yesterday, hunting for clues, imagining all the possibilities. First, how come you’re so important to those Suzmans? I may not come away with just cuts and bruises next time. I’m guessing they want you isolated. For a reason.”

  “You tell me.”

  I was just testing him. I had to. ‘Knowledge is power,’ my favourite Emergency Medicine tutor once said. And up to now, I’ve given too much away to the wrong listeners.

  “If I knew why, I’d be…”

  “What?” he snapped. “Getting arrests organised with Capitaine Serrado? Pulling out all the stops? I don’t think so.”

  Your personal invitation to La Chasse…

  That cryptic postcard still hidden in my handbag. Nagging at my mind.

  “Leaving here tomorrow.” I finished my sentence. “Going where no-one can ever, ever find me. Peace at last.”

  He wasn’t listening. Streaks of crisp, blue sky had infiltrated the dark heavens,

  promising a brighter afternoon. He took a breath.

  “And Les Pins itself? Did Ricard Suzman cause problems within his own family by selling it to you? Was the son not keen? Again, Karen, try and trawl your memory.”

  I did. That part was easy. As clear as if on TV.

  “Michel had to sign the Compromis de Vente, and his father waited half a day for him to arrive back in St. Antoine from a business trip to Perpignan. He complained his boy was prevaricating, that if he left it long enough, I’d be tempted to look at other properties. He even went out to buy me flowers and a box of chocolates to keep me sweet. Herman thought he was way too keen to be shot of the place, and you could have cut the air with a knife when the son finally showed up.”

  “Then there was Joel getting back in with that family, even before you’d advertised...”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  “I’d forgotten that.”

  “So, these three potential adversaries, saw that you were - forgive my saying so - disabled. Conveniently disadvantaged. Until I showed up.”

  He leaned forwards. His lips hadn’t healed. A kiss or two might do the trick but not then. I was way too tense.

  “Your second question?” I reminded him.

  “Instinct keeps drawing me back to 1942, to Mas Camps and those people searching on your land. What do you imagine they were looking for?”

  “You keep asking me this.”

  “I do. It was wartime, with collaborators a-plenty. Neighbour suspicious of neighbour. Rumours spreading like wildfire. My guess is ...” he paused, targeting my eyes with his as if to probe my soul. “Big moolah. Either meant for your family, or someone else. This might explain why your two neighbours died a terrible death.”

  A thickening mist swirled in my mind. Dense and warm, while the words, “dead meat” came through like before. Muffled, but horribly persistent.

  He watched my lips as I spoke.

  “Martine claimed just before she left, that Herman heard money had landed in or somewhere near our vineyards on the night of October 7th 1942. Cash for the Resistance.”

  I immediately felt as if another strand of that suffocating web I’d been trapped in, had broken. He took my hand. Gripped it as if for dear life.

  “How much?”

  I stalled. Almost too choked to say the amount. “Four million francs.”

  “Bloody Hell. And Martine’s reason for keeping that crucial information from you? From us?”

  “Herman was hoping for more proof. So, she said.”

  John Lyon let go of me. Stood up. He didn’t believe her.

  “Now at last,” he said. “We can move on.”

  *

  The cobalt blue sky was gaining on the sombre grey. My finely-tuned wall lights began to dim.

  “Once I’ve had a sandwich,” he said, “I’ve two more short trips to make. An elderly woman in Dansac - Alize Saporo - ring any bells?”

  “No. Besides, what about me?”

  He wasn’t listening again. Something imperceptible had changed between us.

  “Father Diderot?”

  “Is this your version of University bloody Challenge?” One of my favourite programmes on satellite TV. He was opening my chiller cabinet, where earlier on, Martine had brought up six gruyère and prosciutto rolls from the kitchen.

  “Would you like a snack? Or anything else?” He asked, having already bitten the end off one.

  “I’ll manage, thank you.”

  “Michel Suzman knows my real name and that I’m here. He wasn’t bluffing. And I’ve just seen that silver Merc going past again. Same numberplate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded then swallowed. Took another bite.

