‘Non, Madame, I did not pay.’ Gloria looked at her questioningly. ‘Non, Madame,’ Lena repeated earnestly, ‘I assure you, I did not pay.’
Madame Claudette was admitted to hospital the following day, while Lily looked eagerly for Bobby Metzinger in the crowds of patrons at Le Prix that night. He was not there and Lily was not surprised. Bobby was always slow to return to Paris after the spring thaw, explaining that the roads and railway lines to Switzerland, closed by the winter snow, often took some time to reopen. Of course that did not answer Lily’s burning question: how did Lena obtain the precious forged papers?
Madame Claudette remained in hospital for three weeks while the doctors fought to restore her fragile health. Every day an anxious Monsieur Maurice would hasten to her bedside, leaving only to take the last train before le métro closed for the night and the curfew descended. Despite his haggard, exhausted appearance, the moustachioed manager quickly recovered his buoyant optimism, confident that his beloved wife would soon be out of danger. Claudette’s recovery from what was diagnosed as severe bronchial pneumonia was initially slow, and the good Dr Paul gently reassured his friend that this could be a lengthy process. But the expert care of the hospital and the regimen of powerful drugs that was introduced almost immediately soon began to effect an improvement and within a week Madame Claudette had begun to rally. Maurice was beside himself and Madame Gloria, now much rested having been relieved of her taxing nursing duties, glowed with heady optimism.
‘It was just in time,’ she told Lily and Poppy over a large glass of rhubarb wine, the last batch of the winter season and soon to be replaced by the endless mulberry wine of the summer months. ‘The doctors told Monsieur Maurice that, had she been delayed much longer, we may have lost her.’
The girls exchanged glances of pure dread. It was a terrible prospect as, while she was an exacting dance mistress, Madame Claudette was beloved of all the members of the little troupe. They also knew just how much Monsieur Maurice doted on his wife. But Lily still could not work out how Lena had managed to secure forged papers in the absence of Bobby Metzinger. She shrugged inwardly. Perhaps she would never know. No point quizzing Bobby on his return as clearly whatever Lena had done had nothing to do with him.
The girls had pondered this intriguing question as they trotted off to rehearsals the next afternoon. In Madame Claudette’s absence, the showgirls had run their own rehearsals, discovering that they were perfectly capable of drilling one another through the current routines and could be every bit as tough as their ailing dance mistress.
‘Can’t you kick any higher?’
‘Do we always move to the left? I thought it was to the right on the second beat.’
‘Honestly, is that the best we can do?!!’
The faithful Madame Gartrille supplied her usual accompaniment as the girls kicked and cantered, pranced and cavorted, determined to do their best so that their audience would never realise that they were missing their dance mistress. Once Madame Claudette began to rally, Monsieur Maurice appeared with increasing frequency, urging them on with vigorous applause and enthusiastic cries of ‘Bravo!’ Even dowdy little Mademoiselle Gris allowed a little smile of pride to cross her face, obviously pleased with the way the troupe had rallied around to fill the void left by the redoubtable Madame Claudette.
At the end of one particularly energetic rehearsal, which had seen Monsieur Maurice encourage them into several furious cancans, Lily and Poppy collapsed in a sweating heap with the other girls, most in various stages of exhaustion and panting heavily from their exertions.
‘I need a drink!’ exhaled Lily, patting Poppy’s arm.
‘Come on cherie,’ responded the strawberry blonde with a wink, ‘I liberated another of Gunther’s bottles of brandy, let’s have a little glass to restore us before the show.’ As the two girls collected themselves and wandered slowly past the others, Lily’s eye was caught by a golden flash as Monique bent down, the flash immediately revealing itself as a beautiful gold cross around the flame-haired dancer’s neck. She stopped and addressed her fellow showgirl.
‘Monique, that’s gorgeous, I haven’t seen you wear it before.’
‘Gift from an admirer?’ shot Poppy with a wink. Monique smiled with satisfaction, pinching the cross between two slender fingers.
‘Yes, it’s from my man,’ she answered, ‘he was away for such a long time I thought he’d thrown me over for some floozy. So he knew he had some making up to do, and this is the result.’ She beamed again. ‘Not bad, eh?’ The girls admired the cross once more before slipping out the door, making their way to their apartment for that much-needed drink.
