Night Without Stars

by Winston Graham

  “I’m inquiring for a Mme. Alix Delaisse. She used to work here. Do you know if she still does?”

  She brought back the manageress.

  “Mme. Delaisse left a year ago, m’sieu. We don’t know her present address.”

  “Did she leave to get married?”

  “Not to my knowledge. She took a holiday and then wrote saying she was not coming back.”

  I chewed my lip. “She was an unusual type, wasn’t she, m’dam; well educated, superior for this work? Do you know anything of her history?”

  “She was a war widow, m’sieu. The war ruined many people’s fortunes. She did not confide in me.”

  “No,” I said. “ Thank you.”

  “And of course,” she added a bit frostily as I was going to turn away, “ this is a shop where only assistants of superior character are employed.”

  I hadn’t really expected much; it was a question of checking up first in the most obvious ways; the sort of thing one could do in the way of preliminaries, narrowing the field.

  But it was all very well to say stop at that. Once the movement was begun …

  I bought a stick and a pair of sun-glasses and caught a bus for Villefranche.

  I felt fine, as if a burden had got lost. It was exciting to be on one of those crowded busses again and to see the road ahead and the sweep of the coast-line, and not to lurch blindly about, never knowing which way the thing was going to lift or turn.

  The woman from the flats had been helpful in one way. It hadn’t occurred to me until then that last year’s disability might be put to some use.

  There were two American cruisers anchored off Villefranche. Flags fluttered at the mast-heads, and picket boats crawled to and fro, splitting the blue linoleum of the bay. But so far as I could see neither of the crews had yet been given shore leave. The steep little town drowsed in the evening sun.

  There was no difficulty here. Eyes half shut, I went over the familiar ground that led to the Café Gambetta. Down the hill towards the quay, second on the left, follow straight along till you come to the steps. I got to the street where the Rue St. Agel should have been, stopped, and looked up. Rue Carnot. As before.

  Along the Rue Carnot until one should have been opposite the Café Gambetta. There was the Café des Fourmis. As before.

  Tapping now and then with the stick, I crossed the road and went in.

  It was much as one had imagined it: a bar along the side, half a dozen tables, bead curtains at the other end emitting off the second room. In the second room was the piano.

  The card players were not there. A couple of old women haggled over a shopping bag. A whiskery chap in a blue overall was reading the café paper. Two or three other men were about. A tall youth in tight blue trousers and rope-soled shoes leaned over the bar talking to François (or Raoul).

  “M’sieu?” There was no doubt now that Raoul recognised me, but I don’t think any of the others did. I ordered white wine, sat down at a table, and waited. After a bit he sidled out of the bar, wiping his hands on his apron, and disappeared through the bead curtain. Nothing happened and I tried to go on staring at the shelves of wine bottles. Raoul came back with my drink.

  “D’you remember me?” I said.

  “M’sieu?”

  “Used to come this way about a year ago. Surely you remember me playing the piano?”

  “No, m’sieu. I have been away, on my term of service.”

  He went off. Then the bead curtains parted and someone looked out. It was annoying not being able to recognise people except by their voices, because it was the sound of their voices they’d naturally withhold from me. This was a man about thirty-five, thick set, with heavy brown hair and a sour expression. Armand Delaisse?

  I drank my wine and ordered some more. Then a couple of big men came in talking. They stopped suddenly at a little movement from Raoul and looked my way. They recognised me, exchanged glances, and then went through to the inner room. But I also had recognised them. One was Dramont, the other was my “comrade in arms” Scipion. Both looked startled but neither had made the slightest attempt to come over and greet me.

  I raised a finger for Raoul. He came across.

  “Is it permitted to go into the next room?”

  “No, m’sieu.”

  “But I always used to. I played the piano.”

  “I don’t know, m’sieu. It may be permitted some evenings.”

  “Does Mme. Alix Delaisse ever come here now?”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “Or M. Pierre Grognard?”

  “No, m’sieu. I don’t know them.”

  But somebody did. The boy at the bar had turned quickly and his face was alert and a bit scared. After a while three men came in and started playing cards. Two of them recognised me and whispered between themselves. But I got up and left. This morning I’d been walking down Regent Street. I still kept telling myself that. It was enough for the first day.

  There was a little alley running down between the café and the next house. Half slope and half steps, it fell steeply because the café was built on the hillside and the balcony of the back room looked over the next lowest street to the sea. This meant that the sea side of the building had three stories instead of two, and there was probably a back entrance to the place via this alley.

  Next time I thought I’d go down that way.

  Chapter 7

  John said: “ Why didn’t you write and let us know you were coming? It’s still possible to kill the fatted calf in this country. Kay’s away but—”

  I said: “ I’m not ungrateful. Believe me. It just happened I got up steam in a hurry.”

  “We were full of joy at your letter. My God, I thought last year … It shook us both up more than you realise. And you of all people.”

  “Very nice of you. I’m still busy with the Te Deums myself.”

