Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘Oh Monsieur Maurice, how can I thank you?’ Madame Belot dissolved into a fresh bout of tears, this time in gratitude.

  ‘Madame, we must move swiftly. You cannot leave by the front entrance as my janitor saw you enter. While he has worked for me for many years, these are troubled times and we should trust no-one.’

  He ushered her out the back door of the theatre, leaving the rueful Roland alone in the office to reflect on the gravity of his sins. The visibly relieved Madame Belot promised to return immediately with a package of clothes for the boy, pressing Monsieur Maurice’s hands in gratitude and smiling wanly through fresh tears.

  ‘Rest easy, Madame,’ Maurice reassured her, ‘he can stay here until we can decide what to do.’ Or until this infernal war ends, he told himself. Maurice watched her depart and then went in search of Orlando, into whose dubious care he would entrust Roland. They could hide together in the little room under the stage until new papers could be found or, preferably, a new hiding place somewhere far away. Switzerland and Spain were both high on Maurice’s list. All he lacked was a means to spirit the fugitives away.

  An hour later, the much-recovered Madame Belot had delivered a parcel of clothes for Roland and he had abandoned his farcical disguise. Orlando had taken the errant youth under his wing and was quietly conducting a guided tour of the hiding place. Maurice had returned to his office and, heaving a hefty sigh, had begun to dismantle his beloved mimeograph machine piece by piece. He would hide the pieces separately throughout Le Prix and reassemble it after the war. Now his only option was to make discreet enquiries and find someone who could print his programs for him. Paper, stencils, ink and any other supplies the printer required would have to be delivered by Napoleon in his recently converted charcoal-fired truck, adding further to the price he would now have to pay. He mentally berated Roland for his inconvenient patriotism and sincerely hoped he had learned his lesson — this time.

  His task completed, Maurice sat at his desk with his head in his hands, surrounded by the pieces of his tainted printer. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his responsibilities. Le Prix was now hiding a Polish-born Russian, an alcoholic communist dwarf with a large collection of banned newspapers, a gypsy, a Brazilian commonly mistaken for an American, a Hungarian (who could tell when Hitler would turn on Hungary?), a female impersonator who was clearly homosexual and therefore also proscribed by the regime, and a resister leaflet-dropper. And, of course, Le Prix had also hidden a British Army officer and a French soldier who were both now on the run. All this in a cabaret patronised by the German Military Governor and the cream of the Nazi Party’s Paris branch, dozens of high-ranking German officers and the elite among French collaborators who poured through the doors several nights a week. How long, wondered Maurice, how long before the Gestapo came to drag him and his motley charges from their beds and fling them all in some dungeon or prison cell? He rubbed his eyes with weariness and wondered whether he should save them all the trouble and simply march his little flock to Gestapo headquarters and let them do their worst. It was the waiting that was unbearable. He was certain that someone had informed on Guy and Alain and he suspected this informer might still be lurking nearby, watching and waiting for another opportunity to strike.

  The possibility that it could be someone at Le Prix hurt Maurice deeply. He considered his employees akin to a family. They had all lived and worked at the cabaret for many years now and he could not stomach the fact that one of them might have betrayed that family. He began to feel like Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane agonising over the fact that one of His chosen, the men He had loved so much, was about to betray Him. Likewise, Maurice was darkly convinced that, eventually, one of his Le Prix family would betray them all. But who? And why? He rubbed his hands over his face in a gesture of hopelessness. He might never know who it was and almost certainly would never discover why. Ah, enough, he told himself. He was no saviour and Le Prix was far from Gethsemane. He was just a humble cabaret manager trying to protect his friends and his business in what could only be described as extraordinary times. But a little assistance from the Almighty would not go astray, and Maurice would simply have to pray for the odd miracle or two as he carefully tiptoed his way through the minefield that was occupied Paris.