Once out of earshot, Lily nudged Poppy and they exchanged significant looks. So he was back. This was not good news and they trudged on with sinking spirits. They had no sooner reached the landing when Lily stopped abruptly.
‘Have you noticed that we had no visits from the Germans while that man was away?’ she asked suddenly. Poppy regarded her seriously.
‘You know, you’re absolutely right. Nothing. No men in leather coats, no troops in jackboots, it’s been as quiet as the grave for three months now.’
‘And that’s as long as he was away. Remember when I told you that Bobby had mentioned Colbert had been arrested by the Gestapo?’ Poppy nodded slowly. ‘It was about the same time as we had that meeting in Madame Gloria’s kitchen.’ They looked at each other again.
‘That vile man!’ Lily cursed.
Crecy appeared at his doorway draped in a bright pink chenille dressing gown, a cigarette peeping from the end of his signature black diamante holder, clenched firmly between his teeth. His finely sculpted features were coated in a thick layer of white paste. He removed the diamante holder with some difficulty and regarded the startled girls with a stiff look.
‘What’s all this unholy ruckus, ladies?’ he demanded thickly, clearly trying hard not to disturb the heavily paletted face pack. ‘And who’s the man you’re complaining about? Shall I tell Coco he needs punishing?’ Lily strolled towards the plastered vision and peered closely.
‘What is that on your face?’ Crecy angled his head to allow a closer inspection.
‘It’s a little concoction that Celine Caton told me about.’ He patted a small section gently. ‘It’s a mixture of rosehip syrup, rutabaga juice, chicory flour and prune paste. And I add just a dash of brandy to make it smell nice.’ Lily suddenly realised that there was a reason Crecy smelt like a barmaid. ‘Marvellous for the skin,’ Crecy continued, ‘only problem is,’ and he gave the mask a solid, hollow tap, ‘it does tend to set quite firmly and I have to chisel it off. Last time I asked Coco to help, but she was a bit rough, if you understand my meaning.’ Lily extended a timid hand towards the packed face and knocked gingerly. The entire mask echoed dully.
‘I see what you mean,’ she replied in awestruck tones, ‘it’s like concrete. You’ll need Napoleon’s sledgehammer to break it.’ Crecy reacted in heavily muted horror.
‘Oh dahling, I couldn’t let a man see me like this, especially a big, handsome man like Napoleon.’ He drew with some exertion on his cigarette, inserting it in the gap that marked his mouth with considerable difficulty. ‘Now, what’s this about a badly behaved man?’
‘It’s that dreadful man who threatened us,’ this from Poppy who had perched on the edge of a sofa where she could study the plastered apparition at leisure. ‘Are you sure that’s good for your skin?’
‘Wonderful for texture, sweetie, and it leaves a lovely white sheen behind that makes a gal look years younger.’
‘I think you could build a bridge with that mixture, maybe you should sell it to Napoleon for repairs to bombed-out buildings, you might make some money.’ Crecy paused to emit a flattened seepage of smoke and regarded Poppy intently.
‘You know, I never thought of that. Could be useful as I’m a bit short of fags at the moment.’
He drew again before stopping suddenly. ‘So what about this awful man?’
/> ‘He’s an odious character named Paul Colbert,’ answered Lily. ‘We had no trouble from the Germans the whole time he was banged up by the Gestapo and, now he’s back, what’s the bet there’s a raid?!’
‘So how does he know? Do you think someone here tells him?’
‘No-one here would tell him anything about the people at Le Prix,’ insisted Lily, ‘as Monsieur Maurice says, we’re a family.’ Crecy sniffed dubiously.
‘Unless you’re quizzed in the cot, dahling, now that works every time. I’ve been asked all sorts of peculiar things at crucial moments by my men, you have no idea.’ He exhaled languidly as the girls stared in alarm hoping desperately that he would not elaborate. ‘Still, not nice to think he’s spying on us. We’ll just have to be extra careful.’
He paused again before tapping his plastered face once more. ‘Now, mustn’t dilly-dally, ladies, I have to remove my face before it sets solid.’ He waved his cigarette holder and disappeared in a ruffle of soft pink chenille and wafting smoke. ‘Toodle now.’
