‘Hello Sister Marguerite,’ she called sunnily, ‘I see you’ve met Crecy, our cabaret star.’ The nun smiled brightly, took the proffered cigarette and clutched Crecy’s taloned hand.
‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ she explained with a laugh, ‘we seem to have a shared interest in the seamier side of Paris.’ Lily felt herself gape once more and closed her mouth with an effort, deciding that she would not ask for further details. Clearly this was a nun whose vocation had led her into some very worldly areas.
Lily led Sister Marguerite into Madame Gloria’s cheery little kitchen and, over a cup of chicory coffee — Sister Marguerite having gently declined the offer of a large glass of the wickedly alcoholic mulberry wine that marked the new batch — explained to her that a certain need had arisen. It was an artfully euphemistic conversation, with Lily dancing around the edges of what she wanted and gratefully accepting a series of gentle nods from Sister Marguerite that were replete with meaning.
‘I understand,’ pronounced the nun finally, ‘and I do know someone who can help you. In fact,’ she added significantly, ‘he will probably consider that you have helped him.’ Lily nodded in turn, not completely sure of Sister Marguerite’s meaning, but happy simply to accept the offer of assistance.
‘His name is Henri,’ Marguerite told Lily, shifting slightly as Madame Gloria breathed potent mulberry fumes in her direction, ‘and I will ask him to come and visit you here.’ She turned to the little landlady. ‘With your permission, Madame.’
‘But of course,’ nodded Gloria graciously, pleased to have been included in this highly confusing discussion. She was torn between blaming the mulberry wine and simply admitting that all the veiled speech was just beyond her.
‘I’m also happy to be contacted by anyone named Henri,’ Crecy drawled huskily, nodding his bedraggled curls to reinforce the point, ‘such a regal name, he’s bound to be my type.’ Marguerite chuckled and placed a soft, white hand over the red talons.
‘Thank you, my dear, I know I can count on you to make Henri feel welcome.’ Crecy almost purred in delight. He toyed briefly with the image of himself dressed demurely in a white habit but, remembering Lily’s warning about the paucity of men and the dreadful notion of celibacy, dismissed the idea in its infancy with a tiny shiver and a shake of the platinum curls.
Chapter 33
Exquisite timing
J ust a week later, Lily’s prayers for divine assistance in dealing with the dreadful Paul Colbert were answered. At the same time, she was pleased to see that the charming Bobby Metzinger had reappeared at Le Prix. Madame Claudette continued to revitalise the showgirls’ routines, adding flourishes, acrobatics, more cancans and redesigning the matador routine that Lily had used in her first dramatic appearance at Le Prix. Mademoiselle Gris, the little seamstress who seemed to disappear to visit her ailing mother with alarming regularity and reappear just as suddenly, had been persuaded to revamp many of the costumes and had reworked the sequins and feathers from older garments, finding fabric somehow when no-one else could, and engaging her army of assistants to produce stunning new costumes. As Lily slipped into one silky dress she commented to Sadie that it felt remarkably like the parachute silk occasionally offered by Napoleon for an outrageous price. Both girls turned to look at Mademoiselle Gris who worked, head down, her mousy hair pulled back into its eternal bun, her brown dress and brown cardigan teamed with thick brown stockings. Neither could imagine someone less likely to engage in risky black market dealings. It defied belief. But there it was, a collection of silky dresses that would have excited a flapper.
The results were nothing short of spectacular and the throng of patrons swelled, as did the profits collected by Madame Lucille at the bar. Monsieur Maurice mingled with his guests, paying particular attention to the Governor and his table, ensuring that there was a steady supply of champagne during the show and cognac afterwards. The performance over, Lily slipped into her glittering hostess gown and set sail among the tables of uniformed and besuited German officers, collecting a bottle of champagne and several glasses from a smiling Lucille and sliding along the bar to find Bobby. He greeted her with a kiss on each cheek and she poured a glass of frothy elixir, handing it to him with a smile and a toast.
‘ Santé!
‘And santé to you too!’