  Crecy, on the other hand, regarded a cool glass of champagne and the company of a handsome man as clear evidence of the presence of divinity. Late on Saturday night, as the last vestiges of the autumn warmth mingled with the heady after-effects of a lively show and copious amounts of champagne, Crecy arrayed himself on a red velvet chair next to his handsome friend Otto and smoked absently, simpering at the attractive German men, elegantly attired in a mixture of dress uniforms and dinner suits and smiling prettily at their coquettish French lady companions as they laughed and joked around Otto’s table. Crecy delighted in such company. He felt beautiful and desirable, considering himself far more tastefully dressed and manicured than the women who flocked to the shows at Le Prix, despite their dazzling jewellery, their fine fox furs and all their superior airs. Jewellery was so tawdry, particularly when worn in the enormous quantities favoured by these women who looked as if they were hawking their baubles on the street. Crecy preferred a single extraordinary piece that would captivate his audience and make a signature statement and, thanks to the generosity of his companions over the past few years, he now boasted a collection of beautiful and valuable pieces. He surveyed the women at his table with cool and well-disguised disdain. One frippery blonde, wearing an enormous pearl choker and displaying a cavernous cleavage that would have excited a mountaineer, looked vaguely familiar. Yes, that was it, Crecy suddenly realised exactly where he had seen her. Last time he had encountered that particular floozy she had been one of the more exotic offerings at One Two Two, perhaps the most exclusive bordello in Paris. He caught her eye and winked at her. The blonde froze for a second and then continued to paw the paunchy German officer seated next to her. Hmm, Crecy mused, the war had certainly been good to that little painted strumpet. He adjusted his smile carefully, the smugness of satisfaction settling well. Yes, that was definitely her. She had clearly placed her faith in the much-vaunted thousand-year Reich that Otto was always banging on about. Well, thought Crecy, time would tell where that fancy piece of human flotsam ended up.

  Enjoying himself immensely, Crecy smoked and chatted, relishing the darted glances from the bejewelled blonde who obviously had no idea where she had met Crecy. The conversation flowed amid the background hum of Hiram and his orchestra who played a modified version of jazz that seemed to suit the occupier. Crecy played his favourite game of listening to each conversation in turn, looking for morsels of gossip he could share with Madame Gloria, Poppy or Lily the next day. Military talk was of little use as Crecy understood almost nothing and was bored to sobs by discussions of troop movements and transfers. But, as he listened in turn, he detected a thread of conversation that was certainly worth pursuing. Unusually, it concerned Le Prix. Furthermore, it concerned the man who epitomised Le Prix, Monsieur Maurice. Crecy was fiercely protective of Monsieur Maurice, not simply out of loyalty to his manager, but also because Monsieur Maurice had always treated him with courtesy and as a lady. This mattered to Crecy, who had suffered bruising encounters with less considerate men over the years. Now he listened intently to the two men who were deep in conversation but too drunk to be discreet. Crecy never made that mistake, even now scrupulously careful to remain casually vague in his conversation to encourage the speakers to part with as much information as possible. Poppy sailed past with a bottle of champagne and Crecy arrested its passage, pouring fresh glasses of the intoxicating elixir for all the members of the party, particularly the man who was speaking in low tones to his right.

  ‘At Le Prix?’ his neighbour was asking.

  ‘Of course, and the information that this informer passes is most useful.’

  ‘Are they hiding Jews?’

  ‘No, the informer does not
think so.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘That is unclear. But you have my word that, as soon as we know, we will act.’

  ‘You will have to be careful. After all, this is the Governor’s favourite cabaret.’

  ‘But of course. Leave it to me.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the blonde floozy with the cavernous cleavage who burst into raucous laughter and began to quiz one of the speakers. The discussion was diverted and, soon after, the party began to separate. Crecy stored this little gem of information for later use. For now, he would ply Otto with a little more champagne and see if feminine wiles would do the rest.

  It was Sunday afternoon by the time Crecy caught up with Monsieur Maurice, eager to discuss the significance of this information. Otto had been less than helpful, having imbibed so much champagne that he had fallen asleep in the car on the way to his hotel and had to be carried bodily to his room. Crecy had stayed, but Otto had then woken to a monumental hangover and had spent the morning lying prone under a particularly pungent cold compress. Not the right circumstances for some intellectual pummelling, admitted Crecy with resignation, and he had come home to a long lemon bath and a lavender face mask — anything to remove the smell of Otto’s foul compress.

