Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  It was a long time since the count had been in here. He’d rather forgotten about the coach house and its contents. He eyed the tarpaulin thoughtfully. Better get it off and start dusting and polishing straight away. Before the war he’d never dusted or polished anything in his life but, since the staff had gone, he’d got used to all sorts of things, even cooking and washing-up.

  He put down the lamp, then tugged at the tarpaulin. It was snagged somewhere. He went round the other side, freed a corner rope, and pulled again. The tarpaulin slid smoothly to the floor.

  The count stood back. Not bad, not bad at all. It looked much better than he’d dared to hope.

  The car gleamed magically in the flicker of the dim lamplight, its paint a deep, almost black ruby-red which glowed warmly in the drab darkness of the coach house. The great sweep of its body reached from the wall almost to the very doors.

  It was a soft-top D8/120 Delage. His last great indulgence before the war. He’d bought it in ’37, the same year he’d set up Elfie, the glorious Elfie, in an apartment in the Avenue Foch.

  He sighed. Perhaps he had been just a little extravagant.

  He found a piece of rag and began to dust the wings and bonnet. When he’d finished, he eyed the car critically. The chromework could do with a good clean. There was a shelf littered with jars and tins and he searched through them for some chrome polish. Once the chrome was brightened up, he decided, the car would really look very good indeed. He might even ask a bit more for it. The chap had sounded very keen: perhaps he might go as high as seventy thousand.

  He wetted his lips. That kind of money would tide him over very nicely.

  From outside there was a loud hissing noise, and the crunching of wheels on gravel.

  The count hastily wiped his hands and went out of the side door into the drive.

  It was the taxi from the village, wheezing and snorting like a wild animal. Like many vehicles, it had been converted to run off gas extracted from a charcoal furnace strapped to one side. A well-dressed young man had stepped out and was speaking to the driver.

  At the sound of the count’s footsteps the young man turned.

  The count’s gaze faltered for a moment. What an extraordinary face! It looked as if it had been horribly injured at some time: the nose had obviously been broken and the cheek and jaw bones were lopsided, giving the whole face a curiously crooked look. Thick white scars ran through the dark eyebrows and there was a longer, more livid scar down the length of one cheek.

  The count stretched out a hand and smiled. ‘How d’you do? Monsieur Lelouche, I presume?’

  ‘Yes.’ The young man hesitated, then shook the proffered hand briefly. He said immediately, ‘Where is the car?’

  ‘In here.’ The count indicated the coach house. ‘Unfortunately I have not been able to get the doors open. No help, you understand. Would you care to come round the side for the moment?’

  The young man said coldly, ‘No, let’s open the doors.’ He beckoned to the taxi driver and together they lifted the right-hand door and swung it open. The count pulled open the other door, which moved quite easily.

  The car glinted brightly in the morning light, its colour now revealed as rich gleaming wine-red.

  The sunlight also revealed that the count’s rag had missed some patches of dust and that he had been right about wanting to clean the chromework, which looked decidedly dull. The count wished he’d started work on the car the day before.

  ‘When was she built?’

  ‘1937. That was when I bought her. Brand new. Hardly been used.’

  ‘How long’s she been sitting in here?’

  ‘Since the war.’ That didn’t sound too good and the count added hastily, ‘She’s been looked after, though. Always checked regularly, polished and so on …’ A lie, but then one had to embroider a little.

  ‘And the body’s by Letournier and Marchand?’

  ‘Oh yes, only the best.’

  The young man went in and walked round the car, his eyes gleaming thoughtfully, his fingers running gently over the sleek lines. ‘Is it in running order?’

  ‘It should be …’

  The young man raised his eyebrows. The count had a feeling that the fellow hadn’t believed a word of what he’d said. The old man’s confidence began to wane: perhaps the young man wouldn’t offer such a good price as he’d thought.