They chatted for a moment about the situation in Paris — food shortages were increasing and queues were lengthening, the bitterly cold winter had seen them all close to freezing and wild rumours of an impending Allied invasion abounded and were gathering momentum. It amused Lily that they danced skilfully around the various topics, each obviously attempting to prise information from the other without being too overt. Bobby was particularly keen to ask Lily about the various German officers who came and went and Lily also had a burning topic to discuss with her businessman friend.
‘That dreadful Paul Colbert is back,’ she told him. Bobby looked at her, his face suddenly serious.
‘Ah,’ he replied simply, ‘that means he has done a deal with them.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘I may have to move Lena, which is a pity as she is very happy here. She’s become extremely fond of your Madame Gloria.’ Lily was not surprised. Gloria had a habit of mothering those who seemed a little lost and Lena appeared particularly in need of looking after. Then she remembered Sister Marguerite.
‘Actually, you may not have to,’ she told the surprised Bobby, ‘we have a plan.’ Now he was unmistakeably interested and studied her intently. But Lily was not keen on revealing too much to the man who seemed to specialise in ambiguity.
‘I can’t tell you much, except that there are others who regard Colbert as a threat and they may deal with him.’ Bobby nodded slowly and Lily decided that he was far from convinced. ‘We’re still negotiating,’ she told him, relishing the fact that she was fixing the deal and he was watching on, ‘so it may take a few days to arrange. If I think it’s becoming dangerous and you should move Lena, I’ll tell you.’ She smiled sweetly at him, delighted with the turn of events. Now it was her turn to be mysterious. But Bobby, the consummate businessman, refused to be outdone.
‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that — I’d be pleased to hear that you have solved this particular problem. Now,’ and a mischievous smile played across his handsome face, ‘I have some information for you too.’ Lily smiled back, slightly miffed at relinquishing the ascendancy, but curious nonetheless. Bobby continued.
‘Remember the man you told me had revealed the presence of an informer?’ Lily nodded, wide-eyed. ‘He works for the police prefecture. I think the police have been watching Le Prix to see if anyone is being hidden.’ He looked Lily in the eye and lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. ‘Be careful, Lily, be very careful,’ he breathed.
The next morning, a stocky young man with a straw-coloured beard, tasked with a particular mission by one of God’s white-garbed emissaries, slipped down the alleyway and headed for Madame Gloria’s shabbily cheerful apartment block. Finding the front door unlocked, he ascended the stairs towards the sun-filled landing where untidy couches and sofas were scattered in some disarray. There he pulled up short, confronted by a leather-clad being with short, velvety, dark hair, smouldering eyes and a whip that smacked against one leather-clad leg in a staccato beat. The dark eyes studied him, the red mouth a taut line, vivid against the backdrop of white skin.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ The voice was hard, demanding.
The young man hesitated.
‘Er ... I was looking for Lily ..., A movement stirred in the assortment of sofas and a curly head popped up. But before she could utter a word, another being materialised from the door of one of the nearby rooms which opened suddenly.
‘Oh pet, I’m sure you meant “Crecy”, didn’t you?’ Bright red lips pouted in the young man’s direction. ‘Here I am, dahling.’
Ultimately, it was the curly-headed girl who saved him. Lily leapt to her feet and guided him to a sofa on the other side of
the landing.
‘Henri?’ she asked. The young man relaxed visibly, his confusion melting in the face of someone who at least appeared normal.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice drenched with relief, ‘you must be Lily. I thought I was in the wrong place,’ and he gave Coco a look of alarm, saving his bewilderment for Crecy who continued to regard him with undisguised interest.
‘Sorry Henri,’ laughed Lily, amused at his evident confusion, ‘you must have thought you had wandered into a home for the unhinged.’
‘Yes,’ began Henri, ‘well, no, of course not ...’ he laughed with Lily. Of course he did, but at least he had now found someone with a veneer of sanity. Lily called to Poppy, who emerged to join the gathering. Henri cast a relieved look her way — she also appeared almost normal. His relief was short-lived, however, as the platinum blonde with the husky voice and the most enormous bust, struggling for freedom under a mauve chenille dressing gown, sauntered over and plumped on the nearest sofa. At least the leathery woman with the whip seemed to have disappeared.
