Night Sky

by Clare Francis

‘I don’t know … I don’t know!’

  ‘Was it Meteor? Was it? Or ours in Brittany?

  The man threw his head from side to side and started to sob again. ‘I don’t know …’

  Julie stood for a while, watching him. Pierre took her aside. ‘It’s not much.’

  ‘No.’ It was almost nothing. She asked, ‘What about this Kloffer? Was he captured?’

  Pierre shook his head. ‘No! The Gestapo were the first people to disappear. He’ll be holed up in Germany by now, planning his excuses.’

  A cry came from the figure in the chair. ‘Please, lady … Please have mercy … Please don’t let them kill me. Please!’ He was wailing again.

  Julie looked back. ‘What about him?’

  Pierre murmured, ‘We’ll decide.’

  ‘Are you sure he did it?’

  ‘We’re sure.’ He went to the door. ‘Here, I’ll see you back.’ As she stepped out into the cool night air a howl came floating through the door. Julie clenched her fists and walked quickly up the steps towards the street.

  Pierre caught up with her and they walked in silence for a while.

  Eventually he asked, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you go back to Brittany?’

  She shook her head. ‘There doesn’t seem much point. Fougères wouldn’t have gone back there.’

  ‘So you’ll stay in Paris?’

  She sighed heavily. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, keep in touch. I might hear something. The police might come across your man, you never know. He probably shopped a lot of other people too. It’s bound to catch up with him sooner or later. I’ll leave messages at Chez Alphonse from time to time. Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t more. But one could hardly expect names.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll ask about this Marseillais. Perhaps if he really was important he might be your man.’

  ‘Yes—’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘The one back there. Couldn’t you give him to the police? Couldn’t you?’

  Pierre’s face was sad and cold. ‘What would you do if he had killed your friends?’

  Julie stared at him, then looked away. There was nothing to say.

  They walked on and came to a street which she recognised. She said, ‘I can find my way from here.’

  They said brief goodbyes and separated. Julie walked back to the hotel, deeply depressed. She went straight to bed and lay awake most of the night, thinking.

  The next day she returned to Chez Alphonse. There was no message.

  She returned every evening for a week, after long days spent at police stations, military headquarters, and obscure departments of the new French government.

  Nothing. No information on the Marseillais. No information on someone who might, at one time or another, have called himself Fougères.

  The other branches of the Resistance could not help either. Fougères? No, he had been one of their own. He had never betrayed anyone. Had someone impersonated him then? They didn’t know. Fougères had disappeared when the Gestapo made it too hot for him in Paris. He’d phoned a friend and said he was going to Brittany. Description – Yes, tall and dark. Yes, that was Fougères. He was long dead now, taken from Fresnes and shot at Mont Valerion.

  But they would make more enquiries. No traitor would stay alive and unavenged while they still lived. If she ever heard a whisper about the true identity of the Brittany traitor, she had only to contact them—

  On the eighth day there was a message at Chez Alphonse. It said ‘No trace of anyone known as the Marseillais. Nothing on any other informers. Sorry. Pierre.’

  That night in bed she spent a long time thinking about the number of infiltrators the Gestapo might have used on a regular basis – was it a few? Or a dozen?

  And what made one of those infiltrators really successful, so successful that he stood out from the rest?

  By the morning she thought she knew, and then she made her decision.

  *

  The woman was leaning over him, her face leering and cruel. She laughed, loud and triumphant. He tried to move but she held him in a vice-like grip. He couldn’t believe how strong she was.

  It wasn’t fair! He wanted to say it wasn’t fair.

  He tried to call out. But however hard he tried his lips wouldn’t move. He couldn’t believe it.

  He made a superhuman effort to get free.

  His limbs were heavy and useless. They wouldn’t move either!

  He begged, Move! Please move!

  She was killing him now, slowly but surely. Covering his face, squeezing his neck … He gasped for air, craved for breath … sucked for the precious air …

  But she squeezed tighter.

  He was panicking now. The blood was roaring and singing in his head.

  He was desperate for air …

  Death rushed up to him, nearer and nearer. He sensed it coming …

  And all he could think was: It’s not fair.

  Then she was laughing again, the sound fading and swirling in the distance. Everything was fading …

  With a terrible shock he realised he had slipped over the edge of a precipice and was falling down and down …

  Oh Christ! I’m so frightened. Maman, help!

  Maman!

  He woke up sweating and murmured, ‘Merde!’

  He looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes again and tried to calm himself.

  What a stupid thing. He hadn’t had a dream like that for a long time.

  He wondered vaguely why it should come back now.

  There must be a reason.

  He rolled over and, taking a cigarette from a packet lying on the floor, lit it thoughtfully. He inhaled deeply and let the smoke take effect.

  No, there was no reason for the dream.

  It usually came when things were going badly. But nothing was going badly at the moment. In fact, everything was going rather well …

  Perhaps he’d overlooked something. Quickly he went over everything in his mind: the club, the permits, the financial calculations, the details – always the details.

  He’d forgotten nothing.

