Night Without Stars

by Winston Graham

  I should have been glad enough to see this morning after I said good-bye to him and got into the taxi, because, although I’d never been to Vence, I knew it was well up in the foothills with the mountains rising sharply behind it, and the views would be fine.

  In Vence, Maurice, the taxi driver, stopped to ask the way. Then we branched off and began to climb again. I sat in the front seat with him, and he talked as much as John and smoked incessantly.

  I said: “ Is this one of those roads on the edge of a precipice?”

  “More or less, m’sieu. There is a fall but it is not a very big one. The road winds up the valley, you see. I have never been this way before. On the other road the bridge was blown by the Boches, but I am told they have put a trestle bridge across.”

  We took two double hairpin bends that destroyed my sense of direction entirely. I said: “ I often wonder they don’t build bigger parapets on these mountain roads.”

  He blew a cloud of cigarette smoke over me. “Oh, there is very little traffic up here. A bicycle or two. The corners are nothing. Of course I have never been this way before.” We swung carelessly round again and back, and then began to drop slightly for a change.

  “Do you know when we are there, m’sieu? I wonder if that is it?”

  “What?”

  “There is a villa of some sort on the other side of the valley. It is the only house to be seen.”

  “No. I haven’t been before.”

  The road deteriorated now, and for a few restful moments Maurice slowed down while we bumped over it.

  “They are repairing the road,” he said. “And not before time. The rain has brought down a lot of loose stones from above. They will find extra work when they come in the morning.”

  After a bit we came to a stop.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A fork. There has been a signpost but it has been broken off. No doubt the Maquis did it.”

  “I should make for the villa.”

  “It has disappeared. But I should think if we take the left fork.”

  He swiveled the car round and started off again. “Ah, there it is.” He blew smoke all over me again. “We shall soon be there now. If it is the wrong villa we can at least inquire the way.”

  But it was the right villa. Charles Bénat had seen us coming and was waiting on the steps, a big dog at his side.

  Bénat’s hands were slim and long, a bit like a woman’s; the grip

  firm but disinterested.

  I said: “ I’ve heard a good deal of your beautiful house.”

  “Oh, this. A fancy for Renaissance furniture; what else is there

  to do with one’s money? Can I get you something to drink? Quiet,

  Grutli, the gentleman has come to stay.”

  In the theatre there’s a technique called “throw away”; that’s how Charles Bénat talked: quickly but casually, deprecatingly, offhand. He discarded his thoughts, throwing them like a bone to the dog.

  “This is English gin, of course. French gin is outrageous. You haven’t been here before? One can see Corsica on a fine day. Not that there’s any special pleasure in detecting a smudge on the horizon. Why do people suppose there is?”

  “I expect the general view is very good.”

  “Agreeable. You can see across the nearer valleys to the green hills which stretch down to the sea. I like generosity in nature because it’s so rare in one’s friends.”

  We were in a large room. The chair I was in was of studded leather, shaped like a doge’s chair. From the way the light fell, I gathered that the window was tall and narrow and latticed, running from floor to ceiling. The dog, a Great Dane, crouched on the floor, watching me suspiciously. Every now and then he would shift round and shake himself.

  “This is an old house?”

  “No. Oh, no. It was built in the twenties by a rich industrialist from Lille—in the forties he sided with the decrepit Marshal. When he was shot a grateful country gave me the first refusal of his property—charging me not more than three times what it cost to build. You’ll stay to lunch, of course.”

  I said I’d half promised to meet John in Cagnes at one.

  “You should have brought Mr. Chapel. I like him, even though one feels there’s something retarded about him, as if he’s never quite grown up. Anyway, he can go home without you. A promise has become a convention no one takes seriously these days. I have American cigarettes but not English. Or do you prefer your own?”

  We talked for a bit, not getting anywhere in particular; and then Bénat broke off almost in mid-stream and said: “ But we aren’t here to discuss my affairs, are we? I understand you’ve been getting into trouble, Mr. Gordon. I hope I can help. It won’t be the first time I’ve helped one of your countrymen. The last one was a parachutist who misguidedly landed near St Jeannet.”

  I said: “ You’ll think I’m wasting your time.”

  “That, of course, remains to be seen.”

  And then he was silent. A few minutes ago I’d wondered when he gave his clients room to talk. But now he completely dried up. I couldn’t see him, so could only suppose his attention.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “you know Pierre Grognard.”

  “I do indeed. We worked for the same cause during the occupation.”

  So that much was true.

  “And a young woman called Alix Delaisse.”

  “I know her by sight. Her husband was also under me in the Resistance movement. He lost his life.”

  “Yes, I know,” I went on, not telling the story very well. I told him about finding the body and what had happened. He didn’t speak. The only sound was the occasional movement of the dog. It’s hard going through a longish story when you’ve no guide to the attitude of your listener, can’t see the expression in his eyes or judge by a smile or a frown whether he’s interested or bored.

  When I’d finished he got up. “Let me fill your glass.”