A mini committee meeting was convened in the far corner of the landing and the girls supplied a whispered description of the odious Paul Colbert. Lily also told Henri that Colbert had been detained by the Gestapo, although she neglected to mention Bobby Metzinger’s part in this. She was quite certain that Bobby and the resistance were unlikely comrades-in-arms and was not keen to be the means of their introduction. Henri nodded copiously, took in all the details, reassured the girls that a solution would be found to their ‘problem’ and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.
‘Such a shame,’ lamented Crecy, looking longingly after the diminishing footfalls, ‘I would have liked to have become a little friendlier with that handsome young man, he could have been my little piece de resistance.’ He smiled silkily as the girls hooted at the tawdry pun. ‘Still, I have a luncheon date with Toby, so I’m off to put a face on and find something decent to wear. So difficult these days when a girl hasn’t had a new dress in absolutely ages.’ He pouted significantly, tossed the platinum curls and sauntered back to his room, leaving twists of soft cigarette smoke wafting in his wake. Lily and Poppy watched him sashay off before turning to each other with some satisfaction.
‘Well, with some luck, that’s the end of Paul Colbert,’ Poppy smiled grimly. ‘Let’s just hope Henri’s friends hurry up before Colbert sells us to the highest bidder!’
It was later that day that Lily and Poppy managed to find Monsieur Maurice, keen to update him on the progress of the hunt for the informer. Initially they looked for him in Madame Gloria’s kitchen where she was in the middle of constructing a large pie filled with meat that resembled chicken, but with a peculiar stringy consistency of its own. The girls peered at the meat as Madame Gloria paused to take a hearty sip of mulberry wine.
‘What’s that, Madame?’
‘Doesn’t quite look like chicken — or maybe the chicken was very old?’
‘No, dears,’ she laughed, ‘it’s goat.’ Two noses wrinkled in unison. ‘It’s quite a delicacy according to Napoleon, he says it’s regularly fed to royalty in Persia.’ The girls remained unimpressed. Gloria stole a glance at the window, as if it could be listening. ‘You won’t mention it to ... anyone else, will you? It’s just that there wasn’t enough to share with ... everyone, you see.’
‘Ah!’ The girls smiled conspiratorially. They understood. Clearly Napoleon had cut the prickly Madame Fresange out of the deal that had secured the goat. He had a fondness for Madame Gloria that had never quite extended to her acidic neighbour.
‘Don’t worry, Madame, your secret is safe with us!’ they whispered as they set out once again to track the elusive Monsieur Maurice.
Eventually they found the dapper little manager in the bar where he was checking stocks with Madame Lucille while Cabot, the gnomelike janitor, ran in all directions chasing something that looked frighteningly like a rat. They watched with rising alarm as Cabot banged whatever it was with the end of a broom and then carefully wrapped the body in newspaper.
‘Do you think he’s taking that home for dinner?’ hissed Poppy, her eyes wide, as she watched the progress of the diminutive janitor and his macabre package. Lily peered towards the little figure, fast disappearing into the foyer.
‘Probably,’ she agreed, ‘amazing what we all eat these days. Remember,’ she told Poppy with a wry grin, we’re eating a Persian delicacy for dinner!’ They grimaced in unison.
The stocktake completed, the girls accompanied Monsieur Maurice to Madame Gloria’s sunny little kitchen, which all regarded as the safest place for a council of war. When they arrived, they found her halfway through another large glass of mulberry wine and the bottle was quickly offered around. The clip-clop of heels told them that Crecy was on his way.
‘Yoo hoo, Glory!’ he sang as he approached the door, ‘has that big, bad man arrived yet?’
‘No, dear,’ replied Gloria, ‘but do come in, we’re all having a little chat.’ She turned to the others. ‘Today’s Napoleon’s afternoon with Crecy,’ she explained, ‘he never misses, never!’ Crecy wound his way through the door, a vision in pale pink, with soft silk culottes and a matching pink blouse over which he had thrown a rich pink faux fur.
‘Ooh!’ chimed the girls, ‘culottes! How gorgeous!’ Crecy paraded sinuously in response.