  Another shock, to have had so much to do with him last year and yet not to have seen him since before the war. All the time I’d pictured him at twenty-one. At thirty-one he was fatter and had lost a lot of hair, and his fresh colour had deepened. Having matured at sixteen he’d picked up a middle-aged look before his time. Yet every now and then the forgotten schoolboy stared out.

  “Kay’s away, you said?”

  “… She’s in England. Bit of a holiday. She needed it. Can’t think why, of course. This climate suits me down to the ground.”

  “Some people don’t transplant easily.” But is it that? I thought. He’s happier this year: the hang-dog sound has gone.

  He looked at me and grinned.

  “You know, the French outlook appeals to me. We fit in.”

  I said: “There are forty million French outlooks. Which particular one do you find yourself fitting in with?”

  “Oh, there’s nothing of that about it.” He grinned again, but a bit sheepishly. “That’s more in your line of country nowadays—from what you told me last year.”

  “Which reminds me of my grievance. At least it’s a grievance if your finger is as much on public events as it ought to be.”

  I handed him the crumpled newspaper cutting about Grognard. He pretended to read it through while he thought out his line.

  “Yes,” he said after a minute. “ I did see it at the time.”

  “Then why didn’t you write—or, still better, phone, because I was still in Nice when this came out.”

  He took out his pipe and lit it. “Honestly, old boy, what good would it have done?”

  “You might have given me the chance of deciding.”

  The match flickered about his face. “Well, I reasoned differently. I thought here’s a man who’s in trouble. He’s blind and he’s in a foreign country. He’s met a woman and lost her, and he feels generally frustrated. He’s entangled in something that in any case will bring him no good—”

  “Ah, that’s nearer the truth. The old Legation caution coming out.”

  “Not entirely. But partly. Why not? Anyway you were just
turning your back on the scene. When I saw this paragraph you were due to leave on the following day, tickets bought, seat reserved. If no one else told you, was I going to phone up and stop you, or post it after you to bring you back? In any case, this account of the accident wouldn’t have helped you very much.”

  “Accident?”

  “Well, whatever it was.”

  “Can you tell me another thing. Why was this piece tucked away in small print in a corner of the paper?”

  “Better go and ask the editor.”

  “Well, what else do you know?”

  “Grognard was buried in Nice. I went along to the funeral.”

  “Was Alix there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You see it mentions his widow in the cutting.”

  “Yes. His first wife was there in the usual weeds. The cutting may refer to her if the paper didn’t know he’d married again.”

  “He may not have married again.”

  “What d’you mean? Bénat told you he had.”

  “Whose body was it I found three days before the wedding?”

  “It could hardly have been his. This was nearly a fortnight later.”

  “Don’t you think the coincidence a bit steep?”

  John shrugged his shoulders moodily. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Plenty.”

  He said: “ You’re only sticking your neck out, Giles. Of course I can’t advise you now; you’ve got your sight back—some of it anyway; you’re free, white, etc., etc. But it won’t be any particular fun if in a week or two I have to tog up for your funeral.”

  “I’ll keep above ground.”

  “There are quicksands about, old boy. Trouble then is you never know when you’re going in deep.”

  The Carlotta Restaurant was in the Rue Diano Marina, which is a bit out of Nice. It was all John had said and more. There was a flowered terrace with orange umbrellas and exotic orange-and-gold nude figures climbing round the doors and windows. Inside the carpets were green and white, and concealed orange lighting lit up ivory-white walls draped in green. The waiters were silent and discreet. I went in at a quiet time, but with the summer season not properly begun this was probably unnecessary. I looked at the menu and thought it was lucky I’d chosen a cheap hotel.

  When the meal was half through I beckoned the head waiter. He was a middle-aged dark fellow with the sort of chin that needs shaving at four-hourly intervals.

  I said: “I was very much distressed when I returned to Nice to hear of M. Grognard’s death.”

  “Ah, you knew him, m’sieu? Yes, it was a sad accident.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “He was motoring to Grenoble from Grasse. Something went wrong with the car, or he skidded, we don’t know. The roads through the mountains can be very dangerous.”

  “Was he found at once?”

  “Oh, no, m’sieu. It was more than a week. He had gone on his holidays, you see. The hotel at Grenoble was expecting him, but took no action when he didn’t turn up. It wasn’t until he was expected home that inquiries were begun.”

  “It must have happened at a very inaccessible spot.”

  “At the head of the Gorge du Cheval. The worst possible place. They were many hours recovering the body.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. Quite alone.”

  “Your cuisine here is as good as ever.”

  “Thank you, m’sieu. We endeavour to maintain a standard.”

  “Have the restaurants been sold?”

  For the first time he hesitated slightly. “ No, m’sieu. A limited society has been formed to carry on the restaurants for the benefit of the widow. Can I get you something further?”

  I said: “ I didn’t know M. Grognard was married. Was it shortly before his death?”

  “I think they were separated for some years.”

  “He was friendly with a Mme. Delaisse. Do you know what happened to her?”

  “No, m’sieu. I don’t know anything of M. Grognard’s private life.”