  Monsieur Maurice, still recovering from the debacle that was Roland’s brief flirt with a career as a resister, was a little weary of subterfuge, but confirmed sadly that he also suspected the presence of an informer at Le Prix. Crecy decided that a council of war was required and that it should assemble at Madame Gloria’s over afternoon tea. He proceeded cautiously, well aware that he had to be very careful who he told about the informer. After all, it could be almost anyone at Le Prix — or in the apartment boarding houses for that matter. But he trusted Madame Gloria and Lily and Poppy. That was it. He knew little about Coco apart from the few snippets of family gossip he had gleaned over the years. He did not even know her real name. In fact, when he thought about it, he knew so little about the other members of Le Prix that he began to realise there were few he could trust. The cosy circle he had assembled at Madame Gloria’s represented everyone Crecy had excluded from suspicion and there were precious few of these.

  Madame Gloria was delighted to have a little gathering for an ‘exclusive’ afternoon tea, as Crecy had put it, and she busied herself assembling the few titbits she had to feed her guests. She had some Tarte Tatin that featured apples from her daughter in the country, and fruit bread she had made from some over-ripe plums that had seen better days and a small sack of maize that Napoleon had dropped off the day before. There was no tea, but she had a little ersatz coffee that tasted somewhat peculiar. Clearly acorns and chicory were becoming more difficult to source. Never mind, she consoled herself with the thought that there was plenty of mulberry wine and, once they had all imbibed a little, the taste would be far less important.

  Lily and Poppy tripped happily into Madame Gloria’s kitchen, intrigued by the secrecy surrounding the afternoon tea. Crecy had forbidden them to tell a single soul and that had simply heightened their excitement. How delicious! Poppy also had some chocolate that Gunther had given her and was keen to share this rare treat.

  ‘Ooh, chocolate and conspiracy!’ cooed Crecy, his rollered head jiggling in anticipation, ‘the perfect combination.’

  The little group huddled around Madame Gloria’s ancient kitchen table and discussed the awful prospect that there was an informer in their midst.

  ‘It could be that poisonous Madame Fresange,’ whispered Poppy, ‘she’s always prying into other people’s business.’

  ‘Or it could be Cabot. It would be easy for him to pass messages to someone through the front door.’

  ‘André? He always disappears as soon as the orchestra finishes playing — perhaps he meets someone.’

  ‘One of the showgirls?’ ventured Lily, ‘Carin has a new man and I think he’s German.’

  ‘So is Gunther,’ retorted Poppy.

  ‘And Otto,’ added Crecy with a wry look.

  ‘Oops,’ Lily looked apologetically at her friends, ‘sorry girls!’

  ‘My friends,’ began Maurice, deciding it was time to introduce some order to the discussion, ‘I think we need a little plan to uncover our informer rather than just assuming that anyone who has the opportunity to inform is doing so.’ Murmurs of agreement. ‘I think we need to use our contacts and try to find some clue to the identity of the informer. Even if we just knew whether it was a man or a woman, this would narrow the field considerably.’ Nods around the table. ‘But,’ cautioned Maurice gravely, ‘we must be very careful. After all, this person will not want to be identified and will try everything to keep this a secret.’ He paused to allow his audience to digest his warning before delivering another. ‘We must also exercise considerable care in choosing who we speak to — after all, there are a great many people who come to Le Prix whose loyalty is rather ... ambiguous, shall we say?’ The little group gave another collective nod, faces serious. This was the gravest test they had faced since the Germans had first marched down the Champs-Élysées.

  ‘I could have a little chat to Napoleon,’ offered Madame Gloria, ‘he hears plenty of gossip from his suppliers and customers.’ Maurice smiled and nodded.

  ‘That is a wonderful idea, Madame, and’ he added gingerly, ‘could you perhaps also devise some way to gently question the redoubtable Madame Fresange? After all, she makes it her business to see and hear everything.’ Gloria’s face fell as if he had asked her to prod a sleeping dragon.

  ‘I could try, Monsieur, just leave it to me, I will think of something.’ Turning to Lily, she murmured, ‘it would be so much easier if she were not so prudish. A single glass of my mulberry wine seems to make everyone want to confide in me!’ Lily giggled.