‘I made them out of a gala evening dress that a friend of Otto’s no longer needed, although I’m not sure she knows he’s given it to me.’ He turned to the little group with a mischievous grin on the shiny pink lips. ‘You know that old fraudster Marshal Pétain has banned trousers for women — I made these specially to wear in case the white-haired killjoy comes to town again.’ And he winked spectacularly as the girls giggled and Monsieur Maurice sighed with relief that Marshal Pétain had visited Paris in April rather than May when he could have been faced with the sight of the flamboyant songstress clad in controversial culottes. That alarming proposition successfully dispelled, he turned his attention to more pressing matters and asked Lily what news she had on the matter of the informer.
Lily related her conversation with Bobby the night before in which he had identified the man Crecy had overheard as a policeman.
‘Ooh I knew it,’ hissed Crecy, ‘he had that shifty policeman look about him. I stick to Germans myself, you always know where you are with them.’
‘They know we’re hiding someone,’ added Lily, ‘and, now that Colbert’s back, there’s bound to be a raid.’ Monsieur Maurice tut-tutted with anxiety and Madame Gloria immediately handed him a large glass of her potent mulberry wine. He took it and gulped without looking, spluttering in surprise at the taste.
‘How safe is the hiding place beneath the stage?’ asked Poppy slowly with a significant look.
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Monsieur Maurice, his brow creased with a mixture of concern and the impact of the eye-watering mulberry wine. ‘I warned Orlando not to tell anyone. But then almost everyone at Le Prix knows about the space beneath the stage, it’s the only logical place to hide someone.’ He looked at his showgirls in consternation, his mind working furiously. ‘We can’t take any chances, we’ll have to do something.’
‘Perhaps you should move Orlando and André,’ began Madame Gloria, demonstrating an astonishing tendency to keep up despite having imbibed large quantities of her own intoxicating brew.
‘And Roland,’ added Maurice disconsolately. The others looked at him in surprise and he explained that his wayward office boy was now also a fugitive.
‘But where can we hide them?’ asked Lily in a voice tinged with anxiety, ‘if there’s a police raid, nowhere will be safe.’
The little gathering was interrupted by a booming voice outside the kitchen that made them all jump.
‘Afternoon,’ thundered the voice as enormous feet stamped their way through the front door.
‘Ooh,’ cooed Crecy, ‘it’s my personal gangster. Come in, sweetie pie!’ A huge, dark head, its black ha
ir brilliantined to resemble a flat, glistening skull cap, moustache carefully groomed to fine points and wearing a broad grin that displayed a set of pearly white teeth, peered inside the room. Napoleon inserted his bulky frame through the door, his shiny black suit and blazing red tie accompanied by the overpowering fumes of sweet, spicy cologne that prompted a stifled fit of coughing from the majority of those gathered inside. He thrust a large bunch of white chrysanthemums in front of him, aiming them at Crecy who threw up his hands in delight and kissed his beau loudly on both cheeks.
‘For me? Mwah, mwah, thank you pet, how terribly thoughtful you are.’ Napoleon blushed bright scarlet while the gathering simpered at his discomfort. It took a split second for Monsieur Maurice to recognise the opportunity presented by the arrival of the blushing, besuited mechanic.
‘Monsieur, please join us,’ he addressed the big man, gesturing towards a seat as Madame Gloria poured a large glass of her potent mead for the latest arrival. ‘I’m sure Mademoiselle Crecy won’t mind if we detain you for just a moment as we need a little assistance with a ... situation.’ The big man squeezed into one of Madame Gloria’s kitchen chairs and regarded the mulberry wine with suspicion before downing it in a gulp, smacking his lips as the full effect of the heady brew asserted itself.
‘Aah, merci Madame,’ he paused before recovering slightly. ‘Of course, Monsieur, I would be very glad to be of assistance.’ Maurice breathed deeply, conscious that what he had to ask the black marketeer was no mere favour.
‘We have a few members of the company who need a place to stay out of the way for just a few days ... do you think you could help?’ Napoleon looked uncharacteristically nervous and began to fidget with his collar.
‘Monsieur, we can always find places ... for a price, of course, you understand.’
‘Of course, of course,’ responded Maurice hastily, ‘perhaps a few bottles, cigarettes ...?’ Napoleon nodded thoughtfully then paused, his face working hard as if he was trying to swallow something that was proving particularly resistant. At length he turned to Maurice.
Secrets and Showgirls Page 35