  Stupid, stupid … that dream.

  Still, it bothered him. He hated its power over him.

  Angrily he stubbed out his cigarette. Immediately, he lit another one and inhaled deeply.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think of all the good things that were happening, like the car and the new suit he had bought. Yes, there were lots of good things.

  The dream meant nothing.

  No-one would ever find him.

  He was safe.

  The dream belonged to the past. And the past was locked safely away.

  The Man from Marseilles.

  Julie looked at the people milling around the station and thought: But they’re all from Marseilles!

  She picked up her case and walked out of the station into the street. Though it was barely nine, the sun was blazing out of an empty sky. She hadn’t realised it would be so warm in October. Her woollen suit felt rather hot.

  She was standing in a wide boulevard, busy with cars and the occasional horse-drawn vehicle. She was struck immediately by the noise – the hooting of the cars and the loud conversations – and by the colour: the people seemed brighter, more exotic. It was partly their clothes and partly the different races – Arab, Senegalese and Asian.

  She looked around blankly. She wasn’t sure where to start.

  She crossed the boulevard and began to wander down what seemed to be a main street. After a while she paused. This sort of wandering would do no good; she had to do something positive.

  The police first, then. She stopped and asked a shopkeeper for directions to the nearest police station.

  It was not far – five minutes away – but it was the wrong police station. She needed the Police Judiciaire – the criminal investigation branch. They redirected her. It was a long walk
and her case began to feel heavy in her hand. She stopped and removed her jacket. She should have done it before: her blouse was damp with sweat.

  It took half an hour to find a sufficiently senior officer and explain what she wanted.

  Then they laughed at her as she had known they would. Not rudely or unkindly, but politely, with a shake of the head.

  ‘A man called the Marseillais? Madame, have you any idea how many characters are called by that name?’

  But they did let her look at the rogues’ gallery. There were vast numbers of wanted men and ex-convicts. After three hours one face began to look much like another and Julie lost heart. Why should she find him there anyway? He probably had no criminal record. Nevertheless, before she left she arranged to come back the next day, just in case.

  She ate a late lunch in a pavement café then, taking a slip of paper from her purse, made a telephone call. The number belonged to a friend of the Paris Resistance, a colleague of theirs, someone who might be able to help; a man called Alain.

  The number rang. A woman’s voice replied.

  ‘I want to speak to Alain, please.’

  ‘You mean Doctor Hubert? I’m afraid he is at the hospital at present. Please try later.’

  Julie rang off. They hadn’t told her he was a doctor. She decided to try again in the evening.

  In the meantime she had the rest of the afternoon to spare. When the waiter brought coffee, she said, ‘I’m a stranger to the city. Can you tell me where I am? In relation to the centre?’

  ‘La Canebière is about five minutes away. Down there.’ He indicated a direction with his hand.

  ‘And that’s the centre?’

  ‘It’s the main street.’

  She nodded. ‘And where would I find a reasonably-priced hotel. I mean – a cheap one?’ She didn’t want to waste money unnecessarily.

  The waiter shrugged. ‘All kinds of places. But try nearer the harbour. That’s probably your best bet.’

  ‘Where’s that, please?’

  ‘Turn right at La Canebière and you’ll find it at the far end.’

  She found La Canebière immediately, a wide street full of shops and restaurants. It looked a long way to the harbour and she hopped on a bus. After five minutes she glimpsed the water, got off and walked the last few yards, over the road ringing the harbour, to the quayside.

  The harbour lay before her, its waters pale and tranquil, crowded with fishing boats and trading ships. To the left the city rose in an orderly jumble of multi-coloured buildings up the slope of a gentle hill to a magnificent church at the summit, the famous Notre-Dame de la Garde which Julie had seen in photographs.

  To the right there was a quay … She frowned.

  Then there was nothing. For quite a long way.

  It looked like a giant demolition site.

  Julie picked up her case and walked over, trying to imagine what could have happened to the place.

  She climbed what had once been a narrow street of houses. Now there was little but a mass of masonry, splintered wood and the occasional door or window lying crushed and forlorn on its side. The place was disconcerting, like a graveyard. As she went further she saw that, here and there, there were makeshift stalls and shops constructed out of the ruins, where traders – Arabs mostly – were sitting waiting for business. There were shanties, too, with smoke coming from their roofs and washing hanging outside.

  At the top of the street was a junction with a larger road. On the opposite side were buildings again, more people, and order.

  She took a last look at the extraordinary derelict wasteland and crossed the street to the normality of the other side.

  She began looking for a hotel, and not a moment too soon. She was hot and very tired; she’d hardly slept at all on the train. The first hotel she came to was run-down and dirty, the second had a girl standing provocatively on the doorstep, and the third looked rather dark and uninviting. She decided on the third because she couldn’t face going any further; her arm was at breaking point. She should have left her case at the station.

  The room they gave her was clean and tidy and perfectly adequate. She lay down and rested her aching feet until six, when she went down in search of a phone.

  The doctor still wasn’t in. Would she like to leave a message?

