The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  The two-block drive had been slow and nerve-wracking but eventless. He turned the car down the lane into the private rear parking area. It was near pitch black again, although up ahead he could see a glare from truck headlights, pointed at a wall out of sight, just enough light bouncing to guide someone, but not enough to be seen from the street.

  The car rolled slowly onward, its makeshift converted engine puttering, a sound muffled during the day by a thousand competitors, but throaty and far too prominent for Giraud's liking in the darkness. He shifted to neutral and cut the engine simultaneously, letting it roll stealthily to the meeting spot accompanied only by gravel crunching under its tires.

  He got out of the car... and realized the stupidity of the boy's choice. The parking area was closed off, with just building back doors as possible alternate exits to the lane that led in. His apprehension grew; perhaps he should have forced the issue at the original spot, Giraud asked himself. All the Germans would have to do here would be block the lane and station men outside the front doors of the buildings to prevent them from fleeing on foot.

  'Let's get this over with, eh?' Giraud demanded, glancing around furtively. 'I don't like this place.'

  'Hey...' the kid asked, '...what did you say your name was?'

  'He didn't,' Bouchard interrupted, glowering at his cousin. 'I call him Mr. Friendly, he calls me Bouchard, and that's good enough for you.' Bouchard tried to give Giraud a reassuring nod but the policeman's anxiety was beginning to ratchet past control.

  They moved to the rear of the truck and the young man opened the tailgate, then climbed up. 'You two pass each case up to me, two at a time. This shouldn't take long at all.'

  They had eight cases of Camels to unload, eighty cartons total, with ten packages per carton. He was right, Giraud thought, there wasn't any reason to worry. It wouldn't take long. He glanced back at the laneway, then at the smiling young man on the back of the truck.

  He was too cordial, too genial, too happy to be in a wet, smelly alley at five in the morning risking his life. Something was wrong. Bouchard was going to pay him a fortune, it was true, well over the wholesale thirty francs per packet that local smokes commanded. But the cousin struck a nerve.

  He kept talking, too, which wasn't helping. 'I get why you might be nervous given how the Germans have been lately,' Yves was saying, 'but I assure you my friend, you have nothing to worry about.' He sort of shook his head a little as he said it, like it was the silliest notion he had recently heard.

  The early morning remained near silent but inside Giraud's brain alarms had begun to ring. The location, the kid being there, everything seemed off now. He held up a finger and said, 'Hold for just one second...I'll be right ...' And then he ran for the lane, sprinting away from them, his shoes clattering on the concrete, desperate to find a route away from the dead-end and what felt for all the world like....

  A trap.

  The spotlights lit up the end of the alley and he stopped just in time, throwing himself against the wall, where there was enough shadow to hide his face from the Germans forty yards away. He turned quickly and sprinted back towards the parking area, whistles sounding, a voice screaming through a megaphone in German for him to halt. Bouchard was looking around in a panic. Yves tried to grab his sleeve as he ran by but Giraud shook him off and darted towards the nearby red wooden back door to the second building along.

  Locked. His gaze flitted around desperately. A pair of cellar doors, for unloading wood, sat in the very back corner. He ran toward them, a shot ringing out from the closing Germans, the bullet pinging off the brick ahead of him. Giraud crouched and yanked on the cellar door and it flew open. A voice in the background in French yelled 'this is the police, lay down your weapon and surrender.'

  It sounded like Vaillancourt, but Giraud was not going to stop to be certain. He jumped down into the darkness of the building's unlit basement, pulling the door closed behind him.

  He reached into his belt and found his flashlight, switching it on. The beam cut through the gloom ahead and he looked around. The ceiling was low, perhaps seven feet. Water dripped from a leaking pipe and had been doing so for some time, it seemed, as the floor was submerged under a four or five inches of it. He knew the Nazis would be right behind, and likely entering the front of the home as well. There was no time to find his bearings; he strode ahead. There were stairs to his right, spiraling upwards, but he ignored them. Giraud knew his only chance lay in the basement having another exit the Germans hadn't considered. Many of the city's older homes -- particularly those with deeply sunken basements -- had access to either a family crypt or the city's labyrinth of sewers and catacombs. None were as grand as the city ossuary beneath Montparnasse, with its six million lost souls. But many opened to the old sewer system, great concrete tunnels that stretched for miles, with exits along the way into the metro train stations.

