The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  'No, of course not,' he said. 'It is an unfortunate reality that despite our best efforts, people disappear in Paris all of the time.'

  'And when they have communist boyfriends and police admirers?'

  'Doubtless her bohemian lifestyle presented certain risks,' Giraud said. 'Perhaps the sensible thing for these people to do is to go to Montmartre and ask around until someone has seen her. Perhaps the sensible thing to do, Anton, is to save oneself the tension and assume the best for a change, rather than the worst.'

  Levesque had been a newspaperman for many years and had heard decades' of politicians come and go. He recognized a sales pitch when it was being delivered, even one cloaked in reason and empathy.

  'Giraud... you're truly being honest about this?'

  'Ask anyone who knows me, Anton,' he said, holding up one hand in a vow, 'I truly would not hurt a fly.'

  Levesque smiled too politely, his doubt writ large.

  32...

  Levesque had gone about his business, and with just an hour left before the beginning of his shift at work, Giraud pulled out his notebook, ostensibly to record the tension of their earlier conversation, certain that it had gravitas and value should he ever take on the novel he had originally set out to write.

  Instead, he found himself going through coded black market requests, perfunctory work to help him relax. After a few minutes of it, he gained a moment of self-awareness and fairly laughed at the absurdity. Even when he had time and the inclination to relax, he could not.

  It was worrisome that Levesque's first inclination was to assume him at fault. Was it merely a communist's natural distrust of authority, or did the elderly journalist really think he knew something incriminating about the girl's absence? Giraud feared the tension between them would escalate.

  In his pocket was a folded envelope; and it felt like the weight of the world. He knew that he could tell Levesque about the envelope and in doing so, more about Isabelle and what had happened. But it would not answer any of the man's questions, merely confuse the issue, and it would not help Giraud, either. It was entirely possible that Levesque would not believe his side of the story, about what had happened that night after his phone rang.

  He looked across at the cafe, where Jean Max -- her pursuer -- sat glumly playing with the spoon in coffee cup. He leaned forward on the table, bracing his head against his other arm, despondent, as if too tired to bother sitting up. Giraud knew he should not hate the man, or feel any ill will toward him at all. He did not even know him. But the fact that he, too, loved the waitress filled Giraud with antipathy; it escalated his contempt for the man's beliefs... and his good looks, and his blonde hair. The policeman knew that the idea of sharing her with another was unthinkable to him, and even though he knew it irrational, resolved then and there that if he could not have her, then certainly this oaf could not, either.

  Besides, it seemed certain that the young communist and his friends would all soon be behind bars. Once the prospect of going to the gallows shook some sense into them, they would tell him everything they knew about Laszlo Fontaine and his family, and they would cease to be a thorn in the side of every officer in North Paris.

  The gratitude from the Germans would be considerable, as well. Even so, Giraud had a foreboding sense that he needed to start thinking about a different future, in a different line of work, with different friends and associates.

  'The piano player is very angry with you, monsieur.' Pascal had taken Levesque's place at the other end of the bench. The boy had a lit Gauloises in his left hand, and puffed on it thoughtfully. He did not appear to inhale.

  Giraud smiled at the scene. 'While everyone knows a good smoke can clear the head and the sinuses, tobacco can be very habit forming, Pascal. You should wait until you are older.'

  The boy looked unhappy with the remark. 'If I were fighting alongside the Germans against the communists, you would not treat me like a child.'

  'If you were fighting, it would be because you were no longer a child, but an adult. Does your uncle know you smoke?'

  'As I have mentioned before, monsieur, he does not pay much attention to what I do.'

  'Perhaps that is because he trusts you to make smart decisions.' The implication was obvious.

  'Yes, monsieur.' The boy took another puff then looked up and realized Giraud was still watching him sternly. He clipped the red-hot ash ember on the bench then stepped on it, before secreting the remaining cigarette butt in his shirt pocket.

