Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  ‘Monsieur Maurice Hernand?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur, I am he ... that is, he is I .. I mean ... oui, Monsieur.’

  ‘Is this yours?’ He gestured to a pair of policemen who followed close behind. Clutching an arm on either side was Crecy, all pouting red lips, voluminous coiffure, enormous bust and long legs, offering advice to the burly policeman on his left who was obviously hanging on every word.

  ‘Red, Michel, it must be red, such a seductive colour, and the only way to woo a girl.’ Crecy now turned to the shorter, bullish man on his right. ‘Thierry, my money’s on the mother-in-law, I think she’s behind this, just you wait and see.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur, this is mine,’ admitted Maurice wearily, preparing himself for a list of the sins committed by one of his more flamboyant artistes. Crecy relinquished his grip on the two policemen and moved closer to the broad-chested sergeant who led the little posse.

  ‘Arnaud, you must live a little,’ he cooed, running a set of tangerine talons down the man’s sleeves and pouting sensually.

  ‘And you must live less dangerously,’ retorted the sergeant irritably, ‘I do not want to see you at my police station again!’

  ‘No problem, dahling,’ responded Crecy, ‘we can meet at my place.’ The sergeant turned scarlet and regarded him furiously just as Maurice stepped forward, dislodging Crecy from his vine-like grip on the policeman.

  ‘Monsieur, I do beg your pardon for the tremendous inconvenience Mademoiselle Duplessis has caused, please forgive her ... natural exuberance.’ The sergeant looked darkly at Crecy before delivering a final admonishment to Maurice, clearly this extraordinary being’s minder.

  ‘If I find her out after curfew again —’

  ‘Monsieur, I can assure you that Mademoiselle has learned a valuable lesson. Please allow me to extend an invitation to you and your officers to attend one of our shows as our guests as some form of recompense for your trouble.’ The sergeant, whose bright blush had now subsided somewhat, appeared mollified by Maurice’s offer and brusquely took his leave.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur,’ he replied stiffly, ‘good day to you.’ But Crecy had not finished with his new-found friends.

  ‘Adieu Michel, adieu Thierry,’ he called, blowing exaggerated kisses, ‘adieu Arnaud,’ he added with a wink to the glowering police sergeant who was busy ushering his men out before they could blow kisses in reply. Maurice took Crecy firmly by the arm and escorted him into the theatre, grateful that the policemen had finally taken their leave.

  ‘Mademoiselle Crecy,’ he told him, adopting the tone of a parent whose patience has been sorely tried, ‘the police are not your playthings.’

  ‘Oh Maurice, they are such lovely men, so kind and considerate, and I gave them plenty of advice on how to spice up their rather pedestrian love lives.’ Maurice was horrified, certain now that Crecy was very fortunate indeed not to have been summarily packed off to Fresnes Prison as the war emitted its dying gasp.

  ‘Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, you walk a fine line! But what were you doing out after curfew? I have never known this to happen to you before. Did you forget the time?’ Crecy shook his lacquered platinum curls with carefully restrained vigour.

  ‘No, dahling, I never forget the time.’ He paused and stopped in his tracks, clutching Maurice’s arm. ‘Oh, poor Otto!’

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, poor Otto ... we were at his lovely hotel suite having some champagne and a nice cuddle when suddenly there was the most dreadful banging on the door. Otto was terribly put out — he’s just not used to people banging on his door, especially when he’s —’

  ‘Of course,’ interjected Maurice, keen to be spared the details.

  ‘So, he left the bedroom to go and answer the door and I ... well a girl isn’t used to having door-bangers arrive at critical moments, so I grabbed my dress and my shoes and jumped into the cupboard and hid behind Otto’s suits.’ The tangerine talons fluttered to his throat and Crecy paused theatrically to regain his composure before resuming his tale.

  ‘I peeked through a crack in the door and what do you think? I saw German soldiers come into Otto’s room and look around. German soldiers! Maurice, the Germans don’t usually arrest themselves, now do they?’ Maurice felt compelled to agree. ‘And Otto is very senior, so I do wonder what he’s done.’

