Paul Colbert wasted no time announcing his return to the girls at Le Prix. It was his nasal voice with its peculiar accent that signalled his presence at Lily’s elbow in the small hours of the morning as she crossed the alleyway towards the apartment after the show.
‘Allo love,’ he murmured, his wheedling tone laced with threat. He moved closer, clamping her arm in a vice-like hold. ‘Didn’t expect to see me back, did you?’ Lily gasped and pulled away, but could not free herself from his iron grip.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded as he pulled her into the shadows.
‘Just a little chat,’ he breathed, his face now close to hers, the stench of garlic almost choking her. She grimaced and tried harder to free herself, but found her arm locked tightly into his.
‘I know you’re hiding Jews, can’t deny it, can you?’ He did not wait for an answer, content that whatever protestations Lily made were simply empty denials. ‘But I’m a reasonable man and I’m prepared to do a deal. So, let’s negotiate. Let’s set a price on each Jewish head and you can buy my silence. How does that sound?’ Lily glared at him. She had no idea whether Le Prix was hiding any Jews, but was not about to give this horrible man the benefit of the doubt. At any rate, she did not want him poking around the cabaret — there were too many other secrets lurking within its red velvet walls to risk exposure by this perfidious creature. So she set her jaw and simply continued to glare ferociously into the narrow eyes.
But if she thought her mute defiance would put Colbert off, Lily was to be sadly mistaken. He simply took her lack of response for acquiescence and began to calculate his price.
‘So, let’s say you’ve got a dozen Jews hidden away under the noses of the Germans, maybe round it up to fifteen, that’s a good number for starters.’ He eyed his captive with a crooked smile. ‘So, how much is each Jew worth to you?’ He studied Lily shrewdly for another moment. ‘No, it’s not about how much each Jew is worth, is it? It’s about how much my silence is worth.’ He grinned and Lily was hit by another pungent wave of garlic breath. ‘You’ll want to protect your friends, won’t you, darlin’? Ooh, that could be expensive.’ He laughed, a whiny, nasal snicker that Lily quickly realised was absolutely genuine. This was a man who enjoyed intimidation so much that he had made it his profession. It was little wonder the Gestapo had been unable to hold him, Lily thought with a jolt, in fact they had probably recruited him. They certainly had plenty in common.
By now, Lily had had enough, both of the choking garlic breath and the vice-like grip that was gradually numbing her arm and, she thought, bound to produce a set of very unattractive bruises. She tried one last time to break free, but he tightened his grip once more and this time it hurt her so much she cried out. His reaction was immediate and ominous.
‘Don’t even think you can break free, ’cos I’m here to stay.’ He pushed his face closer and Lily thought she would be gassed by the pungency of his breath. ‘Just pay what I ask and we can all be friends. Are you ready for me to name my price? Eh?’ By now, Lily was furious, too angry to be frightened.
‘We will never pay you,’ she hissed, ‘never!’ He pushed her backwards, hard against the wall of the building. That’s it, she thought, he’s going to hit me, and she braced for the impact. But the blow never arrived. Instead, her would-be assailant stood dumbly for a second before crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Behind the unconscious racketeer stood Sadie and Sabine, each brandishing a thick, wooden-soled shoe as they regarded the prone form with interest.
‘It was a bigger crash than I expected.’
‘Really? Done this before, have you?’
‘Only to a nasty German who was taking liberties.’
‘Ooh, that must have been satisfying.’ Then they noticed Lily who stood, still smarting from her rough handling and rubbing her arm where the frightful Colbert had held her tight. She glanced from the motionless body to the grinning pair and her face creased in an enormous smile of relief.
‘Thank you ladies,’ she told the pair, ‘you saved me!’
‘You didn’t look as if you were enjoying yourself.’
‘Isn’t that Monique’s friend? I thought she had better taste!’ Both girls looked down at the still form with revulsion.
‘Told you men were trouble,’ tossed Sabine and, with a flick of her black satin bob, she slipped off after a young blonde woman who had just wandered into sight. ‘Hello sweetie, are you looking for me?’
