La Fresange, her head swathed in a dappled strawberry turban and her dress a spectacular shade of deepest purple that made her look like a large, ripe plum, blew through Gloria’s front door with all the force of a hurricane, all righteous indignation and insistence. She demanded to know what was going on in Madame Gloria’s apartment boarding house, she would not be fobbed off, her most respectable tenant had taken to her bed with a cold compress and a large tonic while her little dog refused to eat. And what was Madame Gloria going to do about this sorry state of affairs? She demanded an answer now and she would not leave until a full explanation had been delivered that met with her satisfaction.
‘Glass of wine, dear?’ asked Madame Gloria, smiling sweetly and spectacularly unmoved by this impressive display of ire. ‘It’s rhubarb, so entirely healthy. We had a good crop last winter and I managed to make several dozen bottles. I can let you have some for Madame Auguste if you like, I’m sure it would make her feel better.’
‘Hmph,’ responded La Fresange, temporarily deflated. Nonetheless, she refused to be bought by glasses of vegetable wine. She had a mission.
‘I demand —’ she stopped abruptly, her outrage diverted by the sight of a single white feather that drifted lazily through the air between them. She followed its gentle progress with her eyes, aware that Madame Gloria was also watching the flight of the feather as it slowly drifted earthwards. As it came within grasping range, Madame Fresange clutched at it, trapping it in a claw-like grip and examining it carefully.
‘What is this?’
‘A feather,’ replied Gloria helpfully, only to be skewered by a look that could have opened a bottle of champagne at fifty metres.
‘I can see that!’ snapped La Fresange, ‘but this is not a chicken feather.’ She narrowed her eyes and studied Gloria with searing intensity. ‘Where did it come from?’
Gloria’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her brain worked frantically, furiously, determined to manufacture an explanation that would save her, not so much from the wrath of the gorgon Fresange, but from the necessity to share her prize.
‘Yoo hoo, Glory!’ came a sing-song coo from the front door, ‘I hope you have a bottle open, dahling, I’m just in the mood for a drop and a chat.’ Crecy poured through the door wrapped in a silky house gown of deep blue, his head a mass of platinum rollers under a misty turban of matching hue. Large pendulous gold earrings dangled and swung with every movement of the finely poised head and blue talons fluttered and splayed alternately.
‘Ooh, good morning Madame,’ Crecy addressed La Fresange who stood, rooted to the spot, still holding the feather, frozen midaccusation. ‘That’s from my boa,’ he picked the feather from the stunned landlady’s fingers, buried it in the enormous bust that hid in the uppermost folds of his house gown and turned to the equally shocked Madame Gloria. ‘You know the one, Glory, Otto gave it to me.’ He allowed himself a little smirk. ‘It must have fallen out when I popped in last night before I went to meet him. He’s such a dear,’ turning now to the bewildered Fresange, ‘he’s sooo generous, always giving me little gifts. I just adore the way he expresses his ... appreciation.’
La Fresange had turned a light shade of beetroot and Gloria hoped fervently that Crecy was not about to launch into a description of precisely what he had done to earn Otto’s ardent appreciation.
But Crecy had fastened his attention on the hapless Fresange.
‘My dear, what a perfectly fascinating colour,’ he began, studying the older woman’s turban intently. ‘Quite fabulous. But you know it simply isn’t you.’ He regarded her seriously, one blue-clawed hand on his chin as if pondering a question of deep philosophical complexity. Madame Fresange came alive with an indignant squawk, patting her turban as if to assuage its wounded feelings.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ she demanded shrilly.
‘Dahling, the colour is simply too scarlet, it drains your complexion. I know, I have the same problem when I wear deep strawberry. It makes me look positively waxen!’ Gloria stifled a giggle, drowning it in a gulp of wine as Madame Fresange stared at Crecy in blank incomprehension.
‘Now,’ Crecy was in his element, ‘what you need is to move to autumn tones — vibrant browns, burnt orange, caramel!’
‘Mademoiselle, I have no intention of taking dress tips from ... from ...’ La Fresange did not often struggle to find words, but she was clearly having difficulty finding an appropriate term in her rather defined vocabulary to describe the creature who now dished out fashion advice as if she, a respectable landlady, was some simpering tart from the Moulin Rouge.
