Later that week the hirsute black marketeer lurched through the front door with his usual bulging sack of contraband. Today, he announced to Madame Gloria in an excited whisper, he had a special treat for her. Gloria’s heart leapt. The last time Napoleon had produced one of his ‘special treats’ she and her friends had feasted on goose for the best part of a week. She clapped her hands and exclaimed with barely restrained excitement.
‘Ooh, Monsieur, I can hardly wait!’ Napoleon upended his sack and several small, rodent-shaped animals fell out amid an avalanche of vegetables and overripe fruit. Gloria stared in amazement as Napoleon grasped one of the unfortunate beasts in his massive hands.
‘Guinea pigs!’ he exclaimed, ‘very popular in the 16th arrondissement, some of my best clients are desperate to get their hands on these tasty little morsels.’
‘Ah yes,’ replied Madame Gloria, with rather less enthusiasm, ‘I know what they are Monsieur, but I have never contemplated eating them.’
‘Madame, they are a true delicacy,’ he replied, smacking his lips, ‘and in these hard times, we can’t be too choosy ... know what I mean?’
Madame Gloria knew exactly what he meant, but that did not stop her being overwhelmed by visions of the pet guinea pigs she had kept as a child. Could she have eaten Frou-Frou? Or Tambeau? No, they had been her friends, playmates, her confidantes when her spirits drooped. She had nursed them through sickness, rescued them from the neighbour’s evil cat, and shared her trials and tribulations with these cherished furry soulmates. By contrast, her younger brother’s hamster, Rotonde, had once bitten her, had made strange growling noises whenever she had approached and was prone to nip her ankles. All things considered, it was also a very large animal and would have been quite tasty, roasted with garlic and a red wine sauce ...
‘That’s right, Monsieur, truly these are testing times and we must all adjust. Is there an extra cost for these delicacies?’ Napoleon’s face broadened into a generous beam.
‘Madame, for the one who introduced me to the beautiful Mademoiselle Crecy, there is a special price — but do not mention this to any of your friends in the 16th eh?’ he winked and grinned, flashing pearly white teeth that shone brightly against his deep olive complexion.
‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ replied Gloria, who knew absolutely no-one in the well-heeled 16th, reaching for her payment cache of wine, brandy and cigarettes, ‘perhaps I will add a little bottle of cognac to thank you for your kindness. We have to look after our friends, don’t we?’
‘Ah, thank you, Madame,’ replied Napoleon, eyes sparkling as he reached for the cognac, ‘I will not forget this.’ He stowed the little bottle in his jacket pocket and reached for his sack.
‘Monsieur, there was something else,’ Gloria had decided that now was the time to strike. ‘Could I detain you for just a moment to ask you a little favour?’
‘But of course, Madame, I am at your service,’ and he bestowed his most charming smile on her.
‘It is quite delicate,’ began Madame Gloria hesitantly. Napoleon’s heavy brows knitted. ‘And it may concern Mademoiselle Crecy,’ she added, allowing her soft features to cloud slightly.
‘Mademoiselle Crecy?’ he spluttered, ‘is she unwell?’
‘No, no, she is quite well.’
‘Is she in trouble?’ Gloria looked confused at his use of this well-known euphemism.
‘No, not in trouble ... but in —’
‘Danger?’ Gloria seized her chance.
‘Monsieur, I do hope not, but ...’
Now Napoleon was truly alarmed.
‘Madame, I will do anything I can to help Mademoiselle Crecy.’ Perfect, thought Gloria, this was just the reaction she had sought.
‘Monsieur,’ she dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘we think there may be an informer at Le Prix.’ Napoleon turned pale and his eyes widened.
‘Non! Surely not ... are these not people you have known for many years?’
‘Indeed they are, Monsieur, that is why Monsieur Maurice and I are so very distressed. But we are also afraid for the safety of some of the artistes —’
‘Like Mademoiselle Crecy ...’ He nodded with an air of tragedy as if Mademoiselle had just passed away, then rallied, determined to protect his idol. ‘I will make some enquiries — in secret, you understand,’ reading Gloria’s expression of polite alarm. ‘Some of my clients are very well placed, know what I mean?’