  Then he changed the subject, in order to ward off further adult supervision. 'I heard the piano player say he thinks you killed Isabelle the waitress, or had her arrested.'

  'Now why on Earth would I do something like that, my friend?' Giraud asked.

  'I was at the other bench. You know... just listening in a little. I wasn't being nosy it was just easy to hear.'

  'Of course.'

  'He said he thought you'd had her arrested for being a communist, and the old man laughed at that.'

  'He did?' That was new. Giraud wondered why the old man wasn't as concerned as his employee.

  'Yes. He said he thought that if anything, you were sentimental towards her, and that was probably why you came to the park every day without coming over to buy coffee.'

  'That's very astute of him.'

  'Then the piano player said he thought there was something off about you, and that maybe you ... you know...'

  'No, I truly don't, little young one.'

  'That you had your way with her and then killed her. The old man thought that was ridiculous, and the piano player gestured over this way and said you probably 'buried her under that damn park bench'.'

  'No!'

  'Truly.'

  Giraud could scarcely believe it. It had only been two days, and already the young musician was assuming he was a monster. Dependably, he had filled a cavernous hole of information with the most frightening of possibilities.

  'You!'

  Giraud looked up. The same piano player was crossing the street, looking angrily at him and pointing a finger.

  'You know where she is, don't you!' the musician admonished. He stopped in front of the bench and folded his arms defensively. His speech sounded slurred, like he'd had a few too many beers. 'You police sons of bitches are all the same; the Germans ask you to goose-step and you ask 'how high'.'

  'Sir, I assure you I've done nothing...'

  'You've done nothing but obsess over her for weeks. That's right, don't think we don't know what's going through your head when you stare across the street. What did you do with her?'

  'I did nothing of any sort,' Giraud said. 'I have spoken to her but once, I have yet to really even meet her. And to presume I would do something so horrible and to tell this boy...'

  The piano player didn't want to hear that. 'Spare me your sanctimony; you are known far and wide as a black marketer who preys on the weakness of your fellow Frenchmen...'

  'I supply goods they cannot get elsewhere at extreme risk to myself...'

  'And at exorbitant prices to parents who need milk for their baby, the elderly who need nutrition. Some with such a fluid conscience might have no trouble cleaning up after an angry attack and pretending...'

  'Angry attack?' Giraud interrupted. 'You've taken leave of your senses. And you do realize you are talking to a deputy divisional superintendent of the national police, yes?' He rose to his feet, to give the man his full measure in uniform. 'Now I'm going to tell you this exactly once: if you repeat this ridiculous slander to anyone, I shall arrest you for disturbing the peace and inciting hatred against the Germans. Am I clear?'

  The piano player leaned in towards him. 'You don't scare me...'

  'I should,' Giraud snapped. 'If I was the person you seem to think I am, I would have you picked up and handed over to them, and you would be in front of a firing squad before the week was out. But I am not. I did not harm Isabelle.'

  'You raided her home.'

  Word of the operation had gotten a
round, it seemed. 'We did. She was not there.'

  'How can you...'

  'Enough,' Giraud said, waving the man away like he was an annoying fly. 'You get no more information than that. Go back to your job, sir, and leave the police work to the police.'

  The piano player looked defiant, as if eager to comment further. Instead, he bit his tongue and walked back across the street to the cafe.

  Giraud looked over at Pascal. The boy was wide eyed. 'That is the power of the police,' Giraud said, bragging a little. 'You cannot stop them from being idiots, but you can stop them from acting upon it.'

  Pascal frowned a little. 'Monsieur... you do not really know what happened to her, do you?'

  'I do not, little one. But rest assured, I'm sure she's fine. I'm sure she will turn up sooner, rather than later.'

  Though Cafe Soleil was almost empty, the owner had not skimped on the heat, and compared to the drizzle outside, it was cozy and comfortable. Const. Mombourquette was already there, sitting at a two-person table by the front window. He had cup of coffee and was reading the Jules Verne story Five Weeks In a Balloon.