‘It will impress Antoine,’ purred the lilting rejoinder.
‘Antoine?!’ came the startled reply, ‘Who is Antoine?’
‘Ooh you little vixen!’ retorted Crecy in mock horror as Madame Gloria choked on her wine and had to have her back patted strenuously. She could not believe her ears. She had never heard the formidable Fresange referred to in such terms and, furthermore, had never expected to.
‘You know who I mean,’ pursued Crecy relentlessly, hand on hip, one carefully plucked eyebrow raised. ‘Antoine who came to fix the leaking pipe at the side of your apartment. Handsome devil, in a rugged, manly way,’ he pouted at the increasingly bewildered Madame Fresange, ‘and he must have noticed you, because he came back, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but ...,’ spluttered the beleaguered landlady, ‘but that was because he had noticed that the down pipe close by was also leaking.’
‘Oh, so that’s what he told you,’ Crecy nodded soothingly, ‘and then he came a third time, didn’t he?’ This statement of fact was also dished up by the prosecution. By now Madame Gloria had seated herself in comfort at the table, glass of rhubarb wine in one hand and had passed another to Crecy. She could not remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much.
‘Yes, but ...,, squeaked the accused, ‘but that was —’
‘Oh, dahling, they always have a valid reason, and it often involves checking a girl’s spouting,’ more choking from Madame Gloria, ‘but they are really after something else, aren’t they?’ Crecy looked pointedly at the confused Madame Fresange.
‘You mean ...’
‘Of course, sweetie, he comes to see you!’
‘Non!’ Madame Fresange denied the charge strenuously, even as a pinkish blush spread slowly from her neck to her face, painting her cheeks a rosy if somewhat mottled hue.
‘But of course,’ continued Crecy, closing in for the kill, ‘and how do you think I know that?’ Stunned head-shaking from La Fresange.
‘Because,’ he answered himself, ‘every time he comes, he is better dressed. The first time, he was wearing his dirty work clothes. The second time the work clothes were clean, and the third time,’ to Madame Gloria, ‘see, she remembers, the little cat!’ Madame Fresange’s face had now taken on a quizzical look as if she had suddenly discovered a lost memory. ‘The third time, he was wearing a suit, wasn’t he?!’ Madame Fresange’s mouth opened and then closed again, the lips jutting and the brows colliding with the effort of searching the deep, dark recesses of her mind.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,’ retorted Crecy archly, ‘because you notice everything, don’t you?’
‘I ...’
‘Of course, dahling,’ Crecy now led his witness deftly back to his original point. ‘Now you see why you must change that colour. You simply cannot look like that when Antoine comes by next time, probably wearing his Sunday best.’ He added slyly, ‘and he is coming back, isn’t he?’
‘Well, yes,’ admitted La Fresange, ‘he told me he still had to fix the tap outside the ... mon Dieu! He will be back later today!’
‘Non!’ gasped Crecy, clapping an elegant hand to his mouth in dismay, ‘what a catastrophe! He could be here at any minute!’ He took La Fresange by the arm and propelled her out the door. ‘Quickly, you have no time to lose! He must not see you looking this way. Hurry!’ Madame Fresange bolted out the door and down the passage as fa
st as her little legs could carry her, scrabbling across the courtyard to the safety of her apartment and the high couture that awaited her in the depths of her long-neglected wardrobe.
‘And don’t forget your lipstick, dahling,’ Crecy called after her, ‘lots and lots of lipstick!’ He turned to Gloria who was shaking with laughter, the tears running down her face.
‘So, where’s the goose, Glory?’ Crecy fixed his gaze on Gloria. ‘I know feathers, sweetie, and that was definitely from a goose — and a large one at that!’ Gloria recovered herself slightly and pointed to a rounded shape protruding from the line of coats that hung by the back of the door.
‘It’s wearing my coat!’ she chortled as Crecy pushed the coat aside to reveal the sombre face of the goose. ‘I’m planning a feast,’ she explained, ‘but I didn’t want to invite Madame Fresange.’
‘Of course not, dahling,’ agreed Crecy as he settled next to her, glass in hand, ‘I’d rather dine with Uncle Adolf.’