Gloria did not, but was content to believe that Napoleon would do his utmost to uncover the informer before any threat to Crecy’s wellbeing should materialise. She thanked him profusely and he departed, a waft of sweat and pungent cologne lingering, as if to further prolong his presence. Gloria eyed the guinea pigs and thought not of the delights of roasted Rotonde, but of the rather more intimidating prospect of quizzing her neighbour, the caustic Madame Fresange. Perhaps she would have to sacrifice one of her guinea pigs on the altar of Medusa for the sake of persuading her to part with whatever information might lie beneath that cantankerous exterior.
Poppy was rather less intimidated at the thought of gently interrogating Gunther, but she was keen to ensure that it was done with all the subtlety she could muster. As the winter chill deepened, she increasingly spent the night with him in his room at the Hotel du Barry where it was warmer and where Poppy felt more comfortable discussing Le Prix. Gunther had proven a godsend for Poppy and she realised she would miss him when he returned to Germany as inevitably he must. He had arrived with the first influx of Germans, marching down the Champs-Élysées with the Aryan vanguard, ready to demonstrate the power and beauty of the master race. And Gunther was certainly an example of Aryan beauty. He was tall and impossibly blonde with pale blue eyes and strong features, a ready smile revealing rows of sparkling white teeth. He was cultivated and elegant and came from a wealthy family with vineyards on the Rhine. As a staff officer, he had been well placed to retain his position in Paris since the start of the occupation while many of his brother officers had been transferred to battlefields from North Africa and the Balkans to the vast steppes of the Eastern Front. Gunther had clearly enjoyed his time with Poppy who was well aware that a liaison with a showgirl would not have been tolerated by his aristocratic family in Germany. Poppy smirked inwardly — obviously respectability had its price.
It was late on a Tuesday evening when Poppy lay entangled with Gunther having enjoyed a delicious fare of champagne and more than a little cognac. She was keen to tackle her lover on the subject of the informer, but just as keen to tread carefully, fully aware that he would know far more than he would be willing to divulge. She nuzzled into him, enjoying the soft tautness of his body and twirling the hairs on his chest playfully.
‘Will you miss me, darling,’ she asked him softly, ‘when duty finally calls you away from Paris? Will you think of me often?’
‘Of course, my sweet,’ he responded languidly, ‘every minute of the day.’
‘Oh,’ replied Poppy with mock sadness, ‘I thought you would think of me every minute of the day no matter where you were,’ she pushed her lips into a sultry pout and looked up at him with big, sad eyes. Gunther laughed and pulled her close.
‘Of course I do. In fact,’ he added, whispering conspiratorially, ‘my general often finds me lost in thought and praises me for thinking deeply about my work. But,’ he eyed her with a wink, ‘I’m really thinking about a certain pair of long, shapely legs, a tight little derrière, and,’ he stroked her thighs, moving closer, but she stopped him.
‘Sometimes I feel a little afraid ...’
‘You don’t need to feel afraid ...’ he whispered reassuringly.
‘But I do.’ She pulled away and looked up into his pale blue eyes, her expression serious, her own eyes wide. ‘Sometimes I feel as if there’s someone at Le Prix who is watching me.’ Gunther’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he kept his tone light.
‘At Le Prix? But who could be watching you?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t know wh
y.’ She paused a moment. ‘You don’t think someone could be watching to see when I meet you ...’
‘No, darling, I don’t think —’ but Poppy had sown the seeds of doubt and Gunther’s tone changed. ‘You’ve really no idea who could be watching you?’ She shrugged.
‘No, I’ve known everyone at Le Prix for years, they’re like a family to me. That’s why I’m so upset.’
‘Perhaps you’re imagining it.’
‘No,’ she added hastily, ‘Lily feels the same way.’ Gunther nodded slowly, deep in thought. Poppy took his hand and kissed it softly, then placed it on a silky thigh. ‘Sweetie, if you could find out whether there’s anyone at Le Prix who might be spying on us ... then perhaps we could avoid that person ... I could make sure I wasn’t seen meeting you ...’ Gunther smiled thinly.