  ‘So you ...’ prompted Maurice, eager to hear the details of Crecy’s escape, however nerve-wracking.

  ‘I waited until they had gone and then I crept out the door — with my dress on, mind you — and found a charming young man from the hotel a little further down the corridor. I told him my boyfriend’s wife had just come looking for him and I needed to make a hasty escape and he showed me a secret back door with a stairway to the street.’

  ‘You were very fortunate!’

  ‘Ooh la la, I was! But I hadn’t walked more than a dozen steps when I found those lovely policemen — which was just as well because the soldiers came back to see if anyone had come out of the hotel through the back entrance. By that time, I had made friends with my policemen, so they left me alone.’

  ‘Dear Heaven, Mademoiselle, lady luck has truly smiled on you tonight,’ Maurice told him, relieved that his artiste had effected not one fortunate escape, but two — and equally relieved that neither Germans nor police would have cause to knock on his door.

  ‘It’s all so exhausting, dahling, and my skin looks positively sallow when I haven’t had enough sleep.’ He tossed his head dramatically, the platinum curls bouncing in response. ‘Hmm, if I have a tiny nap and redo my set, I might just be able to catch Toby when he finishes his shift at the Ritz.’ Maurice was astonished at how quickly the sensual singer recovered from what must have been a thoroughly unnerving experience. Truly, beneath that fragile and sensitive exterior lurked a being made of stern stuff. Crecy linked arms companionably with his manager as they strolled through the gloomy interior of Le Prix.

  ‘Don’t have a fag, do you?’ he crooned, ‘I need serious reviving after my thrilling adventure.’

  Frenzied rumours of an Allied breakout continued to build throughout July and into August. Monsieur Maurice maintained his steadfast refusal to allow any of his company to keep a radio, particularly since he was concerned that the sinister Paul Colbert might suddenly reappear with little or no warning. Maurice toyed with the idea of hiring Madame Auguste’s Pekinese, Bonbon, as a guard dog given its success during its frightful encounter with the villain. He was reminded also of his last encounter with the intimidating La Fresange, who he suspected would derive immense satisfaction from turning the entire company over to the Germans while she still had the chance. But the rumours of approaching liberation persisted, most coming from the hirsute Napoleon who had arrived at Madame Gloria’s late the week before with six ducks and two cartons of American cigarettes. He had been full of news of the progress of the Allied forces, describing in some detail the sickening reversals that had seen them grind to a halt before resuming at what could only be described as a snail’s pace. But it was the impact on the Germans in Paris that excited the big man the most.

  ‘They’re packing up!’ he told Monsieur Maurice in hushed tones, all too aware that they remained in control of the city, no matter how tenuously. ‘They’re taking everything they can carry or load onto trucks and leaving the city. Truly Monsieur,’ he added, swatting Maurice’s back with a hefty paw and almost knocking the diminutive manager sideways, ‘it is a sight to gladden the heart of a patriotic Frenchman.’ And the swarthy face assumed a look of quiet pride. Maurice nodded eagerly, not daring to hope that the Allies might speed their advance just a little before the Germans decided to empty the stocks of Le Prix’s cellar as they began their retreat. With that in mind, he decided to move more of his stock to the hiding place under the stage that had served him so well over the past few months, never mind that it had been thoroughly tramped over by the police.

  While Le Prix’s audiences had shown no signs of diminishing, the best hotels in P
aris were beginning to empty of their high-ranking, grey-green uniformed occupants. As July marched on, the Germans marched out in increasing numbers, the roads out of the city heading east now choked with traffic. Most of the cars came from the luxury hotels that had been requisitioned by the Germans early in the occupation and were full of smart suitcases, beautiful women and boxes of wine. In some hotels, most notably the Ritz, the staff fought a losing battle to ensure that the hotel’s expensive fittings and furniture were not also exported to Germany.

