The Collaborators

by Reginald Hill

  Their faces were very close.

  ‘Yes. You must.’

  He leaned forward the last six inches and kissed her on each salty cheek. Then, springing upright, he said, ‘And never fear! Soon the Abwehr and all the rest of their secret police are going to have other things to worry about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Hitler’s attacked Russia. He’s set the French communists free.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  He looked down at her and found himself smiling.

  His feelings about her had become strangely muddled. He was still convinced that she was no wife for his friend, yet there was about her a directness, a simplicity, a lack of intellectual complication which he could now see might attract a complex mind like Jean-Paul’s. And she was attractive physically too. Once he had not thought so. Now, skinny from the effects of worry and of want, dishevelled, tearstained, seated with complete unselfconsciousness in a little-girl pose with knees spread wide and arms dangling between, she touched both his heart and his senses.

  He knew in that moment that whatever proposals Delaplanche was about to make to him, he would accept. Janine and all those like her represented the raw emotional energy of France which without direction and protection would burn itself out uselessly, or be blown out by the Boche.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘That is very good indeed.’

  5

  By four o’clock that Saturday afternoon, Günter Mai was just about recovering from his excesses at the Tour d’Argent. He had woken early to a horrified mental re-run of all his indiscretions of the night before. Had he really told that joke about Hitler, Goering, Goebbels and Himmler in the Jewish whorehouse? And should he be consoled by the memory of Zeller laughing so much he almost choked on a piece of Roquefort?

  He had fallen asleep again and when he woke up the second time about ten a.m. things had seemed a little better. If he had been indiscreet, so had Zeller. Each was the other’s only witness, and jokes about the Party leaders were possibly less dangerous than plots to spy on the SD.

  He lunched in the mess. The talk was all of the invasion of Russia. The tone was one of patriotic fervour and great optimism. Mai said seriously, ‘I daresay there’ll be transfers soon,’ and left in the ensuing lull.

  He thought of going round to the Crozier boulangerie for a pipe and a coffee. It was a visit easy to justify on professional grounds. Louise gossiped freely about life and events in the neighbourhood. At the very least he could use her as a sounding board for opinion. Not that he needed a sounding board. Any fool could tell that the good times were over. An opportunity had been missed. With the Marshal and Vichy in their pocket, they should have the majority of ordinary people with them now. Instead fear and resentment were growing, and his visits to the Croziers were as much for relaxation as information.

  But somehow the awareness that he was seeing their daughter later that afternoon kept him away. Instead he walked the rest of his hangover off and got to the Café Balzac half an hour early.

  Miche Boucher was there. Mai frowned. He quite liked Miche, but he didn’t want him hanging around while he talked to Janine.

  ‘Hello, Monsieur Scheffer,’ the red-head greeted him. ‘What are you having?’

  They sat and talked for a little while. Mai used the opportunity to pump Boucher about his work with the Abwehr purchasing section. It was always useful to know what one’s colleagues were getting up to.

  Gradually it became apparent that Boucher had deliberately sought him out and was working round to asking his advice. Finally he got to the point.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘Pajou’s been going on for a bit about making a move. He’s got his fingers in every pie, that one, and he’s evidently been talking to some of your lot at the Rue des Saussaies, you know, the Gestapo. He reckons he can get a better deal there, more freedom of action, a wider brief. He wants me to move over with him. He says things like…’

  He hesitated, then went on with a rush, ‘. . . like the Abwehr’s on its way out and this time next year, it’ll be all Gestapo and we’d better be in at the ground floor. Now, me, I’m a bit bewildered by all this. I mean, you and the Gestapo, you’re all the same lot, right? I mean, you’re all Boche, sorry, Germans. So what’s he getting at? I’m happy with Purchasing. It’s easy work and there’s plenty of perks. Pajou says that in this new job, there’d be more perks, though. Because we’d be dealing mostly with people not things. I don’t get that myself. I mean, you can’t cream off people, can you?’