  His feet sloshed quickly as he jogged to the back of the building, his socks quickly soaked through, his flashlight frantically searching for anything resembling a door. He could hear boots coming down the stairs, someone climbing through the hatch twenty yards behind him. His time was almost out. Giraud waved the flashlight almost haphazardly, trying to cover every inch of the whitewashed brick wall, looking for any sign...

  There. His torchlight rested on the painted-over handle of a wood door in the back right corner. He rushed over and tried it. It clicked open immediately, and he pulled hard against the water pressure to create enough of a gap to get through. He squeezed through the half-foot gap then pulled the door closed, trying not to slam it loudly, a bathtub's worth of water rushing by his feet.

  It was strange, the way the sound shifted to near silence again, the brick doing its job. They would find the door with minutes, perhaps seconds, he knew, and he had to get moving again. He turned and shined the flashlight ahead. A corridor with a slight downslope ran under the stone floor of the next door house, cob webs filling it from floor to low-slung ceiling. To his immediate right was a small opening at the foot of more stairs, doubtless to the home above. He ignored it again, continuing ahead down the sloping path. Giraud advanced perhaps twenty paces, pushing through thick cobwebs, when his foot made a hollow ‘thunk’ as it came down on a trapdoor.

  He looked down, shining the flashlight at the floor. A trail of water followed him from the brief moment he'd managed to hold the door open, but there it was. And that meant a route out of the house. That meant...

  The sewers. The Germans would have a hard time finding him down there, or tracking him down before he could find a metro stop or washroom service passage, even a sewage lift station. He kneeled, just as volley of machinegun fire came from the room next door, brick chipping and flying from the wall between the two areas, as his pursuers tried to find his route more quickly in the darkness with a swift application of force. Giraud grabbed the ring on the top of the trapdoor and pulled.

  Stuck.

  Another volley of bullets sounded, this time with one penetrating the brick and zipping past his head, burrowing into the door at the other end of the corridor. With any luck, they'd assume that was his destination and miss the truth entirely. One of the bullets had splintered the entrance behind him; if the Germans had heard that or spotted it, they'd be through the door in mere moments, Giraud knew. He rested one knee on the ground to brace then pulled up on the old ring with all of his might.

  The hatch groaned and creaked as its rusted hinge gave, and he pulled it open then shined the flashlight down. A shoulder crashed into the wooden door in the darkness of the corner, then another. They were shoving it wide, and he knew he couldn't wait, as water came flooding in, rushing down the slope of the floor; Giraud the grasped metal ladder that led down and swung himself onto it, then pulled the hatch behind him.

  He crept down the ladder. If he was lucky, he knew, the Germans had pushed the door fully open and the water had rushed in to help cover the trapdoor. They would run down the claustrophobically dark corridor to the do
or at the far end and be none the wiser. At the bottom of the ladder was a short drop to the long ribbon of concrete walkway that ran adjacent to the sewer. The batteries in his flashlight were beginning to weaken, but he could see enough of the walkway to make his way east, away from the house. He could hear nothing from above, and the smell of feces and rot stung his nose.

  Had it been Vaillancourt's voice, really? Or had he imagined it? His former colleague and perhaps pursuer was noted for his tenacity, but Giraud was certain they had not seen his face.

  Had they?

  Somewhere ahead, there would be a door, and on the other side, a way out. He resolved to walk for at least forty minutes, so that he could put some miles between him and his pursuers. It seemed unlikely that they would look down, beneath the city that was not really their home.

  Giraud was numb to the tension; for the moment, all he could think about was making it home. He increased his pace to a fast walk, the flickering flashlight leading his way.