  Mombourquette looked up from the book as Vaillancourt approached, then put it face down, open on the table. 'Ah, inspector! Good to see you again!'

  Vaillancourt reached across the table to shake hands with the man. 'I hope I'm not putting you out by asking to meet.'

  'Of course not!' the eager young policeman said. 'I am honored to help. Though... I must confess, inspector, that I realized after we last talked that I had not asked you what, or whom, you are investigating.'

  'Ah, that's true!' Vaillancourt said. 'I hadn't noticed. Still, that's the nature of policing sometimes as well, eh? We get so caught up in one matter that another passes by. Though, I have often found that when I am overloaded with cases, it imbues me with a sense of determination, a willfulness to push through. Perhaps it is a subconscious comparison of the volume of work to the time in a week, or a day. Do you ever find that to be case, constable?

  'Quite often, yes,' Mombourquette said, once again missing Vaillancourt's evasion. 'But I try to consider that, as overtasked as we are, we are so much better off than those fighting in the war... on all sides, of course.'

  'Of course. Thank goodness for good leadership, eh?'

  ‘Certainly!' Mombourquette explained. 'It is when living in such complicated times that truly we must be thankful that some men are willing to rise above and take control, for those of us who wish things to remain unchanged.'

  He had a personal philosophy of sorts, then, Vaillancourt concluded. A decency to him. No wonder Giraud didn't like him.

  'Men like Mr. Granger, for example, at the car plant?'

  'I do not know him personally but by all account, yes, that is exactly the type. Even though a war rages, he remains here in Europe to run his company when he could easily be safe in America. A stalwart individual.'

  'Your deputy superintendent seems to spend a lot of time with him. He must be a great admirer. I've come over to the station to talk to him on a couple of occasions during the evening and he hasn't been there.'

  Mombourquette sipped on his coffee then placed it back on its saucer. 'As I believe I mentioned when talked before the deputy superintendent has many sources he must visit.'

  'And does he have a place he uses for these meetings, or does he always go to them?' Vaillancourt lit a cigarette and offered one to the younger man.

  Mombourquette politely declined. 'My father says the smoke would help my asthma but my few experiences have led me to believe the opposite. I would say he goes to them most of the time. He does have a little park that he likes to visit in the Eighteenth.'

  'Oh?'

  'The Parc des Freres de Saint Martin. Don't surprise me and tell me you know it: it's quite hidden, for any place in a city this size.'

  'I do not,' Vaillancourt said. 'But you have piqued my curiosity.'

  33...

  At the station that evening, Chief Constable Marc Etienne Herveaux appeared ruffled. Not his clothing, of course; his uniform was as immaculate as ever. His demeanor, on the other hand, was one of irritation. He sat behind his ornate seventeenth century walnut desk, hands clasped together and rested on his ink blotter as he leaned in towards Giraud, who was seated ahead of the desk in a lower chair.

  'Two days since the raid on the communist safe house and we have no follow-up arrests?' he asked. 'What is going on, exactly? Surely the intelligence we picked up had value?'

  'Of course sir, considerable value with respect to the cell in question and its activities.'

  'Then why do we not have Laszlo Fontaine or his wife in custody?'

  Giraud was mildly taken aback. Up until that point, he had assumed Herveaux's interest to be enthusiastic bluster. Now it seemed he wanted to be seriously involved.

  'Sir, as I breathe, I swear we will find them if they are hiding in the north of the city or in Saint Denis. As you're well aware, our intelligence on the matter suggests they fled Paris some time ago...'

  'I am, Damien, of course; but the Germans are persistent on this issue. They have intelligence agents all over the supposedly free south. If they were there somewhere, or had gone from there to Switzerland, the Germans believe they would have heard something. They suspect he will be of great assistance to the growing resistance in recruiting and training new operatives, and so they have become most vocal on the matter.'

  When the Germans became 'vocal' on a matter, it didn't usually take long before people were being lined up and shot, Giraud knew.