  Mai smiled to himself at the man’s naïve openness - and then reminded himself that men like Boucher had a strong instinct for knowing exactly how far they could go with those in authority. He mustn’t confuse an astute estimate of his own tolerance with naïvety.

  He said, ‘I think what Pajou means is if you’re bringing in a hundred crates of champagne, you can perhaps “lose” four or five for yourself. But if you’re bringing in a man, and he happens to have a hundred crates of champagne in his cellar, you can probably help yourself to the lot.’

  Boucher digested this.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought it was something like that. Bringing men in, I mean, not things.’

  ‘That would bother you?’ said Mai.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Boucher honestly. ‘Depends who it was. Look, what do you think? Pajou’s a bit of a sod, but he’s not often wrong. I mean, this business of the Abwehr being on the way out. What’s that mean?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Mai easily, his mind racing. ‘There are admittedly some rivalries, bound to be. I’ll tell you what, Miche. I’d like to help you. You’re a nice chap and you’ve helped me a lot. So why not go along with Pajou? At the same time, keep in touch with me, tell me what you’re up to, and I’ll give you the benefit of whatever inside knowledge I have. All right?’

  Boucher considered, then began to smile. If Mai had had any thought of recruiting an unconscious spy, that smile removed it. Boucher knew exactly what he was being asked to do.

  ‘You want a sort of scout in the opposition dressing room, is that it?’ he asked. ‘All right, you’re on. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Now I’d best be off before Janine gets here. Take care!’

  He lifted his great length out of the chair and, with a cheerful wave, departed.

  Mai sipped his coffee and reflected not without complacency on the happy knack he seemed to have of turning up aces. He wanted a nose in SD operations and almost immediately one turned up. Of course it was an absurd waste of time and expertise. Keeping the peace here required the full co-operation of all the security arms. Even then he doubted if they’d contain the reaction which he reckoned was shortly due. Competition instead of cooperation would make their task almost impossible, but it wasn’t his choice.

  ‘Monsieur Scheffer?’ It was Janine who’d arrived unnoticed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, half-rising. ‘Please, sit down. Patron, some coffee here.’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. She was nervous. Perhaps in the expectation of news; perhaps simply because Boche officers, even in civilian clothes, made her nervous.

  He said, ‘How is your family?’

  ‘The children are fine. I expect you see more of my parents than I do.’

  The sudden flash amused him. Even in her nervousness she couldn’t control her dislike of himself and of her parents’ conciliatory attitude towards him. He wondered again how he might use her.

  ‘And your friend, Monsieur Valois? How is he?’

  This clearly came as a surprise. There was something like alarm in her face. That was interesting.

  ‘You know Christian?’

  ‘I met him at your parents’ shop, remember? When you had the accident with the chocolates.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, flushing. ‘I remember. He’s well, I think. Now, please, why have you asked to see me?’

  ‘Why? Simply because you asked me for my help in the first place and I felt
it only polite to offer a progress report. But if you’d rather we didn’t proceed any further…’

  He let his hurt tone fade away into a hurt expression. He could see that a need stronger than dislike and resentment was keeping her in her seat.

  ‘No. Go on. Now I’m here…’ The words emerged with difficulty.

  ‘All right. As you requested, I put in train certain enquiries as to the whereabouts of your husband, Private Jean-Paul Simonian, or to give him his full name, Iakov Moseich Jean-Paul Simonian.’

  He paused. She felt faint but held herself perfectly still. He knew Jean-Paul’s full name. Surely her mother wouldn’t have told him that? Miche…? But Miche didn’t know Jean-Paul at all, could hardly know his full name.

  The lieutenant’s next words confirmed her worst fears.

  ‘I obtained from French military records a full list of those in your husband’s unit. Then I circulated a request to all POW camps and other holding centres for information on prisoners from this unit and in particular one called Iakov Moseich Jean-Paul Simonian.’

  Again the almost sensual dwelling on the name. The man was a monster.