‘Before it sets?!’ expostulated Lily, ‘that stuff was like concrete. He’ll be there for hours chipping it off. Maybe I should ask Antoine to pop up with a mallet.’ She grinned at Poppy who chortled in return before returning to a more pressing matter.
‘Lil, mallets aside, we need to do something about that Colbert character before we’re all packed off in a Gestapo truck.’ Lily grimaced. She would have to tackle Bobby again once the snows melted. She had a sinking feeling that even the resourceful Bobby would have difficulty this time. If the much-feared Gestapo could not deal with Paul Colbert, who could?
It was several weeks before Lily and Poppy could arrange another council of war on the issue of the informer. It had been a busy few weeks. As the spring thaw had set in, Madame Claudette, now home from hospital and almost completely recovered, had regained much of her old sparkle and had embarked on a strategy to revitalise the showgirls’ routines, giving them a merciless spring clean. She had decided that the girls had become lazy in her absence, drilling them relentlessly, using her stick as a useful prop for announcing her feelings about their performance in no uncertain terms.
‘Too clumsy!! You are like cowherds and garbage collectors!!’ she would thump and bellow simultaneously, ‘this is a graceful movement, like the famous dying swan.’ And she would demonstrate sinuously, her trademark colourful scarves and flowing skirts winding and sweeping as her long legs twisted and turned, trailed by the wafting strands of smoke from her lacquered cigarette holder. Restored also were the dramatic turbans resplendent with large diamante brooches and feathers, swathing her head in all the colours of the rainbow. The girls were thrilled to see Madame return to her temperamental best, but less thrilled at the reign of terror now imposed on the practice room. As Lily remarked wearily at the end of one particularly harrowing practice session at the barre, the girls had never been so fit and never quite so exhausted.
Maurice was also delighted at Madame’s return to strident good health. But he now had far more on his plate courtesy of the rapidly evolving international situation. By mid-March Hungary, erstwhile ally of the Reich, had been invaded by the Germans and there were rumours that all the Hungarians in Paris would be rounded up and sent to camps. A tearful André, the painfully thin Hungarian violinist from Le Prix’s little orchestra, had slipped into Monsieur Maurice’s office and begged to be hidden lest the Gestapo call for him in the middle of the night and drag him off to a horrific camp in the wilds of Silesia. Monsieur Maurice had calmed him as best he could and assured him that he was safe as long as he remained within the confines of Le Prix. He added André to the collection of illegals hiding in the little room beneath the stage, alongside the nervous Orlando and Roland, the errant office boy. He wondered how soon he would have to add Chinon, his closet communist, to the little community of fugitives. He thanked the good fortune that had seen Guy and Alain moved on, or he would certainly have run out of room by now. Monsieur Maurice mopped his brow and headed to Madame Gloria’s sunny kitchen for a council of war and a calming cup of acorn coffee. At this rate, most of his company would be hidden beneath the stage and he would have no-one left to perform.
Madame Gloria’s ersatz coffee proved nowhere near as popular with her visitors as her last batch of rhubarb wine which had somehow acquired a potency far beyond that of its predecessors. Lily and Poppy in particular were keen to imbibe, desperate for some inspiration over how to rid Le Prix of the odious Paul Colbert. Monsieur Maurice was likewise keen to quiz Madame Gloria over Lena Varigny’s miraculous production of false papers for Madame Claudette. Crecy clip-clopped through the door looking pinker than usual and declaring himself exhausted after a long session chipping off his face mask.
‘Perhaps leave out the chicory flour, dear,’ suggested Madame Gloria, ‘I thought I heard Antoine mention that he uses a mixture of chicory flour to repair flaking plaster. It might be a little on the strong side for you.’
‘Heavens, Glory, I have to do something,’ lamented Crecy, shaking his platinum curls, held in a serpentine roll by an array of sparkling clips, his hair appearing encased in a glitzy python, ‘I am simply exhausted.’ He turned to Lily, who had been watching mesmerised, unable to tear her eyes from the dazzling sight. ‘Got a fag, dahling? I’m about to expire!’
Monsieur Maurice opened proceedings as large glasses of the highly potent rhubarb wine were passed around.
‘Madame Gloria,’ he addressed the plump landlady with a kindly smile, ‘do you have any idea where Lena found those papers?’
