The Prisoner of the Riviera

by Janice Law

  He embroidered a bit on his extreme youth, though he was forty if he was a day. He was quite amusing, but I’m not so fond of campy acquaintances. I really prefer straight men, pun intended, because I like to camp it up myself and have the best lines. Still, this was work, this was business, this was dedication. I listened in silence, bought him some chocolates to go with the bubbly, and worked the conversation round to my prewar favorite, Mademoiselle Veronique. “Such a talent, such a voice. One could forget everything listening to Mademoiselle Veronique.”

  I thought that the name made him uneasy, but he asked about her repertoire. Repertoire! Hector hadn’t briefed me that thoroughly. “Rather like yours,” I said. “And lieder, of course.” I seemed to remember that the Berlin of my misspent youth had been fond of lieder.

  “Lieder is for artists, but I expect she had a hard time. There was not much call for lieder here during the war.”

  “In certain quarters it remained popular.”

  “I wouldn’t know about those.” He drew himself up in a way that rather spoiled the illusion of his décolletage. “Monsieur, I am a patriot.”

  I raised my glass. “I wouldn’t have dreamed otherwise. But Mademoiselle Veronique lived for the stage. One might even say she only lived onstage. Her choices would not be our choices, yours and mine, I mean, but consider that irreplaceable voice! So I’ve been looking out for her. She might do well to consider leaving France, having a flutter elsewhere.”

  He poured himself another glass and shook his head. “Alas, Monsieur, the name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “The name, what’s in a name? ‘The rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ etc. etc.” I took out one of the handbills and laid it on the table.

  “Oh, Hotel Negresco. Very nice. Lovely acoustics, décor to die for. And that dress! Not the thing now, of course, except in clubs catering to a certain age. Old-fashioned, you know. But splendid,” he admitted, “splendid.” He ran his finger down the line of the tea gown, which was softly draped, semisheer, and lavishly embroidered.

  “Everything about Mademoiselle Veronique was first class,” I said. “And what was surprising was that Gustave himself was unprepossessing.” I slid one of the photos of Gustave Gravois across the table. This time there was no doubt: He recognized the face.

  “Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t realized.”

  “You do know him, then?”

  “Oh, yes, though not personally. He’s been singing and introducing the headliners in clubs for half a year. Le Chien Rouge. He was in Le Chien Rouge—when? Let’s see. I find time flies, dear, especially on the wings of Champagne.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. “Must be a month ago now.” He looked again at the handbill and compared it to Gravois’s image. “I’d never have guessed he was such a queen. Though you are right, a good voice, still expressive if worn at the edges. Too good really for the work he’s doing, but he shows no spark, none of the true artistic fire.”

  He seemed set to go on in this vein, and I said, “Art was for Mademoiselle Veronique.”

  “Must have been. Remarkable!”

  “You said about a month ago for his engagement at Le Chien Rouge. Have you seen him since?”

  “My own engagements have kept me occupied, but no, I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “A pity. I am only in Nice briefly. Who might know how to reach him?”

  “Le Chien Rouge is one of Serge Brun’s clubs. You might track him down.” When he smiled, he showed a pair of long canines. “But no one asks Serge too many questions, if you get my meaning.”

  I did indeed. “Anyone else who might know where he lives?”

  “I do,” he said unexpectedly. “I know because he rented a room in the same apartment as a friend of mine, a young dancer I know. Nice girl. You find her, you’ll find out about him, too, though I haven’t seen her lately, either. She used to stop by after her shows. I’d walk her home and she’d do alterations for me.”

  I held my breath, for I sensed what was coming.

  “I don’t know her real name; we performers live in our own theatrical world, you know, dear, but Mademoiselle Justine is her stage name. She lives just north of the port.” He gave me the address.

  I thanked him profusely and got up.

  “You’re not leaving when there’s still Champagne!”