  ‘It’s an unusual name, that, madame. For a Frenchman. But that made it all the easier to check.’ He paused, then went on. ‘I’m sorry to report that all responses were negative.’

  She tried desperately to conceal her relief, or to let it emerge as disappointment.

  ‘You mean there’s no trace?’

  ‘None. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes. Well, thank you, lieutenant.’

  She was being polite now he couldn’t help her! He watched her prepare to go.

  Then he said, ‘However, I did encounter one odd thing. A military hospital in Lorraine. They’d had a couple of patients from your husband’s unit.’

  Slowly she sank back into her chair. Should she speak? Dare she speak? Dare she keep quiet?

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘One of them was on the unit roll I had. But for some reason the other wasn’t. A man called Jean-Paul Simon.’

  He spoke the name with precisely the same intonation he’d used before, as if savouring the syllables on his tongue. She sat perfectly still, trying to keep all emotion from her usually expressive face, fearing that her very lack of expression would in itself be a giveaway. She felt his eyes on her, his will pressing her to speak. She could think of no words that would not be a betrayal and yet her silence too seemed vibrant with guilt.

  Then Günter Mai laughed.

  ‘Which just goes to show how useless official records are! I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help, Madame Simonian, truly sorry. But don’t give up hope. I checked casualty lists too and there’s no sign of your husband’s name there either. So, keep hoping. Now let’s have some more coffee, shall we?’

  6

  Three shots rang out. The street sloped steeply down from the Place Pigalle. The fleeing man had got up a good speed and when he was hit, he cartwheeled dramatically across the pavement and smashed through a shop window. Two German soldiers lounging outside a café laughed and applauded. But Maurice Melchior, leaning on the bar inside, started so violently that he knocked a bottle off the counter.

  ‘Relax, monsieur,’ said the proprietor. ‘It’s just a film they’re making.’

  Melchior’s hand went up to the still pink scar on his cheek, a gesture he found it hard to control when anything made him nervous.

  ‘They’re still making films?’ he said when he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake.

  ‘Why not?’ The man shrugged. ‘Actors too must live. And directors must live very well. It’s one of Monsieur Yerevan’s. He’ll probably be in for his coffee shortly.’

  Maurice tried not to show he was impressed. Serge Yerevan made highly successful gangster films. They had once been introduced, but so briefly and so inconsequentially that he’d probably made no more impression on the great man than a flapped-away fly.

  Well, all that was changed now. Even this disfiguring scar fitted in with his new role.

  ‘Come on,’ he snapped. ‘I haven’t got all day. Let’s do business.’

  Silently the café owner handed over an envelope. It allegedly contained 50,000 francs but he slipped it under his waistcoat without counting. When you were an accredited agent of Miche the Butcher’s blackmarket business, you didn’t need to count.

  ‘Same order next month,’ said the proprietor.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Melchior doubtfully. ‘The booze should be OK but I don’t know how long we can keep spuds down to eight francs the kilo. As for the steak…!’

  The owner looked sullen, then said, ‘Filthy Boche!’ which was the nearest he dared come to a protest against his supplier. Melchior smiled, accepted the offer of a pastis and took it to a table just inside the door.

  At last things were going right for Maurice Melchior. Boucher had taken a fancy to him, not that kind of fancy as he’d found out to his cost when he squeezed the big man’s knee to encourage him to surmount his suspected shyness. ‘Think I’m after your lily-white body, do you?’ boomed Boucher. Next thing, Melchior felt himself spun round and then he screamed in pain as a large boot was driven against his buttocks.

  ‘That’s the only contact I want with your bum,’ said Boucher. ‘Now let’s work out how you really can be useful to me, shall we?’

  Thus had begun a period of unprecedented contentment and prosperity. Boucher seemed to be able to get his hands on almost anything and Melchior discovered in himself an unsuspected talent for judging what the market would bear, then squeezing a little extra.