  18...

  The knock on Giraud's apartment door did not come until noon the following day; he blinked hard as he leaned on his mattress with one elbow and used his other hand to wipe away the sleep.

  Three raps, another polite knock.

  He looked at the window along the apartment's back wall. The light was dimmed by a cloudy day and seemed to barely filter through the glass.

  Three more polite taps. 'Giraud,' a familiar voice said. 'Are you there?'

  Vaillancourt.

  Giraud rose and bellowed 'Coming!' as loudly as he could. He was still tired from the morning's events. He grabbed the rough red-and-grey striped bathrobe from the foot of the bed and threw it on, sliding his feet into his slippers and turning them toward the bedroom door.

  At the front door, he slipped back the double deadbolts then opened it cautiously.

  'Yes?Oh… It's you, Vaillancourt.'

  'It's good to see you as well, old friend,' the investigator said. 'May I come in?'

  'For sure, absolutely,' Giraud said. He stepped aside and swept an arm with minimal flourish to show the way.

  The disheveled policeman walked in and looked around. 'Not bad. I'd have expected something more exotic, if the rumors of your wealth were true.'

  'I have simple tastes,' Giraud said. 'But like anyone, there is a war on, and I make do.' He knew he had to ask about the visit, or seem strangely uncurious. 'Why, may I ask, have you decided to drop around at noon on a Tuesday? If I hadn't changed shifts at work just recently, I wouldn't even be here now.'

  'Yes... yes, I heard about that,' Vaillancourt said, strolling around the room slowly and studying its contents. 'It must seem quiet, driving around the city at night after curfew.'

  He had never been particularly subtle or clever, Giraud thought, just frustratingly persistent. 'I don't get much time outside of the office, unfortunately. Look...I don't mean to be rude, Vaillancourt, but I've got to get going. I've overslept and I have things to do before work...'

  The other man nodded. He reached into his inside pocket for his smokes. ‘You have fire?' he asked Giraud.

  Giraud nodded and moved over the coffee table to pick up the Ronson lighter that usually sat there. He turned to face Vaillancourt. The shorter policeman had a pack of cigarettes in his hand. 'We don't see these around the city much these days,' he said of the pack of Camels. 'But we came into some rather suddenly last night.'

  'Last night?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you're telling me this because...'

  'Well I had this suspicion that a policeman as competent as you would already know about a flood of American products being smuggled into the country and into Paris. And so I thought it might interest you.'

  The deputy divisional superintendent shrugged. 'Not in particular, Vaillancourt...' Then he fixed the man with a squint, a piercing inquisition of a gaze. 'You don't think I have anything to do with...'

  'No! No, of course not, my friend. But who better to ask if there has been any noise out there?'

  'Ah. Okay, I can understand that.'

  'You know, we almost had them last night but the unidentified subject slipped away. He was quite fast on his feet, it seems...'

  'Hmmm?'

  'Last night... well, early this morning if I'm being more accurate.' He squinted a little, perplexed by something. 'Your shift at the station... you said they moved it?'

  'Yes. They've got me on eight-to-four.'

  Vaillancourt looked at his watch. 'And it's noon now. You sleep a solid eight hours? That must be difficult when you've just changed shift. I always find I need a week or so to adjust.'

  Giraud smiled at his attempts to be unnerving. 'Perhaps the key is for you to expend more energy during the day, Vaillancourt,' he said. 'Then you won't be so easily outrun.'

  'Pardon?'

  'You said he seemed fast on his feet, this person you almost caught.'

  'Ah. Yes, yes I did, didn't I? You know, my suspicion is that he's also quite smart. I backtracked from the chase scene and found an old sewer access hatch that I think he used to elude us.'

  'In Paris, that would hardly surprise me. In fact, it's not even particularly clever. I think Victor Hugo did it first.'

  'It's true,' Vaillancourt said. 'Still, it was worth the try. Whoever this scoundrel is, he must be making some serious money at the public's expense.'