  ‘Slip it into her coffee, the way coffee tastes these days, she’d never notice!’

  ‘I plan to pump Otto for information,’ announced Crecy, ‘after all, they were his friends at the table that night.’

  ‘Could you also work on Coco?’ ventured Maurice, ‘she does have some ... contact with ... a certain class of patron ...’ Lily and Poppy laughed together, remembering the unfortunate accountant who had met his demise at Coco’s hands.

  ‘Tell her not to interrogate them too harshly,’ recommended Lily.

  ‘No,’ added Poppy, ‘they’re more use to us alive!’ Maurice now turned to Poppy.

  ‘Could you gently question Gunther? He has been your ... er ... companion for some time now, do you think you could trust him sufficiently?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Poppy hesitantly, ‘but it’s difficult because he’s German and I’m not sure he would tell me if he knew something.’

  ‘Try some of Madame Gloria’s mulberry wine truth potion,’ joked Lily, laughing at her friend’s discomfort. Maurice eyed Lily.

  ‘Lil, you could speak to Monsieur Metzinger.’ Lily was instantly serious again. She thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘Monsieur, I really don’t know where his loyalties lie. I thought he worked for the Germans, but he often asks me about the people who come to watch the show at Le Prix.’ All eyes now fixed on her. ‘But he never asks me about anyone who works at Le Prix, it’s always about the patrons. Have I seen this man at the show before, or do I know the name of that woman? He never asks me anything about you, Monsieur Maurice, or about anyone else. Even when Alain was here, he never asked me who he was — it was as if he didn’t need to know about us, just about our clientele.’ Maurice nodded, smiling softly.

  ‘But it may be worth asking him gently ... at the right moment ...’

  ‘Mulberry wine, Lil?’ offered Poppy with a smile.

  ‘Do you need someone to seduce him, dahling?’ asked Crecy, arching a finely pencilled eyebrow, ‘After all, he’s a very handsome man.’

  ‘I tried that before I met Guy,’ retorted Lily, ‘it didn’t work, he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘Really?’ now Crecy’s attention was fixed on
Lily.

  ‘No, Crecy, that doesn’t mean he’s interested in more adventurous options, I just don’t think I’m his type.’ Maurice gently steered the conversation onto safer ground.

  ‘Lil, perhaps Monsieur Metzinger would be more helpful if he thought that this informer was a threat to Mademoiselle Lena.’ Lily nodded slowly. Maurice was right — Lena certainly appeared to be Bobby’s Achilles heel.

  ‘Yes, that’s definitely worth a try.’

  ‘And I,’ announced Maurice looking around at his little group of friends, ‘will ask Dr Paul whether he has heard anything at all. These medical men meet all sorts of people as they do their rounds.’ He beamed happily at them. He had been distressed at the thought that a member of his little company was prepared to spy on them all, but he was now quietly confident that his tiny band of loyalists would flush the informer out. Of course that would immediately pose a new problem: what to do with the guilty individual. Resolving that particular dilemma might expose another side to his company entirely.

  Chapter 30

  A tricky pursuit

  The cautious search for the informer preoccupied the little group for the last few weeks of autumn and well into the first months of winter. Madame Gloria was keen to tackle Napoleon first and had been inspired by what Monsieur Maurice had told Lily about Bobby Metzinger and Lena. The canny little landlady had realised immediately that there was someone the hairy mechanic would sell his soul to protect — Crecy. He had continued to meet the voluptuous singer every Thursday afternoon at two o’clock and Crecy had charmed him, cultivated him and made him feel handsome and dashing. The relationship had progressed no further — there was something almost chivalrous and pure about the way they pursued what could only be termed an intimate friendship — if Crecy could be described in any way as ‘pure’. But Madame Gloria cherished the old-fashioned delight the two clearly enjoyed in each other’s company which seemed bizarrely chaste in a place the acidic Madame Fresange variously described as a den of sin and a vipers’ pit. Yes, she had no doubt that the love-struck Napoleon would be only too eager to help her discover the identity of the informer if he truly believed that his beloved Crecy was in danger.