  After that there was nothing to be gained by going to Grasse to examine the register of the parish church. Instead I rang up the Villa Lavandou.

  “Is M. Bénat in?”

  “I don’t know, m’sieu. Who is speaking?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “ I have forgotten something. I’ll ring him later.”

  It seemed likely that if Bénat was away the answer would not have been just that. I put on my sun-glasses and took a bus to Cagnes. There I went to the same garage and was lucky enough to find Maurice, who welcomed me like an old friend.

  Maurice made the humbug so much easier. He helped me into the seat beside him, telling me to bend my head and mind the step. He took my walking-stick and gave it a reverential place on the back seat. He said did I want a cushion for my back or an extra eyeshade to shield my face from the glare of the sun.

  On the way we discussed state lotteries, which he couldn’t believe were not run in England on a big scale, the rise of prices since the devaluation of the franc, the national bicycle race that was going on, and his mother-in-law’s sciatica.

  Trying not to seem to, I admired the sweeping green valleys we drove through, the snow on the mountains in the distance against the steep sky, the mellow embattled beauty of Vence. After that the road deteriorated as it climbed along the side of the valley.

  “You are going to see M. Bénat again?” Maurice said.

  “Yes. You know him, I remember your saying.”

  “Well, not know him, m’sieu. Everyone knows of him. He is admired everywhere for his exploits during the war, quite a legend in these parts. It is said he killed several hundred of the Boches. Many people owe their lives to him.”

  “And now … after all that, he is just a lawyer again.”

  “Oh, that is only his profession. And even in it he does much for ordinary people—fights for their causes, never gives up, carries it right to the top. That is what counts.”

  We were silent for a while.

  “Hullo,” I said. “Still repairing the road?”

  “Ah. You remember.” He smiled through cigarette smoke, and then raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes.” I said quickly. “At least—I guessed so from the bad surface.” Careful, you fool. No one will be taken in.

  We bumped along past some men and a lorry. Maurice said: “Here they come for a few days and then go away for a month. So they make very little progress. On the main road it’s better.”

  Just then the villa came in sight, a big low place with cinnamon-coloured walls. After a few minutes we got among the lavender. It really was a sight: two great fields of it on either side of the road, and the long low house with its broad veranda and white steps.

  I said: “ I’m not expected so perhaps you could stop here. If you’ll just give me a hand as far as the steps I can manage from there.”

  He did this, and after a bit I found myself at the door, carefully groping for a bell. There wasn’t much attempt at an ordinary garden, just lavender, planted at once time, but now mostly growing wild. There were stables over to the left and beyond that what might have been a pillared swimming-pool. In the distance two women were working in a field of vegetables.

  The door came open and a young black-eyebrowed man looked me over.

  I said: “ I’ve called to see M. Bénat.”

  “By appointment, m’sieu?”

  “No, but I think he will see me. Gordon is the name.”

  “I’ll inquire if he’s in.”

  He shut the door, and I heard his footsteps padding away down the tiled hall. I wondered if gradually my hearing, touch, and smell would grow less acute. They hadn’t shown much sign of it up to now.

  It was just as well, otherwise his voice would have given me a shock coming from behind. But I’d heard those footsteps, too.

  “Mr. Gordon. An unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

  I held out my hand and had it shaken.
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  “Sorry to come on you like this. I happened to be in the district.”

  “Of course. This way. I’m working in my office. It’s just round the corner.”

  He was the only person so far who was much like I’d imagined him. Slight build, sallow face, long, decisive nose, clever, prominent bottom lip. He wasn’t handsome but you could see that women would be interested.

  “Down two steps here, now level across the grass, then through the french windows. Good. You’re very clever at finding your way about, Mr. Gordon.”

  I wondered why I’d been asked in this way instead of through the house. It was an ordinary room he showed me into, a big flat desk, filing cabinets, a few books and papers open. Grutli rose from behind a chair and looked at me.

  I said: “ Do you do some of your business up here?”

  “I like to be able to.”

  “You’ve got a non-paying client this morning.”

  “Who? You? Oh, well, we’re part of the same profession, aren’t we? The profession of master illusionists. We invent taboos and then get people to consult us on how to evade them.”

  “Sometimes,” I said, “ taboos aren’t all we invent.”

  He didn’t pick it up. “And how is England? Still going bankrupt in an affluent genteel way?”

  “No. I’d say still keeping solvent in a poverty-stricken harassed way.”

  “It always amuses me,” he said, “ when people talk of England turning socialist. How can that be when every Englishman is at heart a capitalist? The most that can ever happen is a progressive liberalism of idea in a community of obstinate conservatives.”

  “We’re tied to Europe.”

  “Ah, and Europe is on the point of disintegration, eh? Quite so. Come here, Grutli, your ear is turned back. I don’t like untidy dogs. If you can’t control your ears, my little, we must tie them down with ribbon. What brings you back to Nice, Mr. Gordon? Not the decay of Europe.”

  “No,” I said. “If it weren’t in bad taste one might say the decay of Pierre Grognard.”