  'Oh?'

  'He left behind a Daimler with thousands of francs in cigarettes in the boot and secreted in the seating.'

  Giraud nodded at that; he crossed his left arm across his body and pursed a finger on his right hand to his lips, as if weighing what he'd just heard carefully. 'In this city, Vaillancourt, the more I think about it? The more likely it seems to me that you are looking for a crew working out of the countryside, coming into the city in the early hours when most sleep. As such, they will probably be less able to take the loss than you think. They may even come back and try to steal a replacement vehicle.'

  'That's certainly an idea to consider,' Vaillancourt said. 'Giraud, you have an American car plant in your jurisdiction, correct?'

  'Yes.' What was he getting at?

  'Well, it seems to me that there were so many cigarettes popping up in Paris over the last week that someone must have a contact bringing them directly from America. Plus, none of the packets have excise stamps on them, you see, which means they were intended for the American market. They're probably coming through Portugal, where there are still direct flights across the Atlantic.'

  'Ah.'

  'Yes, so there must be someone in Paris who knows and works with this American supplier. And since the automotive plant is the most prominent American business...'

  'You think it may also be your source.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Perhaps,' Giraud said. 'Perhaps not. But I shall certainly endeavor to inquire for you.'

  Vaillancourt exhaled smoke and smiled broadly. 'Yes, Giraud. I was certain you would. You always were a most helpful fellow. I remember in the academy how well you helped our instructors with a host of needs. I fear they rather favored you after that.'

  'It's possible I suppose,' Giraud said. 'But I still had to take the tests, the same as you.'

  'And you never failed to achieve top standing, as I recall, until I found that master answer list that had miraculously fallen from the Heavens and into your dormitory room. So good of your roommate to take the blame! With luck like that, it's no wonder you find yourself in such an... auspicious role.'

  'Yes, well...' Giraud glanced over Vaillancourt's shoulder with deliberate concern at the grandfather clock and its progress. 'Unfortunately, that auspicious role leaves me with hardly enough time for personal matters, and the academy was so very long ago. And so...'

  'Of course, of course,' Vaillancourt said, moving toward the door. 'I wouldn't want you to be run off your feet, Giraud.'

  'How kind of you…'

  Vaillancourt seemed to study him once more, taking the full measure of the man. 'It's been a
long time since school, hasn't it, Giraud?'

  'It certainly has.'

  'I still remember in the physicals how you stood up for me, because of my weight...'

  'It was nothing.'

  'I also remember how everyone in our class seemed to owe you for something, the man who could get his hand on any sort of contraband. Even those examination results, eh?'

  'Well... like you say,' Giraud noted, 'it was a long time ago.'

  'And yet, so much seems not to have changed, even with this war...'

  'If you say so,' Giraud said. 'I for one would like to see an end... now, as I'd mentioned...'

  'Of course,' Vaillancourt said. 'I'll leave you to your business.'

  19...

  With hours to go before work and his mind clouded by second-guessing, Giraud ventured down to the little park to get away from it all. He knew that neither the baker nor his treacherous nephew had his identity, which was one of the reasons he'd taken the deliveries in the farthest southern reaches of the city. The cars had been 'liberated' from various government office lots by Jacques a few weeks earlier.

  So there was no real cause for concern, other than the financial loss... and the looming worry that Vaillancourt knew it was him.

  For the moment, however, he had little to do and too much anxiety. The quiet of the park was the perfect solution. He sat upon the bench and considered the hero's journey, the classic literary structure and how he could best mold a character to follow it. He closed off his mind to work and the black market and Vaillancourt.

  Or, he thought he had.

  'You look unhappy, monsieur,' a familiar young voice said. Pascal was wearing the same black shorts and poncho as the last time they'd been together.

  'Hmm? No, not unhappy, my young friend,' Giraud said. 'Just deep in thought.'

  'I knew that was true, at least,' Pascal said. 'You did not notice my arrival and you have not looked up once at your favorite waitress.'