  “Thanks.”

  He came over, fiddled about at the table before sitting down. He had a slight limp, I thought.

  He asked exactly the same question John had asked. “Are you sure the man was dead?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How?”

  “By the feel of his hands and face.”

  “They were cold?”

  “No, but cooling.”

  “And when did this happen?”

  “Last Wednesday.”

  “Supposing the man was dead, what makes you sure it was Pierre Grognard?”

  “That’s a—” I stopped.

  “Have you ever seen Pierre Grognard?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “But it was his flat?”

  I said: “ It was his flat, it was his hair oil, his type of hands.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Gordon. It was not Pierre.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I’ve seen him since.”

  “Since Wednesday?”

  “I saw him on Friday in Grasse.”

  I frowned. “ Good God!”

  “Yes, it’s very strange.”

  “Was he all right?”

  “He seemed very well. I only exchanged a few words with him because I had an appointment at the Mairie.”

  “What was he doing in Grasse?”

  “He’d gone up there for his marriage. He was to be married yesterday, and then they were leaving to spend their honeymoon in Paris.”

  “They,” I said.

  “Yes, he and his new wife. You know her as Alix Delaisse.”

  There was a smell of lavender in the room. I think Bénat had gone across to a vase and broken a bit of flower off to stick in his coat.

  I said dully: “ But why Grasse?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why did they go to Grasse to get married?”

  “It was his home town. His parents lived there. Yes, Grutli, you may go out if you want to.”

  “But whose was th
e body I found in his flat on Wednesday evening?”

  “That remains to be seen. I’m afraid I’m not very satisfied about it, Mr. Gordon.”

  I laughed briefly. “You think the body wasn’t there or that the body wasn’t—dead.”

  “I don’t in the least doubt the evidence of the senses you still have. But there are one or two possible explanations …”

  “I’d be glad to hear them.”

  “Well.… Pierre Grognard is a complex character. Though you might not think it, he has a malicious sense of humour. During the occupation he played at least one practical joke on Darnand’s men which was a classic of its kind. That sort of thing grows on one. You’d quarrelled with him. It’s not impossible that this was some elaborate joke. Perhaps it misfired; perhaps you were expected to ring up the police.”

  “And you think Alix Delaisse would join in it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You know the lady better than I do.”

  “And the café in Villefranche?”

  “Again—you know the lady better than I do.”

  “And if I’m convinced the man was dead?”

  “That’s up to you, what you believe. I can give you the address of Pierre’s servant if you choose, and you can go to the flat together.”

  There was silence. I said: “How long will they be away?”

  “I don’t know that. You could find out at any of Pierre’s restaurants. I think he said a month.”

  Irrespective of anything that had happened on Wednesday night, it was hard to believe that Alix had gone off without a word. What I felt may have shown in my face, because he came across and touched my shoulder.

  “Is it so unusual to be let down by a woman? Don’t tell me you still have illusions, Mr. Gordon.”

  “It seems to me,” I said dryly, “that I have practically nothing else.”

  He laughed. “Oh, those are a different sort.”

  “Are they?”

  “So I should have thought. What did Mr. Chapel advise you to do”

  “Very much what I think you will.”

  “You mean—go home.… Well, it’s the obvious thing, isn’t it? You’re not really in a condition … After all, whether this thing was a hoax or not isn’t really the point.”

  “What is, then?”

  “I should say the lady in the case.”

  “You’re dead right.”

  “That being so, there’s still less you can do at this stage. Trying to interrupt a honeymoon—that would make you popular with no one. If I were you I should swallow my pride and go home for a year or so. Then, if you still feel like it come back and take aim at the lady. She might welcome you. On the law of averages she will. It’s really much more fun that way if one can bring it off, because one represents romance with none of the tiresome obligations.”

  I said: “ You take a poor view of human nature.”

  “Far from it. But one tries not to be sentimental. Sentimentality is the cause of so much trouble in the world, don’t you think? It leads people to tell themselves lies—which is so much more dangerous than telling lies to others.”

  I stayed to lunch. We had it in a low cool room with a tiled floor and pot palms which made a graceful rustling sound by the open windows. The meal was caviare, plovers’ eggs, a side of pork, fresh strawberries and ice cream, Arabian coffee. The wines and liqueurs were in keeping.

  I said: “ Do you live here quite by yourself?”

  “Except for Grutli and the servants. Yes. Why not? I’m away a lot bothering with other people’s troubles. When I come back here I like to relax.”

  “You haven’t married?”

  “My God, I have not.”

  “Preferring, I suppose, the romance without the tiresome obligations.”

  “Women are all right in their place—and their place is pleasure. One enjoys good wine and good food, but who’d think of marrying them!”

  I said: “ Food and wine as good as these are almost worth it.”

  “The old man from Lille laid in a good cellar. But then he was a Catholic and believed in the mortification of the flesh.”

  “You aren’t fond of the Catholics.”

  “How could I be? I was brought up one.”