  “What he’s saying is, you, Karen Fürst, are really Liesbet Ryjkel. And that’s good enough for him. Somebody you trusted has betrayed your real identity. I need to find out why.”

  He stopped chewing. Set down the rest of his roll.

  “Are you alright?” I asked. However, the question should have been for me.

  “Fine,” But he didn’t look it.

  “You must go.” I told him. “I can defend myself.” I patted my handbag and he understood.

  “But what about your personal needs - feeding, washing...?”

  “I’ve not enjoyed beans on toast since my university days and as for washing, my shower’s all set up. All you’d have to do, is look away.”

  I expected a smile, but he still seemed pre-occupied.

  “Your catheter bag?”

  I’d forgotten about that.

  “Bring it on.”

  He came over, kissed the back of my neck. His breath cheesy, warm. I felt myself beginning to melt. And then, when he’d gone, I switched on my tape recorder and listened again to those excerpts from my life that had so far eluded me.

  Chapter 36. John.

  Apart from guilt at leaving Karen on her own, and gut-churning embarrassment at my sudden urge to kiss her, I also had to deal with my risky parting shot to Father Diderot.

  “Liesbet Ryjkel sends her love.”

  I drove too fast to the far end of Dansac where once neatly tended jardins were overgrown. Where rusted iron gates hung off their hinges and wet litter lay heaped against the retaining walls. My self-destruct voice urged me to go straight to Les Platanes retirement home. Give the old priest another run for his money and more rope, but first things first. This nondescript settlement and its environs was the hub of my single-handed investigation, and now that my notebook was in enemy hands, what had I to lose? I’d lied to Karen about what it contained but, as I’d learnt in Nottingham, lies are the stab-proof vest. A necessary part of one’s armour.

  I was about to tuck the Volvo out of sight of the road between a dilapidated barn and a small creeper-covered bungalow, when a blue gendermerie van sped by, lights spinning, towards Villedieu. The first of any law enforcement I’d seen since leaving the motorway at Carcassonne on Thursday.

  *

  Pockets of snow and lingering slush under my boots soon melted as the sky cleared. Approaching Alize Saporo’s narrow street, I noticed a black Range Rover pulling away from the kerb. Its numberplate too far away to read. I ducked into the nearest doorway, but all at once, the door behind me opened and a strong hand pulled me inside. Cat stink. Every kind of stink, and fag smoke so thick I could barely speak. With no firearm tucked away, I only had m
y fists and my feet, should I need to defend myself.

  “I’ve seen you round here before. Visiting...” The speaker, older perhaps than Father Diderot but more energetic, stared at the recent damage to my face. A man as dark-skinned and wrinkled as an ancient vine root. Spanish, I guessed, with barely comprehensible French. His body pressed against mine, while a TV on somewhere, trickled out laughter and clapping. Small crucifixes made from every possible material, hung from the walls, and the place smelt of stale meat.

  “Sniffing round Mademoiselle Saporo again?” he said. “That it?”

  My recently-eaten roll was in revolt.

  “Who’s she?”

  A prod

  “Don’t play games with me, Signor. On Saturday, I saw you go in and come out of her house. Also speak to Simone the post woman.”

  “So? I work for the Agence des Rêves estate agency in Perpignan as an English rep,” was the first thing that came into my head. “What with all the Brits coming over looking to buy, I was cold-calling, just in case, but she never gave me her name. Wasn’t interested in selling, that’s for sure. Besides, we were interrupted by a fire. Some goon poured petrol through the letterbox. Could have been nasty if I’d not been there.”

  Or, because I had been there…

  “Fascists are everywhere. Nothing’s changed.” He patted the wall next to him. “Why not try this house? Other houses? I’d have been glad to see you. Glad to sell.”

  “Had to get back. Busy, busy...”

  “So, why this time?”

  “Seeing what else is on offer.”