  The young man opened the driver’s door and leaned inside. The count realised he was letting off the handbrake. The young man closed the door, went round to the front of the car and the next moment the Delage was rolling out into the sunshine.

  The young man paused for breath and remarked, ‘The battery’s flat, I suppose?’

  ‘Well … er, I don’t know.’

  The young man got into the car, found the crank handle and passed it to the taxi driver who took it to the front and started winding. Nothing happened, not even a rumble. The engine sounded very dead indeed.

  After fifteen minutes the young man put his head out of the window and said to the taxi driver, ‘Can you fetch a mechanic from the town?’

  The driver nodded and went off to restoke his charcoal burner.

  Lelouche came over to the count. ‘Shall we talk about price? Assuming the engine does work … Eventually.’ He sounded very doubtful.

  ‘Yes, yes. A good idea!’ The count did some quick mental arithmetic and decided that, in view of the dead engine, he’d settle for sixty thousand. He’d paid a hundred and twenty for it seven years ago. Since then prices had doubled, more or less. So in real terms he’d be getting about a quarter of what he’d paid for it. Yes: that seemed fair enough.

  The taxi went hissing and snorting away down the drive. The two men began to walk slowly along the drive, towards the front of the château. The young man was considering. He said suddenly, ‘I’ll give you twenty. Twenty thousand.’

  The count felt the blood drain from his face. He could hardly believe his ears. He said weakly, ‘Twenty? But it’s worth at least – at least fifty!’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The eyes were very certain, very calm.

  The count averted his gaze and said bravely, ‘I won’t accept a sou less than forty-five!’

  The young man stopped. ‘That’s a pity. A great pity.’ There was contempt in the hard black eyes. The count shuffled uneasily. ‘I don’t think you’ll find many buyers around at the moment, even at a reasonable price,’ the young man went on. ‘And certainly none at that – unrealistic – price. There’s no market for cars at the moment. None at all.’

  He was right. The count knew he was right. It was infuriating.

  Lelouche regarded the crumbling façade of the château with apparent indifference. ‘If you want a sale you’ll have to be a little more realistic.’

  The count sighed. ‘Very well. But twenty thousand is ridiculous, monsieur. Out of the question! What’s your best offer?’

  Lelouche shook his head. ‘Twenty-five. And that’s being very generous. It isn’t worth any more. Twenty-five. And that’s my final offer.’

  The count swallowed hard. It was ludicrous, insulting! And yet without the money … It didn’t bear thinking about. He couldn’t go on living here in penury and squalor. He wanted to get back to Paris, to his friends, to the comfort of a smart apartment … He was too old to change now.

  He’d advertised twice in Auto and this had been the only enquiry.

  He shook his head. ‘Forty. Forty, monsieur. Not a sou less.’

  The young man’s eyes were hard now, like bullets. ‘I said my final offer was twenty-five. I meant it.’ He turned on his heel and strode away.

  The count watched in dismay as the young man walked to the coach house and leant against the wall. The old man’s heart sank. He was beaten and he knew it.

  He left it a few minutes then walked over with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Thirty-five.’

  The young man sighed heavily. ‘I said twenty-five.’

  ‘All right! All right!�
�� The count could have wept. What a waste! His lovely car, worth nothing. Nothing! Tears of humiliation and anger pricked his eyes and he sniffed loudly. He made the effort to pull himself together. Because he was an aristocrat and breeding was everything, he forced himself to smile and say, ‘Well, monsieur, you drive a hard bargain, I must say!’

  ‘Do I?’ The young man shrugged slightly.

  For some minutes the count found it difficult to speak. He kept thinking of what one used to be able to buy with a hundred thousand francs – and how little one could get for twenty-five nowadays.

  Lelouche was walking round the car again. He stopped and, manipulating some clips, released the soft top and folded it back. He got into the car and sat at the wheel.

  The count wandered over and leant unhappily against the door. After a while he found the silence embarrassing and, more out of politeness than interest, asked, ‘You’ll find enough petrol to run it, will you?’