  The door opened and a group of people came in. Melchior recognized Serge Yerevan at once. He had a Middle Eastern look about him, a thin swarthy face, long nose, jet black hair and wide mobile mouth. Hanging on to his arm was his current mistress, the film star, Marie Ribot, with a face more striking than beautiful, and wickedly pointed breasts which had set something of a fashion.

  As they passed Melchior’s table, Yerevan caught his eye. A wide smile of recognition stretched his mouth, and he came forward with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Maurice! It is you. Don’t you remember me? Serge Yerevan. I had the pleasure of meeting you once, at one of Coco Chanel’s do’s, wasn’t it?’

  It wasn’t. It had been a much more plebeian occasion, but it was hardly worth contradiction. Nor did Melchior believe for one moment that Yerevan would have spared him a single glance now without (a) foreknowledge and (b) motivation. The first must have come from the café owner. And the second must have to do with the man’s assurance that Melchior could get hold of anything.

  Complimenting himself on not being taken in, Melchior was nevertheless delighted to be made much of publicly by a man like Yerevan, who now sat down and talked animatedly, dropping famous names as though assuming they figured among Melchior’s acquaintance also. In the end, they got to the point: a lament on the difficulty of getting hold of really good Havana cigars, a promise by Melchior that he’d keep his eyes open. It was a small order, in the nature of a test run really. Melchior approved such caution, knew that it could lead to higher things. But thought of caution made him realize how long he’d been sitting there. ‘Don’t hang around when you’ve got the cash,’ advised Boucher. ‘If possible pick it up early, and move off quick!’ Well, he’d been early today, but now he was late.

  He stood up abruptly and shook hands with Yerevan.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said. The film director looked rather surprised. Melchior was not displeased at his unpremeditated abruptness. That’ll show him I’m not trade, he thought.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Yerevan suddenly.

  He reached forward and grasped Melchior’s chin gently, moved his head this way and that.

  ‘Did you ever have a test?’ he wondered.

  ‘A film test? No.’

  ‘I’m surprised. Such excellent bone structure. Perhaps we can arrange something. And I love the scar.’

  Having won back the initiative
, he now stood up himself and brought his face very close to Melchior’s.

  ‘Meanwhile, see what you can do about the cigars. I know you’ll do me a good price, one Jew to another, eh?’

  Kissing him lightly on the cheek, Yerevan joined his friends at the bar.

  Melchior left, feeling both flattered and outmanoeuvred. Outside he paused. He felt he was being watched. He looked at the two soldiers at the pavement table, but they were only interested in contemplating some men across the road replacing the shattered film window with real glass. No danger there. It must all be in the mind.

  Then he saw him, only a few feet away, almost hidden by a lamp post, his face expressionless, his calm unblinking gaze fixed on Melchior.

  It took a couple of seconds for full recognition. Then he stepped quickly forward and said, ‘Hello. It’s Pauli isn’t it! From the old lady’s flat? What are you doing here? Run away from home, have you?’

  Pauli Simonian slowly shook his head. The truth was, he was a great wanderer and spent a large part of his time, while his mother thought he was just round the corner playing with friends, exploring interesting quarters of the city. No one paid much attention to a small boy who probably belonged to one of the nearby adults, and he had long ago mastered the art of travelling free on all forms of public transport.

  ‘I have to meet maman,’ he said. ‘She’s shopping back there.’

  He spoke very convincingly. To his surprise, the little man laughed out loud.

  ‘Good try, Pauli, but your maman’s not the type to come shopping here, even if there was anything here to shop for. No, you’re on the loose, doing a bit of exploring, aren’t you? I used to like that myself when I was a boy. But I think maybe you’ve come far enough today. I’d better get you back home. There’s some very strange characters here, you know.’

  Melchior was not being ironic. His own tastes were stoutly post-adolescent and he had a pitiless contempt for those who fancied children. Taking Pauli firmly by the hand he led him up the steep street towards the métro station. As they walked, Melchior chatted away because he was incapable of being quiet in company. And because he was not used to talking to children, he talked as he would to anyone, which was just right. Pauli listened, fascinated even when he didn’t understand.