  'And then there is this other matter... the matter of the girl,' Herveaux said.

  What? Giraud felt a sudden rush of panic. How could Herveaux possibly know about...

  'The girl the Germans believe may have witnessed a soldier being killed near Vinciennes,' Herveaux continued. 'I've pointed out the unlikelihood of her being from Saint Denis or even the north of the city, but we are tasked with keeping an eye out for her, as well.'

  The German bulletin. He had no idea where she was, but neither did the Germans. If he found her before them, he could discover whether she'd seen him, warn her against saying she saw anything, maybe even get her to leave the city for the south.

  'Has the SD forwarded any sort of description as of yet?'

  Herveaux nodded. 'A composite sketch.' He leaned across his desk and tossed a sheet of oft-folded paper towards its far edge. Giraud picked it up. It was a decent likeness in that the girl in the picture was pretty and had short hair. She looked nothing like Isabelle in any other way, however.

  'It looks very realistic,' Giraud said. 'With something so precise, it won't take them long.'

  'Perhaps not. Still, I'd like to be able to tell them that you have our top people working on finding her.'

  'Absolutely sir.'

  'Good. You're dismissed, Giraud. Oh... wait: there's one other thing. The Germans are still looking for the source of American goods being smuggled into Paris, and they've arranged to interview some of the senior men and supply-side staff at the automobile factory next week on a formal basis. As part of their investigation. I trust you can accompany them and help if needed.'

  'Certainly chief constable.'

  Giraud went back to his office and sat silently at his desk for a few minutes. The policeman felt the walls of his world closing in on him; if his American contact panicked or gave anything at all away, they would both be in deep trouble. What if the men the Germans sent were professional investigators, or worse, Gestapo? Would he crack under that imminent sense of danger, the presence of death that seemed to follow them like the stench from a newly opened crypt? What had he gotten himself into? Giraud thought back to when he'd taken over control of the seizure accounts, how he'd reveled in the extra cash that no one would miss. Now, he was pulling in three times as much from illicit goods each month, and the price he had to pay was an equally escalated risk factor.

  He was less worried about the girl being found, after seeing the composite sketch. It
was unlikely that the Germans would even look in the right part of the city, let alone happen upon his favored spot and the cafe.

  There was a familiar knock on the door.

  He sighed. Mombourquette.

  'Enter.'

  The nervous young officer sidled into the room and closed the door. 'I'm sorry, boss, but I thought you'd want to know...'

  'Yes, out with it!'

  'Sir, the guy from internal security, Vaillancourt, he was around here again asking after you. I thought since you've been spending a lot of time at that park...'

  'Excuse me...? You told him where I go... How do you know here I spend my personal time?'

  Mombourquette looked matter-of-fact about it. 'Because you were watching the communist cell member, Jean-Max, as was one of my men. You may have seen him there; the lad from Dugny, Lafreniere. '

  The man in the brown suit who spent so much time listening in on the piano player's debates with the tall, blonde communist. He was one of Mombourquette's informants. It was a stroke of luck, Giraud thought, adding legitimacy to his own surveillance of the cafe. Less fortunate was the fact that he had told Vaillancourt. 'Did he say what he planned to do with this information?'

  'Yes, he was planning on going down there during the early afternoon at some point. He wasn't specific as to when, but he said he won't have his car, so he's taking the number two bus down. Perhaps you can meet him! I believe he said he was looking forward to catching up with you again, deputy divisional superintendent.'

  34...

  By lunch the next day, Giraud's anxiety had not yet begun to recede. He sat on the park bench waiting for Vaillancourt to arrive and begin interviewing staff. The piano player across the way eyed him sullenly.

  As did Levesque. Or suspiciously, at the very least. Eventually, Giraud glanced back at him. 'Do I have something on my face, Anton? You've been sitting silently judging me for at least ten minutes.'

  'My apologies,' the newspaper editor said. 'I've been listening to too many wild stories.'

  'Let me guess: our friendly neighborhood piano player.'