‘Let me see what I can discover.’
‘You know I’d do anything to protect you, my love,’ murmured Poppy, drawing him close, stroking him gently and delighting in his response.
‘This will do for the moment,’ he whispered in reply, responding to her artful urging and submitting to her caresses.
Lily was also eager to indulge in some gently targeted interrogation and keen to do so before the winter snows closed the road and rail links with Switzerland. She had Bobby Metzinger firmly in her sights as she arrived at the bar clad in her signature black sequinned hostess gown ready to offer champagne to the noisy patrons of Le Prix. She winked at Madame Lucille as she swept off clutching a bottle and two glasses, having spied Bobby at the other end of the bar lighting a cigarette.
‘Champagne Monsieur?’
‘Ah, Lily, thank you,’ he took the proffered glass and raised it, smiling at her over the wafting effervescence. They shared their customary toast.
‘ Santé!
‘Santé! And I have some news for you.’ Lily sipped the sparkling elixir and smiled back, hardly daring to hope that Bobby had solved her problem without having to be asked.
‘Your nasty Monsieur Colbert has been arrested.’
‘Oh.’ In all the excitement and consternation over the informer she had completely forgotten about the odious Colbert. ‘By the ...’
‘Yes. So he will trouble neither of us in the future.’
‘Unless he reaches some sort of agreement with ...’
‘Oh, I am well aware of his fondness for deals.’ Bobby sipped his champagne with satisfaction. ‘We can only hope that, whatever deal he strikes will take him a long way from your orbit — and mine.’
He smiled with satisfaction as if concluding a business arrangement, while Lily nodded gratefully.
‘Thank you, Bobby, I do appreciate your help, truly I do.’ She took a deep breath, conscious that she was falling further into his debt. ‘I wonder if ...’ He studied her intently, recognising that there was more than Paul Colbert on her mind. Lily glanced around her, careful to remain casual, as if scanning the room for an absent friend.
‘I have something else to ask you,’ she murmured, ‘of a far more serious nature. We must not be overheard.’ A fleeting look of surprise crossed the handsome face before Bobby moved closer and murmured in her ear.
‘In that case, perhaps we had better pretend to be discussing an assignation.’ He smiled gently and took her by the elbow, guiding her to a more secluded area, wreathed in cigarette smoke and away from any potentially eavesdropping patrons. He stubbed his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table and placed his arm around Lily’s waist. Had she not been in love with Guy, Lily would have been thrilled by this unexpected intimacy. Now she moved close to Bobby, placing a hand on his chest and smiling into his eyes as she spoke.
‘We think ... that is, Monsieur Maurice has reason to believe that there is an informer at Le Prix.’ Bobby held her gaze steadily but permitted his smile to fade slightly.
‘What makes Monsieur Maurice suspect this?’
‘He ... er ...’ Lily cursed herself for not rehearsing a line that would come readily under Bobby’s interrogation. She knew how keenly and precisely his mind worked — it was sheer nonsense to think that she could have manufactured something on the spot. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be married to this man.
‘Lily,’ now he was scrutinising her assiduously despite the smile, ‘tell me exactly what prompted Maurice to think that there is an informer at Le Prix.’ Lily nodded meekly, fighting to retain the beguiling simper of a lover.
‘One of the girls overheard a conversation at the table of some high-ranking officers. Two men spoke of an informer at Le Prix.’ Bobby nodded gravely, his ever-present smile now clearly disguising the workings of his mind. Lily knew that any concerns he entertained were for Lena, not for her. Still, as long as the informer was discovered, Lily had no qualms over how and why.
‘Can you find out precisely which man spoke of the presence of the informer?’ Lily nodded, certain that Crecy would tell her. She scanned the room and spied Crecy on a far table. She caught herself in time — perhaps this was a trap and she would be betraying Crecy. After all, she was still unsure of Bobby’s loyalties and all the signs pointed to the fact that he worked for the Germans.
‘I will ask and tell you tomorrow night,’ she promised, aware that this would ensure his presence at Le Prix for at least one night longer.