Lily continued to rub her arm ruefully, stepping over her comatose assailant and looking down at him dubiously.
‘Seems a bit unfair on Monsieur Maurice to just leave him here, after all, he won’t be in the best of moods when he wakes up.’
‘Leave him to me,’ Sadie told her, ‘I’ll go and ask my nice new German friend to deal with him. I’ll tell him Colbert was drunk and tried to kiss me and then he passed out. He’ll send a patrol full of hefty German soldiers to pick him up.’ She winked at Lily. ‘They don’t like sharing their girls.’
The odious Colbert’s attack had made Lily all the more determined to find a way to rid Le Prix of his presence permanently. Thus it was that, a few days later, on a sunny May mid-morning, Lily and Poppy wound their way through the cobblestone alleyways and up the hill to the beautifully elaborate church that dominated the skyline of Montmartre — Sacré-Coeur. They paused at the top of the broad, white stone stairs facing the triple-arched entrance that led into the basilica and marvelled at the sight that greeted them. The elegantly ornate white domes that gave the basilica its characteristic appearance now loomed over them and the fiercely sightless eyes of the statue of Saint Joan of Arc gazed beyond them and over the streets of Paris. On the other side of the richly decorative entrance faςade was a statue of King Louis IX who brandished his broadsword aloft and stared solemnly down on the girls as they stood below, more than a little daunted by the severity of his gaze. The central feature of the faςade was a magnificent statue ofJesus of the Sacred Heart which gave the beautiful church its name, the softer features of the white stone face contrasting markedly with those of His fierce companions. But there was no denying the beauty of the stone edifice with its fine columns, intricate friezes and delicate white fretwork. The girls paused a moment longer before they entered the basilica itself, pulling a lace veil over their hair as a small gesture of respect, all too conscious that they represented more the realm of Mary Magdalene than the saintly Joan.
They passed through the heavy metallic front doors with their medieval lion knockers and crossed the flat flagstone entry hall, marvelling as the basilica opened into a yawning interior filled with the golden morning light that lent it an ethereal atmosphere. The arched, vaulted roof soared above them, the cavernous interior of the central dome dominating the midpoint of the nave as if providing the assembled worshippers a glimpse of the Heaven that prayer and virtue might unlock. Rows of wooden pews led towards the main altar, flanked by the arched transepts of the basilica, little wings which hosted their own marble statues, lines of candles left by penitents and petitioners, and tiny stands of pews, like God’s little waiting rooms, thought Lily as she struggled to absorb the magnificence of the basilica’s interior. All around them rose the canticle of the worshippers, pitched somewhere between song and chant, a soaring, sweeping sound that filled the enormous basilica and swept heavenward, the plea of a desperate people to their god.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ intoned long lines of black-clad women, their bowed, kneeling forms reminding Lily of a flock of ravens, bent to their beseeching, their hands almost uniformly clasped in front of their faces, strings of rosary beads dripping from each set of interlocked fingers and flowing down the flat face of the ledge that delineated the pew in front.
‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now,’ chanted the voices, rising and falling in perfect unison. Lily felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Apart from the few tense moments spent hiding in Sister Marguerite’s convent, she had not been in the prese
nce of such mass devotion since she was a child and, despite the passing of the years, it still sent a tiny tingle of unease running up and down her spine. The sound was almost primeval.
But it was the magnificent mosaic of the Sacred Heart in brilliant gold and blues that covered the ceiling of the apse that captured Lily’s attention and held it. Suddenly she felt very small and insignificant, cowed by the majesty of a god she had all but ignored. This was faith on a grand scale and Lily felt incapable of ever being part of such a towering, all-encompassing experience. She stood, gaping and awed, as the chanting of the women filled her ears, her consciousness slipping her gradually back to the distant days of her childhood until Poppy nudged her and broke the spell.