  I took his hand and kissed it. “For you,” I said and made my escape. Cybèle had been living in the same apartment building as Gustave Gravois, aka Mademoiselle Veronique, aka Madame Renard. Even the insouciant Eugène needed time to think that over, and at two a.m. after a trawl through the cafés of Nice, neither he nor I was feeling too sharp. According to plan, my duties were ended; I could phone the tabac and pass on the message to Hector. But not at this hour. This was the hour for good burghers and even ex-Sûreté men to be in their beds, and for night birds like yours truly to walk off the evening’s indulgences. I headed north.

  The streets were quiet. I like that. I like darkness and long shadows and the moon behind clouds, all of which take me back to the blackout and bombers’ moons and the threat of imminent destruction from the air. Horrid at the moment, but curiously stimulating in retrospect, teasing the mind with images and fragments that I must learn how to render. I walked the night streets of Nice with images of strange rooms and strange bodies roiling against luminous gray, pink, and orange backgrounds; I would experiment with those as soon as I got back to London where I could paint.

  The apartment building was on a shady street lined with plane trees. There were mopeds chained to the iron railings, and a welter of garbage cans to one side. The old building had come down in the world, but it was classic French architecture with long windows, decorative stucco work, and balconies running the length of the façade and swooping along the sides. I wondered if there would still be a prying, sleepless concierge on the premises. Eugène thought so, but I recalled the irregular hours and careless arrangements of the theatrical profession and decided to try the front door. I wasn’t surprised to discover that the building was unlocked.

  Inside there was just enough light to make out the names on the mailboxes: several married couples and, on the fourth floor, P. Moreau, Musician, who must give lessons at home. The other labels gave no clue to either sex or occupation: O. Blanchard, R. Lefevre, P. Roche, V. Garnier—and C. Chavanel in 32. Cybèle, third floor. But there was no G. Gravois and no sign of Madame Renard, either. Eliminating the couples and Cybèle left five possibilities. I leaned toward V. Garnier in 36, as the name combined the initial letters of Veronique and Gravois, but given Gravois’s musical gifts it wasn’t inconceivable that he had been instructor P. Moreau in 42, directly above Cybèle.

  In any case, P. Moreau would be Eugène’s entrée, for while music leaves me cold, he had developed a sudden desire for singing lessons. I was pondering the approach and trying to work up enthusiasm for the vocal art when I heard footsteps outside. A tardy resident or part of the “surveillance” Hector had mentioned? Ought Eugène to walk out like a solid citizen or beat a strategic retreat? Common sense said leave; the knife that had shattered my painting kit said hide. The lobby was bare and, except for whatever might be upstairs or down, offered not the slightest refuge. I decided on the stairs. I reached the first landing as the door opened and crouched behind the ornate iron railings supporting the banister.

  Someone large in the lobby—the light was too dim to make out more than that he was wearing a dark suit and a wide-brimmed trilby that shaded his face. He inspected the mailboxes as I had done. Not a resident then, and I crept across the hall and up the second flight. I didn’t think that he heard me, but he followed. I could see his shadow, elongated by the light below, wavering on the wall. It moved with a curious halting motion as if he were lame or too ill to take the stairs easily. That proved to be my good luck, for before he reached the second floor, I’d made the third. C. Chavane
l’s apartment was in the middle at the back and her door was securely locked. I hadn’t time to try the others. At the end of the hall, one of the long windows gave out onto the balcony. I pushed it open and climbed out.

  Three stories below were the alley and the spiky feathers of a palm tree. The balcony appeared to circle the building, each apartment’s outdoor space delineated by a quarter circle of spiked metal. I didn’t see much hope from the lighted front of the building, which was directly on the street. The back was probably darker and might give access to Cybèle’s flat. I tested the metal barrier with a shake—a slight wobble but not too bad. Did I hear someone in the hall? The sound of an uneven footstep?