‘Be very careful, Lily,’ Bobby murmured softly into her ear, ‘the men you entertain are not known for playing fair.’ Lily nodded mutely, her hand still pressed against Bobby’s chest, her face close to his.
‘I will tell you tomorrow night,’ she told him.
‘And then speak of this to no-one else, for your sake and that of Monsieur Maurice,’ he added guardedly.
‘And for Lena,’ whispered Lily. At the mention of Lena’s name, Bobby’s smile was finally released from captivity.
Monsieur Maurice had also decided that a cosy chat one evening was the best way to quiz his friend, Dr Paul Reynard, over any ideas he might have on the identity of the informer. He invited Dr Paul to share a cigar and a glass or two of cognac from a bottle of the Governor’s best and the two sat in Maurice’s little office next to the sewing room usually occupied by the wraith-like Mademoiselle Gris. He glanced briefly inside but there was no sign of the room’s dowdy occupant and Maurice breathed a sigh of relief that he would not have to manufacture an excuse to send her away while he tackled Dr Paul on what was a very delicate subject.
The two men sat, smoking and reminiscing over the decades of friendship they had shared. Both had grown up in Paris and both had served in the Great War, Dr Paul working himself to exhaustion in the dressing stations close to the front during the great offensives that had characterised that devastating conflict. He had kept a close eye on Madame Claudette’s precarious state of health since the start of the occupation and shared Maurice’s concerns that the winter chill rapidly descending on them would again prove problematic for Claudette’s delicate constitution. Maurice grimaced in anticipation of another tough battle to keep his fragile wife alive.
‘I can keep her warm with the help of my most influential patrons,’ he explained, ‘but I cannot prevent her worrying about what will become of us. You see,’ and he edged closer to his friend and lowered his voice, ‘she has become convinced that there is an informer at Le Prix.’ Dr Paul started in alarm.
‘Here?!’ he exclaimed, his face paling, ‘at Le Prix? No, Maurice, she must be suffering some sort of paranoia. It is not uncommon in such cases.’ Maurice shook his head gently and looked at him sadly.
‘I am afraid, my friend, that she may be right.’
‘Never! How can this be true? You have known these people for many years, Maurice, they owe you so much.’ Paul was aghast.
‘These are extraordinary times, Paul, and people react in different ways. I cannot blame them — who knows what pressure is being applied by the Germans.’ Paul shook his head violently.
‘No, Maurice, there is no excuse for informing on others, particularly on family and friends. There a
re good people here at Le Prix and ... I simply cannot believe it.’
‘Nonetheless, my friend, the evidence is overwhelming. I need to find out who this informer is. If we knew, we could perhaps take more care in what we say or do at certain times.’ Paul nodded absently, deep in thought.
‘I can listen for you,’ he said at last, ‘I dare not ask, you understand, but I can listen.’ Maurice patted his friend’s arm.
‘Merci, Paul, that is enough. If good people such as you are watchful then we may eventually learn who it is who is prepared to report on us.’ Dr Paul shook his head again, stubbed his cigar and downed his cognac. He looked at Maurice with his steady, measured gaze.
‘These are terrible times indeed when friends cannot be trusted.’ He gripped the little manager’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. ‘I will do my best for you,’ he promised.
‘I could ask no more,’ replied Maurice, smiling as his heart sang, now convinced that he could trust his long-time friend. It was an awful business trusting no-one and Maurice was happy to reduce the list of suspects, even one at a time.
Madame Gloria, however, found herself forced to make a difficult sacrifice. Napoleon had left her five guinea pigs and she had decided that one would have to be surrendered to smooth the way with the testy Madame Fresange. Gloria was convinced that La Fresange was not the informer. But she was in a superb position to see all that occurred around the apartments at the rear of Le Prix and, what’s more, she made it her business to know what was going on. The one tenant with similar predilections for observation — Madame Auguste Dupleix — reported every event, no matter its significance, to Madame Fresange. Gloria was determined to find a way to capture this information and the guinea pig would provide the opening parley. From there she would simply have to pick her careful way through the thorny thicket that was Madame Fresange’s difficult personality as best she could.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 31