  “Well,” the Spaniard gestured around his filthy domain. “What would this make?”

  The hole I’d started to dig was deepening with every second. “At first glance, as it seems structurally sound, I’d say fifteen thousand francs.’

  The guy crossed himself again. “Would you put me on your books? Do you have a card?”

  Three mangy cats appeared from the gloom and squirmed against my legs. “I left the office in a rush. I’ll send you one.”

  He pointed to himself. “Me, Pablo Lopez. I have to return to Barcelona before I die. Especially after the life I’ve had.” He gestured me to follow him deeper into that hovel, but I held back. Karen was alone, and besides, he might fancy my wallet. Or worse. Previously I’d have trusted most strangers. Not then.

  Through the murky front window, I could make out one or two elderly people

  walking by. Not her, however.

  “Tell me some more about this Alize Saporo,” I said. “Has she been here long?”

  “I show you hospitality, you turn it down.” His forefingers made a pincer-like movement. “Morsels only, Signor.”

  “Morsels it is. She mentioned L’Enfer de Dansac...” I said, re-focussing.

  “Did she indeed? And to a stranger.”

  “A sympathetic stranger,” I corrected him. “I have to admit I was moved to tears. We in the UK didn’t suffer occupation. Why I’d never judge such a country or its citizens for simply protecting their families.”

  That did the trick. The Spaniard took a breath. I watched his cracked lips.

  “Only six people really knew what happened here during that autumn of 1942,” he volunteered. “Wednesday, October 14th, to be precise. Myself, her, and a young man later to be my parish priest for many years...”

  “Not Father Diderot?”

  A nod.

  “And before him?”

  The Spaniard scratched his unshaven jaw. “Now you’ve got me...”

  “That leaves three.”

  He mimed throat-slitting. A gesture I’d seen once too often. “All dead.”

  I could have mentioned the innocent gipsy children and Sophie Blumenthal, but sensed his own past was, like Karen’s, air-locked. Needing a valve...

  “Local?”

  He nodded again, opening his front door a fraction to take a peep.

  “Fuck off,” he snarled at a lad on his bike who was staring in. “Leave us alone.” He turned back towards me.

  “Have you heard of our tunnel?”

  “Only a whisper. Where was it?”

  “Beneath her house. To connect with the Bayrou. Until the Chef d’Escadron

  and his henchmen came knocking on doors, checking no able-bodied men were absent. Jesus,” he crossed himself again. “Free Zone? That was a fucking joke. If only we’d had the money to finish the job more quickly. To bribe those standing in our way.”

  This didn’t tie up with what the retired priest had said. I checked my watch. With Villedieu being only ten minutes away, I’d soon be there. Meanwhile, time for a spanner in the works. My version of what Father Diderot had said.

  “Heard a whisper that Alize Saporo got cold feet. Wouldn’t ask her wealthy family for funds.”

  The Spaniard glared towards his front window.

  “Who’s been gossiping? That lazy bitch in the boulangerie?”

  “No. Someone in a bar in St. Antoine.”

  “Another poisonous shit hole,” he said bitterly. “Nothing was achieved without her. She kept everyone’s spirits up, day in, day out... And as for her wealthy family - Fascist pigs. How could she grovel to them for money?”

  “Who were the other three involved?” I persisted.

  “Some estate agent you are.” Lopez pulled a packet of Gitanes from his shirt’s top pocket and lit up. “Morsels, I said.”

  I shrugged. Always useful currency.

  “Roma, trying to help their kids get to safety. Bravest of the lot, they were. Vichy was targeting kids for either sterilisation or deportation for slaughter so they couldn’t breed more of the same. Retirada included. Their deaths just what Hitler and Franco wanted.”

  Mischlinge...

  I recalled Father Diderot’s very same word as Lopez’s fag smoke clogged my throat, my lungs. But the stinging behind my eyes was something different.

  “Just one kid got away. At least, that’s what we assumed, as she wasn’t with the others in the tunnel for the evening head count.”