  With that inspiration, I took a breath, seized one of the rusty decorative points, put my foot on another lower one, and swung out over the pavement below. The barrier shifted down a fraction, and I made a frantic grab for purchase on the other side with my left hand. Another shift, this time definitely downward. I straddled the points, risking a good deal of excitement and future happiness, then swung myself around, precipitating a shower of rust flakes and causing the ironwork to screech but enabling me to put one foot on the neighboring balustrade. Despite a number of scratches, I was able to step down onto the floor of the balcony. Terra firma. I maneuvered around a potted plant and took shelter behind the awning that was hanging loosely from its framework. Then I waited.

  The moon flirted with the clouds, lightening and darkening the façade, but there was no sound from either the apartment behind me or the hallway. Perhaps I had risked a drop of three stories for no good reason. Perhaps I could maneuver my way back, walk down the hall, and find my way out. Perhaps, but I was loath to risk that particular piece of ironwork again. Onward, Eugène! I banged my shins on a little metal table, caught a chair just before it went over, and reached the next barrier, this one right at the rear corner of the building. Another little adventure with gravity and aging metal. During the war, I got over any fear of heights fire watching in church steeples with Arnold. I hadn’t imagined that being up forty, fifty feet and higher with the imminent threat of high explosives would ever pay dividends.

  The first apartment was occupied by gardeners who owned a small grove of plants, scented and laden with pollen. I stifled what had promised to be a titanic sneeze and picked my way cautiously around pots and saucers, watering cans, and miniature garden implements. Behind the greenery, the apartment shutters were closed and locked, and somewhere within, my eternal nemesis, a small dog, began to bark. I swung out on the barrier without waiting to test it. With a nasty creak, it dropped me a good four inches toward oblivion, before I got a foot on the ledge of the balustrade. The whole construction seemed set to pull away from the masonry. I threw my weight against the spikes—uncomfortable business—and bracing myself against the balustrade, swung around the barrier, which listed alarmingly to deposit me on what I hoped was Cybèle’s share of the balcony. I forced the barrier back as far as it would go and got into the shadows behind an open shutter on the French doors.

  A man’s voice next door began arguing with the dog, which with the mad persistence of its species, continued to insist on alarms and strangers and problems on the balcony. I heard French doors creak open and stopped breathing. The dog rattled the pots on its way to the barrier, where it planted itself and began a row that ended only when the exasperated owner carried it back inside. The whole canine tribe has it in for me.

  I sat down on the floor of the balcony and waited until I was pretty sure that no one was afoot. Then I examined Cybèle’s apartment. While the shutters had been left half open, the French doors were locked. The first window I tried was secured, but though the other one had both shutters closed, they were not hooked and the window behind was wide open: Cybèle was a wonderful girl. I maneuvered over the sill into a once spacious room broken up into a bedroom and a jutting cubicle that proved to be a WC/bath combination. The bed was empty, the bathroom likewise. I moved through the kitchenette and the living room, closed the shutters, and checked that the main door was locked before turning on a light.

  Some shabby furniture, some good dresses, and piles of sheet music that suggested Cybèle was conscientious. I approved; performers should work hard as should painters. Some dishes drying in a rack. She was tidy and had expected to be back after her evening performance. I saw that she was thrifty and ate some of her meals at home, because I found the end of a baguette, a bit of cheese, and a melon. A few phone numbers were scribbled on a pad. One was “Serge” and I guessed that was Serge Brun. No surprise; she had worked for him. Her purse was with her, so no money in the flat and no passport, though I found her bankbook. Either she was doing rather well at the clubs or Serge had paid her lavishly to impersonate Madame Renard.

  That was the sum total of my discoveries; I had risked my neck for nothing. I wandered back to the kitchen and squeezed the baguette experimentally. It was going stale but it wasn’t rock hard as it should be after several days on the kitchen counter. I got a knife and opened the melon and found it delicious. Even the cheese was edible, and that fact, combined with the missing passport, made me wonder if Cybèle had come back to the apartment. Would she carry a passport to work? I didn’t think so, though perhaps she feared she’d have to make a quick exit. But either way, she’d been back for some reason. I was sure of it.