‘No, Monsieur,’ answered Gloria, ‘none at all. Although she did assure me that she didn’t pay for them. Do you think she’s with the resistance after all?’ Silence as the members of the group considered this unlikely prospect. It was Lily who broke the silence.
‘The resistance!’ she exclaimed in a loud hiss, conscious that the ever-alert Madame Fresange could be lurking within hissing range. ‘That’s it!’ Her audience looked mystified.
‘Do share that thought, dahling, won’t you?’ asked Crecy raising a finely plucked eyebrow and flicking his pythonesque hairdo.
‘We need someone to get rid of that horrid Paul Colbert and the Gestapo couldn’t do it. But the resistance would be just as keen to see him gone. So, all we have to do is contact the resistance.’ Lily paused and gave the gathering a satisfied look.
‘Right,’ retorted Poppy, ‘and how precisely do we do that? They don’t exactly advertise.’
‘Oh,’ replied Lily, considerably deflated, ‘I was hoping someone would know someone ...’
‘Lena?’ offered Madame Gloria.
‘But she works for Bobby Metzinger and he works for the Germans.’
‘Sounds like the perfect cover to me.’
‘But it’s impossible!’
‘Why?’ asked Poppy, ‘all sorts of unexpected people work for the resistance.’
‘Aren’t they all desperados?’ asked Crecy with a flutter of a red-taloned hand. ‘I would simply love to meet a few of these dashing, dangerous men. I’m sure they would be big, handsome and just bristling with weapons. I could look after their weapons for them ...’ Lily gave him a saucy smirk.
‘Bad luck, sweetie,’ she told the sultry singer, ‘the resistance desperados who spirited Guy away were arranged by Sister Marguerite, and she’s a nun. They’re probably all celibate!’ Crecy flinched as if he had been hit.
‘Ooh, poor things!’ he exclaimed with a shiver, taking a hearty sip of rhubarb wine to restore his equanimity.
‘Could we contact Sister Marguerite?’ asked Poppy.
‘I can’t remember where the convent is — can you?’ replied Lily apologetically. Poppy shook her head.
‘It was in some dingy alleyway with a big door ... we fell into it, remember?’
‘There must be another way,’ now Lily was thinking aloud. ‘Perhaps the priest at Sacré-Coeur would know.’ She glanced uncertainly at Poppy. ‘Feel like a trip to church?’ Now it was Pop
py’s turn to shiver.
‘I haven’t been inside a church since I was a child — I might get struck by lightning as I step inside the door.’
‘Yes, I’m just as likely to attract divine wrath, but it might be our only hope. I could tell the priest I had some poor people who needed helping and he might think I’ve seen the light and tell me where the convent is.’
‘Worth a try,’ replied Poppy, ‘we could stroll up the hill tomorrow morning before rehearsals.’ She cast a wry grin at the little gathering. ‘Crecy, you can have my new lipstick if I don’t come back.’
‘Ooh, now I’m almost hoping for that bolt of lightning ...’
Monsieur Maurice was also thinking hard.
‘So, Madame,’ he turned to Gloria, ‘Lena found you the papers, but said she didn’t pay for them.’ Gloria shook her head. ‘And it took her less than a week to find them,’ he continued.
‘Just a matter of days, Monsieur,’ confirmed the little landlady. Lily’s eyes widened and she looked at the assembled group.
‘That can only mean one thing,’ she told them, ‘either she knows someone who produces false papers or she made them herself. Maybe she’s a forger!’ There was a collective gasp.
‘Ooh,’ trilled Crecy, ‘that could be useful.’
‘Very useful indeed,’ agreed Monsieur Maurice, thinking of the inhabitants of the little hiding place under the stage.
‘But I thought you said she worked for your friend Bobby, Lil,’ interjected Poppy, ‘what does he do again?’
‘He’s never really told me,’ began Lily slowly, ‘he just described himself as a businessman and I know he works for the Germans. But even the Germans need forgers.’ Monsieur Maurice turned his attention to Lily.
‘Perhaps I will have a little chat with Monsieur Metzinger when he returns from Switzerland,’ he told her, ‘he may prove very helpful.’ Lily beamed at him. But behind the smile her mind was working feverishly. How could Lena be a forger and possibly a member of the resistance and also work for Bobby? It just did not make sense. No, there was clearly far more to Lena Varigny than met the eye.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 33