  “She?” But I already suspected the answer.

  “Sophie someone. Jewish. Very smart. Old for her years. Alize Saporo had grown attached to her, and hoped one day when France was at peace, she’d make her way back to Dansac to see her. I doubt she ever did.”

  More fag smoke, blue and noxious. But I wasn’t finished. Not by a long chalk. I’d been led to believe this pretty girl from Port- Leucate had perished. “You mentioned money. I heard a drop had been planned for these rescues.”

  “Sshhh,” his spit hit my cheek. “Walls have ears, Signor. Especially when we’re talking four million fucking francs...”

  Come on, come on...

  “From whom?

  The hero lowered his voice. Coughed into his free hand.

  “Opération Anges in Paris.”

  “Petits anges...”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Please go on.”

  “To help children of the Holocaust, whoever they were. Wherever they were. Here in Dansac, they’d been rounded up from various encampments and taken to so-called ‘shelters’ for safety. From where others before them had been carted off like beasts.” Lopez directed his smoke towards the low, ceiling. “Why that railway line extension was in place, but not for long. We saw to that. By Christ we did. Crazy Fascist pigs...”

  Liar.

  “Which homes? Where?”

  A shrug. He bent down to squash his cigarette butt against a dirty floor tile. The cats finally left me alone, perhaps sensing I’d never been a cat lover.

  “The kids were too scared to tell us; our comrades too, in case more young lives were put at risk. With Roma, there’d be no official records. Not like Jews. To the Boche, most were worse than vermin.”

  “Who did the liaising? Delivered them to the tunnel, ready for escape?”

  “Father Diderot - I keep calling him that - and Alize. They used covered hay wagons. The kids trusted them. Loved them, even.” He found
another cigarette. Lit it, held in the smoke. “I’ve not had a proper night’s sleep since then. It’s guilt, even though I pray to Jesus and Mary every day. I still see those little faces, hear them chattering to each other. Playing with their spinning tops, their wooden animals... The only things allowed.”

  My breakfast snack was on the move again. Connections strengthening.

  “Guilt? Why?”

  “I never saw them again, after we’d given out soup, bread and

  sleeping bags. They were just half a metre from the end of the tunnel. Half a fucking metre from freedom when the Devils arrived.”

  “You did your bit, Signor Lopez,”

  “Not enough.” He crossed himself for the third time.

  My watch showed 14:45 hours already, with still too many queries to make.

  “Have you heard of another Paris outfit called AEJ? Association des Enfants Juives?”

  Hesitation, then a nervous pull on his next fag.

  “No. Only the OSE. Oeuvres de Secours aux Enfants. They created safe houses all over France. In convents and wherever.”

  “So how was this four million francs supposed to arrive? Who was meant to receive it?”

  A sudden glance. I knew the look.

  Don’t lose him now…

  “You’re no estate agent. You’re a fucking flic.”

  “Do I look like one? Do me a favour. When I get home from work every night, I do historical research. The Free Zone’s been my special interest for some time.”

  Thankfully, he seemed convinced. Blew two smoke strands from his nostrils. “By low-wing monoplane. We were told there’d be a white angel painted on the outside of the package, and whoever picked it up, was to inform Ricard Suzman immediately. Our leader.”

  Shit…

  “Where was the drop planned for?”

  “A small field next to the jardins here. Dead of night, October 7th1942. My nineteenth birthday. Mind you, looking back, I think that was to put some of us off the scent.”

  I took a chance.

  “But when I met the couple from Mas Camps the other day, they’d sworn the previous owners had people crawling all over their vineyards after dark.”

  “Well, I’m telling you, we crawled over everyone’s bloody land. And it wasn’t just us. Word had spread and strangers seemed to appear out of the woodwork. Some brought guns, they were that desperate to find it.” He glanced past me out of the window. Clearly on edge. “To think that money could still be lying undiscovered somewhere. I’d get a fucking metal detector if I could afford it.”