The goose feast was a roaring success and, such was the size of the goose, there was plenty left for several additional meals. Madame Gloria made a plum pie from maize and cornmeal and filled with fresh plums from the summer crop which she topped with ersatz cream. The showgirls and artistes were delighted. Monsieur Maurice provided more champagne and a bottle of cognac from the Governor’s supplies for the diners to enjoy after the meal. As the dinner guests began to leave, Crecy donned a frilly apron and helped Madame Gloria clean up. Basking in her success, Gloria quizzed Crecy about Madame Fresange and Antoine.
‘Oh no, dahling, I simply took the truth and played with it a little. I met Antoine the first time he called because he asked me for directions to Madame Fresange’s apartment and gave me such a lovely smile for my trouble. Then he turned up again a few days later in a suit, so I drew my own conclusions.’ Lily and Poppy, who had been clearing the table, looked at Crecy incredulously.
‘You convinced that dragon Fresange that Antoine the workman fancied her?’
‘Yes,’ giggled Madame Gloria, almost helpless with mirth recalling the memorable scene. Lily guffawed loudly while Poppy stood, thunderstruck.
‘But that old bat has a face that could shatter a shield!’ she exclaimed, ‘I feel a bit sorry for Antoine.’
‘Don’t,’ interjected Lily, ‘he’s probably an informer or he’d have been carted off to Germany on the STO.’
‘He’ll certainly wish he had gone to Germany if that old harridan begins to pursue him.’ More laughter. But Lily stood, looking pensive for a moment.
‘There are so many rumours about people who have just disappeared .. like Sadie’s banker ... why don’t people like Madame Fresange ever disappear?’
‘Perhaps we could slip a note under the front door of the Gestapo headquarters in the rue de Saussaies and tell them she’s Jewish.’
‘Even then, I don’t think they’d take her. She’d be bad for morale. The entire German army would collapse under the weight of her scorn.’
‘In that case,’ replied Poppy definitively, ‘we’ll send her to the British, she can be their secret weapon.’
Chapter 29
The whisper of betrayal
Autumn 1943 was much warmer, its touch far lighter than its bitter, shrill occupation predecessors and Monsieur Maurice held high hopes that the coming winter would also prove less severe. The last two winters had been the worst he could remember, the biting cold exacerbated by the crippling shortage of fuel and the consequent inability of the hapless Parisians to warm themselves. For Maurice, winter also drew increased anxiety over the parlous health of Madame Claudette, who had enjoyed her best summer since the tide of occupation had washed over them. He could only hope that this would bolster her reserves and give her the strength to survive the cruel winter that he knew would arrive in the coming months. Maurice sighed and trudged to his office. In an occupied city, whose continued survival could be assured? Already this month he had petitioned the Military Governor to maintain Le Prix’s exemption from the STO which saw both men and women sent to Germany, transported in regular batches to provide crucial labour for the German war effort. Maurice was painfully aware that only the Governor’s patronage of his cabaret had saved most of his performers. He constantly reminded the members of his little troupe that they must continue to attract patronage or they would lose their precious freedom. That alone was sufficient to inspire creativity and ardour, rousing them to perform at their vibrant, passionate best. The other point the cautious manager made to his dancers and artistes with tedious frequency was that they must be careful not to find themselves on the wrong side of the invader — or the French police for that matter, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between the two. Adding a more pointed note to his voice, he reminded his more capricious performers that they must remain within the confines of the law or there would be very little he could do to help them. Breaking into Fresnes Prison or knocking on the door of 11 rue de Saussaies was beyond the realms of any assistance that even the resourceful Monsieur Maurice could offer.
As he opened the office door that morning, the first sight that greeted Maurice was an empty chair. He slapped his hand against his head in frustration. Where was Roland? He was becoming increasingly impatient with the boy’s scattiness and the discovery last summer that he had been printing anti-German leaflets on Le Prix’s mimeograph had all but exhausted the last vestiges of Maurice’s legendary patience. He checked his watch — it was well after nine o’clock — Roland was to begin work at nine o’clock sharp. Maurice sighed heavily and set off in search of Cabot. He would have to send an errand boy to Roland’s house to discover the reason for the wayward lad’s absence.