‘Look, Lil, he must be the priest.’ She pointed to a small figure in a black robe who was sitting with an elderly man in a pew close to the front of the apse. As they watched, the black-robed figure stood and patted his elderly companion gently on the shoulder, sidling along the row and walking down the aisle towards them. He was slightly built and almost completely enveloped by his flowing black cassock which fell to his ankles. He walked with his head lowered, his sparse brown hair dominated by a shiny circular tonsure which reflected the morning sunlight like a custom-fitted halo that sat snugly on his head. He looked up to see the girls watching his progress and approached them with a look that sat halfway between a grateful greeting for a penitent sinner and a reproachful rebuke for those for whom sin was something of a profession.
‘Father,’ began Lily, unsure how to proceed given her years of estrangement from her god, ‘we were hoping you could help us.’ The priest smiled pleasantly at them, evidently deciding to err on the side of caution lest these two young women prove among the few virtuous inhabitants of what he regarded as a flagrantly sinful city. Lily and Poppy smiled in return. How young he looked now that his features had leapt into life, thought Lily, relieved that he seemed friendly.
The youthful priest guided the girls to the back of one of the transepts that sat almost incongruously empty of worshippers and penitents. Lily wondered whether the immensely detailed statue of Christ, newly taken down from the cross and flanked by his mother and a row of weeping figures, served to deter more of the parishioners than it attracted. The girls sat close by the black-robed priest who seated himself in a pew and looked at them expectantly, clearly rummaging through his mind for all the possible reasons young women might seek his counsel. He emerged with a look that was politely helpful, if edged with a little trepidation.
‘Father,’ Lily began again, glancing briefly at Poppy and wondering why addressing the clergy seemed exclusively her province. ‘We need to contact a nun named Sister Marguerite who belongs to a convent close by.’ The young priest fought to contain his surprise.
‘Are you ... that is ... were you ...’ his confusion seemed to have robbed him of the power of coherent speech, while a perplexity of thoughts chased their way across his face. After several seconds of attempting unsuccessfully to marshal those thoughts, he simply gave up and came to the point.
‘Are you aspiring novices?’ he asked in what could only be described as a voice laced with bewilderment. Poppy stifled a giggle while Lily hastened to resolve his confusion.
‘No, Father, not at all, far from it, in fact.’ He relaxed visibly, clearly sharing her own feeling that she and the religious life were patently unsuited. ‘No, Sister Marguerite helped us in the past and we need her help again. But we don’t know how to contact her. Could you tell us where to find her, or deliver a message to her for us please?’ He smiled, although Lily thought she detected something beneath the smile that smacked of caution. He paused momentarily before answering.
‘Of course,’ he replied at last, ‘I could deliver a message for you. What would you like me to tell her?’ Now it was Lily’s turn to be cautious and she was immediately lost for a suitable way to broach a delicate subject. She could not possibly tell this nice young priest that she was hoping a saintly sister of the holy Catholic faith would rustle up a resistance desperado who would dispose of a troublesome villain, possibly permanently. Instead, she smiled sweetly and simply told him her name.
‘Please tell Sister Marguerite that Lily has asked to see her.’
‘Lily?’
‘That’s right, Father, she knows where to find me. It’s just that I don’t know where to find her.’
It was hot in the practice room where Madame Claudette was sharpening the evening routine with the showgirls. ‘Cleaning’ she called it, and the girls lived in dread of hours spent repeating steps again and again until she was satisfied, sighing heavily and declaring ‘it will do’ with weary finality. Mademoiselle Gris made last-minute alterations and repairs to outfits and the evening’s show was readied for its devoted clientele. At the end of what had been a frustrating experience all round, Monsieur Maurice took his wife, complaining loudly as ever that her reputation would be destroyed by her galumphing showgirls, to the peaceful sanctuary of Madame Gloria’s kitchen for a soothing glass of madeira which he had purloined from the Governor’s stocks for just such a purpose. Lily and Poppy trudged slowly up the stairs of their apartment block, ready to fall in an exhausted heap, preferably with a glass of something potent in one hand. The sight of a languid Crecy greeted them from one of the sofas, his platinum curls rollered tightly and swathed in a cherry-red turban. Tiny cherry earrings dangled from each ear and his housecoat swam in a bright profusion of apples, oranges and multi-coloured berries, all of the brightest hue. Lily was immediately reminded of a reposing fruit salad.