  The young man’s lips narrowed. ‘Yes, I’ve been saving my coupons.’

  The count nodded. Out of a lifetime’s habit of making conversation he eventually went on. ‘There’s so little of everything nowadays. Food. Necessities … It’s been a long four years. Did you have a hard war, monsieur?’

  The young man dropped his eyes. ‘As hard as any.’

  ‘You were in the fighting?’

  A slight hesitation, as if not wanting to boast, then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so! By your face … If you’ll excuse me saying so.’

  There was a silence.

  Despite the difficulty of the conversation, the count persevered. He wanted to show that he could rise above such petty considerations as resentment and hurt pride. ‘Which service were you in?’

  Again the slight pause. ‘Airforce. I joined the British.’

  ‘Ah.’

  At that moment the taxi reappeared round the corner and the count was rather relieved.

  It took an hour for the mechanic to clean the plugs and the points, change the oil and adjust the timing. Fortunately no actual parts were in need of replacement.

  The mechanic closed the bonnet wiped his hands and, with some ceremony, cranked the handle. The Delage started first time, the engine purring smoothly like a large well-fed cat.

  There hadn’t been much wrong with her. The count began to feel rather sick.

  The young man approached him and without a word counted twenty-five thousand francs off a roll that contained at least fifty.

  The count took the money. ‘We’ll need a bill of sale …’

  ‘I have one.’ He went back towards the car and the count followed him. The young man took a document out of his pocket and, laying it on the car bonnet, wrote on it. Then he said, ‘Sign here.’

  The count looked at the document. It was a proper bill of sale. The young man’s name, Lelouche, and an address in Paris were already entered, and the young man had apparently just added the car’s details, the count’s name and address, and the date. The young man was holding out a pen. The count took it and said, ‘I’ll need a copy of the details.’

  The young man’s eyes dropped. He looked cross. Eventually he said, ‘All right.’ And he tore a piece of paper out of a notebook, wrote down the details of the sale, and gave them to the count.

  The count sighed. ‘I’ll get the car’s papers,’ he said. He went into the château, found the Carnet de Route, and handed it over.

  The young man walked back to the car, got in and drove off.

  It was only after the low throb of the exhaust had faded round the bend in the drive that the count realised that neither the taxi driver nor the mechanic had been paid.

  Clenching his teeth, the old man took the roll of bills from his pocket and counted out some money.

  As soon as he had turned the corner of the drive Vasson let out a great laugh of delight.

  She was a beauty! Fantastic!

  In need of some attention, of course. But it wasn’t anything that a good mechanic, a little money and a bit of elbow grease couldn’t cure.

  He took the car carefully out on to the main road and concentrated on getting the feel of her. The steering was heavier than he was used to and the pedals stiffer. But it was only a question of familiarity. He pushed her gently up through the gears. Once in top he eased off the throttle and listened to the engine noise for signs of trouble. But she was going as sweetly as a bird. After a while he put his foot down a bit and heard the engine note change from a steady purr to a more urgent roar. The car surged forward.

  The speedometer crept up. He felt the wind pulling at his hair and buffeting his cheeks. The tall poplars lining the road swished by, faster and faster. The long straight road stretched out ahead, empty of traffic, seductive, luring him onward.

  He kept his foot down. The speedometer on the walnut dashboard read eighty … ninety … a hundred kilometres an hour.

  He held his breath. His heart was almost bursting with joy and excitement …

  Then he lost his nerve and slowed down for a while.

  He found that he was shaking. He laughed to himself, and shook his head.

  It had been worth all the effort. And all the waiting. He’d never been so happy in his life.

  Then the slowness seemed rather tame. He wanted the intoxication – the exhilaration – of the speed again. He pressed gently on the accelerator and felt a wave of delicious physical pleasure …

  Yes! This was better than anything, anything …

  He had to slow down for the villages, but on the straights he let her fly … On and on, with no end to it.