  I turned off the light. All was quiet. I could leave and make my report tomorrow, but at near two a.m., I’d still have to find a hotel or sleep in the gare. I decided that my encounters with rickety balconies and hysterical dogs deserved some reward. I went through to Cybèle’s bedroom and flopped down on the spread, which smelled of face powder and her flowery perfume, echoes of a life through the looking glass. Was that what Gravois had liked? Had Mademoiselle Veronique been the door to an alternate life for him, a life with fabulous clothes and a first-rate talent and a gangster lover? I tried to imagine what that would be like, and I felt an irrational desire to see his apartment. In the morning, I told myself, and within minutes I was sound asleep.

  Sparrows in the trees, a moped puttering off, a car door slamming, thin silver bars between the shutters. Was that what woke me? I registered the fuchsia silk spread, a maroon light shade, pale lavender walls, a ceiling too high and ornate to belong to the truncated room below: Cybèle’s flat. Early. And then I heard it again, the sound that, out of all the urban noise, had awakened me. Someone was moving about in the flat above: number 42, residence of P. Moreau, music teacher. Whoever it was had a heavy, uneven, and rather slow tread like the man who had come in behind me last night. Perhaps he really was Monsieur Moreau, up and ready for a day of scales and squalling. Or perhaps, like me, he wanted access to Gravois’s old apartment. Eugène would soon find out.

  I got out of bed, used the en suite, and stepped into the hall. All quiet. Outside, shopkeepers were opening their metal grills and hosing off the sidewalks. I stopped at the first tabac for a coffee and the phone. I called the number Hector had given me and left the message that Eugène would attempt a music lesson from P. Moreau, flat 42, and repeated the address twice. The keeper of the zinc promised to give Hector the information.

  I hung up and went in search of a boulangerie, bought croissants, and loitered under the plane trees to keep an eye on the apartment building. I told myself that I was just going to await the appearance of the man with the limp. That I would see if he was my “Victor Renard” from London. That all I wanted was a complete report for Hector. That I was going to be sensible.

  Two women left with baskets and string bags for some early shopping. A dark sedan passed twice, but the man with the limp did not appear. Neither did Hector’s promised “surveillance” or any curious gendarmes. Prudence said, wait, but Eugène was in an antic mood. People who know me would mostly say that I need sex and drink and fooling about to live. All true, but what I need to keep on anything like an even keel is painting, an unending fascination that sops up excess energy and chann
els the imagination onto canvas. Without it, I’m inclined to take risks and get up to capers like imagining myself Eugène Laroche, who, at precisely eight o’clock, walked up the four flights to P. Moreau’s flat and knocked on the door.

  I was confident that I would know at once if this were the right apartment, if this was where Gravois had transformed himself and entered other worlds. I liked the idea, but there was no response. Had he left in the few minutes while I phoned from the tabac? I knocked again and waited. Then I recognized the step that had awakened me earlier. The door opened a few inches.

  “Monsieur Moreau?”

  There was the briefest hesitation, but it told me that whoever he was, he was not Moreau. “What do you want?”

  “Eugène Laroche. I’ve heard you’re a marvelous teacher. I was talking with someone just last night, singer I heard, really quite good, and I was saying how I wished I could sing and he said, try Monsieur Moreau. And gave me your address.”

  The door opened a little more—was my assumption wrong? Was I about to have to pay for an actual lesson in the fine art of caterwauling?

  “It’s barely eight a.m.”

  Even though the shutters were half closed and his face was against the morning light, he had the same black hair, same lean face, same malevolent black eyes. I recognized Victor Renard, last seen with his life’s blood pouring out of him, Victor Renard, who was almost certainly a long time lowlife named Paul Desmarais, back from the nearly dead.

  “Commercial traveler. Art supplies, don’t you know. Linseed oil, damar varnish, hand-ground colors from all the best manufacturers. Here today, Marseille tomorrow, up in Montpellier the day after. Time and tide and the SNCF wait for no man. I thought I could meet you and set up a lesson for, say, next week?”

  I half expected that he would slam the door in my face and that would have been quite all right with me; I wasn’t sure I fancied any closer contact with him.