Crecy angled his red-rollered head towards the showgirls as they staggered in, exhaustion writ large on flushed faces as they sank into the overstuffed sofas.
‘Fag dahlings?’ he offered, ‘you look absolutely done in.’ He slipped two cigarettes from a sleek black box with an elegant flick of slender, red-rimmed fingers, lighting both at once and passing them to the grateful girls who inhaled deeply, gasping with relief. The busty blonde eyed them with a smirk.
‘Did I tell you about Otto’s new game?’ The girls looked mildly alarmed, but the voluptuous singer plunged on without waiting for a reply. ‘It’s become his new favourite — he calls it “conquest”. He’s the conquering hero, of course — all men need to be conquering heroes, don’t they dahlings — and I’m the innocent damsel in distress who has to be conquered and submit to him — I’m awfully convincing, you know,’ and he angled his head once more and batted the enormous eyelashes, all the while wearing a look that approximated a cross between the coquettish and the downright mournful. The girls burst into raucous laughter, their exhaustion forgotten.
‘But then, dahlings,’ the sensual siren resumed, eager to continue his narrative, ‘I discover his heroic qualities and, well, I simply can’t help myself, can I? He likes that bit, of course. I suddenly turn from submissive maiden into wanton floozy. I really don’t know which one he prefers. Mind you, I can’t quite remember how to do the submissive maiden, it’s been so long since —’ Just as his recollections promised to enter the realm of the lurid, and to the immense relief of his listeners, he was interrupted by Sadie, who had left the theatre a little later than the other girls, and arrived breathlessly clutching a note.
‘You won’t believe it, Lil,’ she told the tousle-haired dancer, ‘a nun gave me this note for you.’ Her eyes were wide with wonderment. ‘She asked for you by name.’
‘Ooh Lily-pilly, you’re not thinking of defecting now are you?’ Crecy was just one step short of astonished and the cherry earrings jiggled in alarm. Lily laughed.
‘No, hopefully it’s from Sister Marguerite,’ she took in Crecy’s shocked face, the red lips agape. ‘And no, I’m not in danger of swapping sin for sacraments any time soon.’ She unwrapped the note. ‘Ah,’ she sat up with a satisfied grin, ‘she’s going to pay us a visit.’ She eyed the gathering, now regarding her with looks of unabashed surprise.
‘A nun, coming here?’
‘Yes — and
we’ve been to her convent.’ Increased astonishment.
‘You have?’
‘We had to disguise ourselves as novices and say the Rosary,’ explained Poppy, enjoying the stunned looks on the faces of her wide-eyed audience.
‘Ooh,’ gasped Crecy, his kohl-rimmed eyes sparkling with fervour, ‘I would love to visit a convent and I’d make a very alluring novice.’ He dropped his eyes demurely, the enormous false eyelashes fluttering softly, and shaped his hands as if in prayer. Had it not been for the ruby-red turban, the blood-red lipstick and the Cleopatra eyes, Lily thought he might just pass muster as long as all the nuns were old and almost completely blind.
‘Just one problem, dahling,’ Lily told him apologetically, ‘there are no men in convents.’
‘Ooh, now there you are,’ rejoined the blonde temptress immediately, ‘gets me every time.’
And so it was that, just three days later, Lily emerged from Madame Gloria’s kitchen after a late breakfast and happened to glance into the little alleyway that separated the apartment building from the back of Le Prix. What she saw made her jaw drop. There, standing in the glorious sunshine, her snowy-white habit gleaming like the holy hosts themselves, was Sister Marguerite. The lively nun was deep in conversation with Crecy, whose untidy platinum curls and weeping mascara, plastered lipstick and awry décolletage proclaimed that he had enjoyed a night of heady sensuality. The contrast could not have been starker, but there they were, chatting like two housewives comparing recipes for bouillabaisse. Even as the astonished Lily looked on, Crecy drew two cigarettes between blood-red talons and, lighting both, offered one to his gleaming companion. Lily could contain herself no longer.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 34