  The manservant padded across, put new glasses on the table and filled them.

  When he’d withdrawn into the background I said: “Perhaps the Communists have your sympathy.”

  I think Bénat smiled. “ You wish to be knowing, don’t you? If it’s of interest they haven’t.… I look on a Communist as only another sort of Catholic— an unfrocked Jesuit, so to speak. Don’t you think that’s true? People join the Communist party now for much the same reason they joined the Catholic Church in the Middle Ages, because they are afraid. If they’re stupid it’s fear of intimidation. If they’re intelligent it’s fear of facing up to the spiritual consequences of standing alone. Down, Grutli, you may not move till we do.”

  “An individualist, then.”

  “I should use the word anarchist if it hadn’t the wrong associations. Anarch is a bit better perhaps—it’s the same word in English, isn’t it? The Anarch is surely a man who considers that all dogma exists only to be challenged and who admits no moral law beyond his own need—who sees his own judgment to be the equal of all men’s and therefore fundamentally more important to himself, who’s prepared to act alone and think alone and has the courage to face his own inevitable despair. More coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Good coffee’s still hard to get. This came from Baghdad. The idea of an anarchist as a man of violence is rather silly. He need not be at all. The Catholics and the Communists have killed and tortured millions. An anarchist would torture none and kill only those who interfered irremovably with his own peace of mind—as the Italians and the Germans did with mine during the war.”

  I said, smiling: “You despise the law but live very well out of it.”

  “You’re a lawyer yourself. Don’t we all do that?”

  “Not to the extent of taking it into our own hands.”

  “Oh, well, that was a little rhetorical. Most Frenchmen are inclined to be rhetorical as most Englishmen are inclined to be literal. Naturally I don’t advise a client to go and shoot his neighbor just because he disagrees with him. Any more than I advise you to shoot Pierre Grognard for disappointing you in the matter of his death.”

  “I shall go back to England for a while.”

  “It hasn’t been a pleasant experience, I can see. Being duped seldom is. Fortunately most of the human race never realise their blindness.”

  I said a bit acidly: “ It would be a pity to generalise too much from my experience.”

  “I beg your pardon. That wasn’t a very good remark.”

  “Well … thanks for bearing with me.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it. Come and see me again if you’re in this district”

  “I will.” But I wasn’t sure whether he meant it, because he suddenly sounded flat and casual. He came to the door with me, but reluctantly, as if he’d lost interest and wanted to get back to his own work.

  Before I could go more than a few paces Bénat had moved away and was talking to his dog.

  Maurice had been well fed in the servants’ quarters and drove down more furiously than he’d come up. He chatted a lot, about what a great man Bénat was and how lucky I was to know him, but I was thoughtful and don’t remember a lot of what he said. John, of course, hadn’t waited, and I took a bus back from Cagnes.

  Early on in my talk with Charles Bénat I realised I’d known only one man before who could sit as quiet as he could. It was probably just a coincidence, and I decided not to mention it to John. It would only confirm him in the view that I was imagining things.

  Book Two

  Chapter 2

  The following week I went back to England.

  It’s all right to talk about swallowing your pride, but it’s hard enough when it comes to the point. But, as Bénat said, there
wasn’t much else I could do. If I went to the police I could only offer them my story, doubtful evidence at best. They would listen politely and put the statement away in a drawer. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even listen politely.

  Left to myself, I should have hung on the month to confront Alix and Grognard when they came back. I was on the spot, and it needed no initiative to wait. But it needed money, and I was down to my last five pounds.

  Then at the crucial moment McWheeler turned up again, and his presence weighted the scale. Representatives of his Chamber of Commerce would be in London next month, and if I cared to meet them he thought something might be worked out between us. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted his job, supposing it to be had; but looking after it seemed so much more active, so much more dignified, than moving back to the Wintertons as a non-paying guest. So I argued with myself that I was sick of everything to do with Alix and that a breath of English air would be a welcome change after all this unpleasantness. Altogether it would depend very much on the way the wind set when I got back to England whether I ever left it again.

  London wasn’t very welcoming to begin. The flat was gone, and hotel life is expensive and dreary. At home the disablement seemed worse, more conspicuous. Concerts were a help, and I went to as many as possible; but of course they filled up only a small part of the time. And time is an enemy when you can do so little with it.

  I told Cousin Lewis of the Proposition McWheeler.

  He said: “It doesn’t strike me as being your—hm—cup of tea, Giles. Mercantile law’s one thing—French commercial law another. Lot of study would be needed. Could you do it?”

  “There are ways.”

  “Much better—hm—come back to your own firm. Business growing and I’m overworked.”

  “There’d be a certain satisfaction in holding down a job that wasn’t anybody’s charity.”

  “Nonsense, there’s no charity in coming back here. You could pull your weight in all sorts of ways.”

  “I shall have to fight it out. At the moment I just don’t know.”

  “I suppose they’re aware of your disability?”

  “I’m not sure. McWheeler knows I’m very short-sighted.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell them.”