  The suburbs of Paris came too soon.

  He felt a vague disappointment until he saw how people stared at the car. Then he began to enjoy himself again, pretending that he hadn’t noticed their glances, looking as if he’d owned the car all his life.

  He smiled to himself. Oh yes! It had been worth all the waiting.

  And the price – that made it even better. What a bargain it had been. Vasson couldn’t believe his luck. The stupid old count was typical of his class. Useless with money. His type didn’t deserve to have it in the first place.

  Eventually he slowed the Delage right down and guided it carefully through a narrow archway, into a cobblestone yard and up to some garage doors. He jumped out, opened the doors and drove the car slowly in.

  He turned off the engine and sat for a moment in the silence, reluctant to leave the soft luxury of the leather seat. When he did get out it was to touch the long lines of the bonnet, to admire the four external exhausts which led out of the right-hand side of the engine-casing and into the wing, and to feel the fine elegant sweep of the rear, which seemed to go on for ever.

  Eventually he stepped out into the courtyard and closed and locked the doors. He hated to go, but it wouldn’t be for long. He’d be coming back the next day with a mechanic, to get the dynamo and battery problems sorted out.

  Automatically he looked around to see if anyone was watching him, but the dirty windows overlooking the courtyard were blank and anonymous. He’d been rather careless, he decided, driving through the Paris streets with the top down. In time it wouldn’t matter who saw him, but at the moment it was just a bit too soon after the Occupation to be affluent … Rather, he corrected himself, to be seen to be affluent.

  Once he’d got the club going it would be different.

  He walked the short distance to his apartment. It was the fourth he’d rented that year. It was as dingy and cheap as the others. Soon – within the year – there’d be a decent apartment. But not quite yet. Again, it would be too soon.

  But then, as he’d discovered with the car, the waiting would make it all the better.

  He changed out of his best clothes and put on something cheaper and more casual.

  Then he went out again.

  It was a long journey to the dix-huitième by Métro; he had to change trains twice. Immediately he came out into the daylight and saw Pigalle and the familiar streets leading up to Montm
artre he felt at home.

  He walked a short way up a side street until he came to an almost derelict building. There were many buildings in Paris like this at the moment, their leases unsold, their owners vanished, their occupants bankrupt. It was a perfect time to make a good deal.

  Vasson had bought a forty-year lease on this property for almost nothing – but then he’d paid in gold, and gold was worth more to a seller than any amount of paper money.

  He ran down the steps to the basement, found the door open and went in. The builders were there, tearing out the partition walls of what had once been a series of storerooms.

  Vasson wandered around, exchanging a few words with the men. He wanted to get on friendly terms with them so that they’d work harder and finish the job on time, and more important, on budget.

  He’d worked the figures out very carefully. He should get his money back within eighteen months.

  He stood back and examined the scene as a whole. Already one could get an idea of how large the room would be once the partition walls had gone.

  Just right. There’d be a bar in the far corner, a small dance floor, and plenty of small tables. Then, the special touch … A girl, dancing all by herself, high up in a golden cage. Gold! He liked the irony of it.

  That was what he was going to call it.

  The Golden Cage.

  An English name. Very smart. The sign would be gold on black. He’d helped to design it himself.

  He smiled. It was happening at last. And what made it so satisfying was that he’d earned it all himself. Every single penny.

  Chapter 36

  THE POLICE STATION was busy. People strode across the hall from one anonymous door to another, or from the main door to a sergeant sitting stoically at the front desk, and then back again. The waiting area was crowded, all the seats long taken. No-one looked at Julie. She sat very still, staring at the opposite wall, and, like everyone else, waited.

  She’d been there for several hours, waiting at first, then giving her statement, and then waiting again. She would probably have to wait a while longer, but she didn’t mind; she could stay for just as long as necessary.