  Julie hesitated, instinctively reticent. Then she remembered that the war in France was over and there was no more need for secrecy. She said, ‘Tell him a friend from the Resistance called.’ She left her name and the number of the hotel.

  The next morning there was a message. Doctor Hubert would come to the hotel at twelve.

  She spent the morning with the Police Judiciaire, looking at more pages of photographs. Still nothing. It got to the point where she wondered if she’d recognise him even if she saw him.

  She got back to the hotel breathless and fifteen minutes late. An elderly man who had been sitting in a chair beside the reception desk rose to his feet with some difficulty.

  She asked in surprise, ‘Doctor Hubert?’

  He bowed slightly. He was at least sixty, probably more, and was painfully thin with a marked stoop. He was leaning heavily on a stick.

  She said hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said softly. ‘It is a pleasure to meet anyone – who is a friend.’ He blinked at her over his spectacles. ‘Are you here on a visit? Or—?’

  ‘I need some help.’

  ‘Ah. In that case, perhaps you would care for some lunch?’

  They found a brasserie a few streets away and ordered what seemed to Julie to be a rather extravagant meal of soupe de poisson, veal – when had she last had veal? – and wine.

  As they talked, Julie decided that Alain Hubert was a remarkable man. Gentle and self-effacing, he seemed an unlikely Resistance hero. Perhaps that was why he’d never been caught.

  When the food arrived, Julie ate heartily; she’d almost forgotten what good food tasted like.

  ‘So this person might have come from Marseilles?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Might, yes. It’s not much to go on, is it?’

  ‘Well, who can say? Maybe someone would recognise his description, you never know.’

  ‘The police didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not known to them.’

  Julie sipped at the rich fruity Algerian wine. ‘He’s probably not known anywhere …’

  ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be of any help.’

  She smiled. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘The only thing I can suggest is the milieu.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Most of the crime in Marseilles is highly controlled. There’s an organisation which runs almost everything – black market, prostitution, and, of course, drugs. They must know a lot more about what goes on in this city than the police.’

  He was describing a world that Julie didn’t understand at all. She asked, ‘It’s possible they might know this man, then?’

  ‘I really can’t say. But if you have no luck with the police it’s worth a try.’

  ‘How do I find them?’

  ‘Ahh, that I don’t know.’ He looked at her over his glasses, his eyes twinkling. ‘I don’t move in those circles actually.’

  She grinned. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘It would have been easier in the old days, before they demolished the Old Quarter. It was the centre of all that, it was the bas-quartier.’

  ‘What happened to it? Why was it torn down?’

  ‘The Germans decided it was undesirable and had it flattened. The real reason, I think, was that they couldn’t control what went on inside.’

  They finished their coffee and the doctor insisted on paying for lunch. ‘It’s my pleasure. Forgive me, but I have to go now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He swivelled in his chair and reached for his stick. Julie got up to help him. He said, ‘There is just one thing … There’s an old friend of mine, a chap who’s been in a little trouble from time
to time. He might know how to contact the right people …’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t mix with those sorts of people,’ Julie laughed.

  ‘Ah, well, one’s not so choosy about one’s friends in prison.’

  ‘In prison?’

  He got slowly and painfully to his feet, falling slightly against the table as he did so. She held his arm until he had regained his balance. ‘This leg … Slow to mend … An infernal nuisance … Yes, prison. We were lucky, he and I … We were lucky …’

  So the mild manner had not deceived the Gestapo after all. It explained his frailty and the broken, badly-mended leg.

  He was holding out his hand. ‘It was a great pleasure, madame. Goodbye. I’ll make enquiries of my friend. I’ll telephone. Goodbye.’ He made his way slowly down the street.

  Six hours later there was a message. It read simply: Try Chez Henri off the Rue Caisserie. Good luck.’

  She had no trouble in finding Henri’s Bar; the hotel proprietor directed her straight to it. The place was narrow-fronted and dark. She hesitated. Often bars were combined with cafés or restaurants and a woman could go in quite happily. But this was a bar, a drinking establishment pure and simple.

  She drew a deep breath and marched straight in.

  The interior was dimly lit and, seeing a vacant table beside the door, she sank quickly into a chair. Then she changed her mind. She might as well go the whole hog. Getting up, she perched on a stool at the bar.

  The place was, she imagined, typical. Dark polished wood, yellow paint, and the odour of a thousand cigarettes. But there were exotic smells, too, of spices and herbs and strange unfamiliar scents. A handful of regular customers sat at the bar, well into cafe-cognac, pastis and wine and cassis.

  Behind the counter was a young man, busy serving customers, and an older, plumper man, carefully adjusting the rows of bottles that lined the back of the bar. The older man was surreptitiously watching her in a mirror. She guessed he was the proprietor.

  The young man came by and she ordered coffee. As he went to get it she saw two oranges behind the bar and immediately wished she’d ordered orange pressee. Oranges were virtually unobtainable in England.

  The coffee was put in front of her. A moment later the proprietor drifted past.

  ‘Excuse me—’ Julie asked quickly.