But Maurice had no sooner begun to descend the stairs to the theatre when the gnomish Cabot found him.
‘Monsieur Maurice, Madame Belot and her daughter are here to see you.’ Maurice swallowed his surprise and heaved another sigh.
‘Thank you, Cabot.’ He approached the two women with mounting apprehension as Cabot slipped away. Madame Belot was Roland’s mother — but Maurice had been certain that Roland had no sisters, his father and elder brothers incarcerated in Germany, having fought briefly in the defence of their country. Perhaps this was a female relative and Cabot had assumed a kinship that did not exist.
‘Madame Belot, how delightful to see you,’ Maurice smiled and greeted the slim woman enveloped in a black coat and floral headscarf who approached him. ‘Mademoiselle —’ he began, stopping suddenly as he recognised his office boy labouring under a ludicrous disguise, a thick coat, skirt and socks failing to disguise the thin legs that were distinctly Roland’s. He made a mental note to have Cabot’s eyes checked. Surely he could not have failed to recognise Roland!
‘Come this way,’ he told the pair, aware that his apprehension was now well and truly justified, as he escorted them up the stairs to the office. A grateful smile on the pale, anxious face beneath the scarf told him that, once again, a tale of woe was set to tax his ingenuity. Truly this occupation would send him to an early grave, one way or another.
Madame Belot allowed herself to be ushered into the office, waited for the door to close and promptly burst into tears. Maurice led her to a chair and produced a handkerchief of prodigious proportions.
‘There, there, Madame, let me help you with whatever it is that is troubling you, we are all friends here.’ He wished fervently he could send Roland for a cup of tea or, better still, a brandy, but dared not send him anywhere in his ridiculous disguise. Gradually the sobbing Madame Belot recovered her composure while the gangly Roland stood helplessly, tousled head down, wearing the same shameful look as when he had been discovered printing his illegal tracts. Maurice glimpsed his face with a sinking heart. Clearly Roland had not learned his lesson and was the source of his mother’s distress.
‘Monsieur Maurice,’ she sobbed, blowing her nose at intervals in Maurice’s handkerchief, ‘I do beg your pardon for burdening you with our troubles, but truly
I had nowhere else to turn.’ Maurice touched her arm gently.
‘Do not fret Madame, I will do all I can to help you. What seems to be the problem?’ he stole another glance at Roland who was suddenly engrossed in the state of his shoes.
‘It is Roland,’ Maurice nodded, that much he had guessed. ‘It seems he belongs to a group,’ her voice dropped to a husky whisper, ‘that spreads leaflets with anti-German slogans.’ She dabbed at a stray tear and blew her nose once again in Maurice’s handkerchief. ‘The group was discovered last night in the Bois de Boulogne as it fixed some of these leaflets to trees and many were arrested, although Roland managed to escape.’ And here she dissolved once more into noisy sobs, ‘but for how long?’ Maurice patted her anew, left her to her sobs, and turned to the source of all the trouble.
‘Roland, did I not warn you?’
‘Oui, Monsieur, but ...’
‘Let us start with the most important question, young man,’ Maurice interrupted him sternly with a whispered hiss, ‘were these leaflets printed here in my office?’ Roland grimaced and studied his shoes again, nodding his head almost imperceptibly.
‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Maurice, ‘so you are on the run and Le Prix and all its employees may be implicated!’
Roland stifled a sob. Maurice’s fury abated slightly as he surveyed the penitent. After all, he was little more than a boy and had lost the guidance of his father and brothers almost as soon as the Germans had turned their attention towards France. It could not have been easy for his unfortunate mother. Now, however, the wayward young man was Maurice’s problem. And his faithful mimeograph machine would almost certainly have to find a new home, at least for the duration of the war. With a sigh, Maurice turned to the sniffling Madame Belot.
‘Roland can stay here at Le Prix,’ he told her, ‘at least until we can work out what to do with him. But,’ he looked at Roland’s spindly legs with their knobbly knees, ‘he will need some different clothes. This disguise will fool no-one, particularly those who are searching for him.’
Secrets and Showgirls Page 29