  Poppy arrived at the upstairs landing of Madame Gloria’s apartment one morning with the tearful news that Gunther had left. Lily comforted her with a large glass of brandy from a bottle she had purloined from the theatre the night before, while Crecy dropped onto the sofa clad in soft, silky pyjamas to add his own particular perspective.

  ‘Count yourself lucky, sweetie,’ he told the sniffling Poppy, ‘my Otto was arrested — by other Germans, no less. It must have been terribly confusing for the poor lad to be arrested by his own men, I dare say he never recovered.’

  ‘One less German fascist bastard,’ flung Coco as she passed the landing, tapping her whip furiously against one leg, ‘hope he took his murderous friends with him.’

  ‘Now, dahling,’ cautioned Crecy, ‘they’re also customers remember, you’ll have to drop your prices if they all leave.’ Coco snarled in response. ‘Hmm,’ continued Crecy, watching as the leather-clad Coco strode into her room and slammed the door behind her, ‘she’s clearly suffering, poor lamb.’ Lily sniggered in response while Poppy turned to Crecy.

  ‘What happened to that German officer who always sat at Otto’s table — the one with the itsy-bitsy moustache who looked like Hitler? Has he left too?’

  ‘Oh him!’ hissed Crecy with a tragic look, ‘Coco told me he came to a sticky end, involved in some sort of plot to kill Hitler.’

  ‘Coco?’

  ‘Yes, dahling, one of her clients told her. Chatty fellow, just talked and talked. Well, you know our Coco, woman of few words she is, and she doesn’t like them chattering away. So she turned up the tempo, thinking that would quiet him down a bit. But the harder she hit him, the more he chattered on, she was quite beside herself in the end, couldn’t get rid of him fast enough.’ He sniffed and pursed his bright red lips. ‘Doesn’t like chatterers, not her style at all.’ He dug a cigarette from the pocket of the silky pyjama pants. ‘Anyway, this fellow — the one who came to a sticky end — was a von something or other ... possibly sicklehammer ..’ Lily laughed out loud as Crecy reached for a box of matches sitting idly on the table.

  ‘I don’t think that can have been his name, Crecy.’

  ‘No, but it was something like that — and they’re all von this or von that, aren’t they? Imagine what the German telephone book must look like. No need for the other 25 letters of the alphabet, just everyone crammed into “v”.’ Lily was still laughing hard, but now pulled herself up, curious about the plot.

  ‘So the plot didn’t work?’

  ‘Can’t have, dear, or the war would be over now, wouldn’t it?’ They mused together for a moment.

  ‘Terrible shame.’

  ‘Yes, dahling, but one has to remember that the war does have certain benefits for some of us. Such big, handsome boys. I find Frenchmen quite a bit weedier and most of them smell of cheese and garlic, don’t you think?’

  ‘But,’ as Lily was quick to point out, ‘the Allies will also be big, handsome boys, and those Americans have plenty of money.’

  ‘Ooh Americans,’ gushed Crecy almost immediately, ‘now they certainly know how to spoil a girl.’ He batted his glitzy false eyelids furiously before turning to Lily. ‘And you’ll be hoping your lovely Guy will be here with those pretty British boys, won’t you, Lily-pilly?’ Lily grinned in response.

  ‘You bet,’ she told the voluptuous blonde, ‘I can’t wait!’ She sighed and added dreamily, ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘Mmm,’ exhaled the sultry singer, dabbing ash off the end of his cigarette with an elegant talon, ‘I know, dahling, I would certainly welcome some excitement of the British or American variety.’

  Late July saw the capital plagued by power cuts that lasted all day and into the night. Monsieur Maurice was beside himself. He could not operate his cabaret without electricity and petitioned the Governor’s office for assistance. But, like a good proportion of the other Germans in Paris, the Governor was packing to leave. At the last minute he was being replaced. Perhaps Monsieur would care to wait for the new incumbent and ask again. Monsieur Maurice knew he could not wait. He knew that every night Le Prix remained closed because of the power cuts was threatening the very survival of his little company. He searched desperately for another source of power. A generator. Perhaps he could buy a generator — or at least strike a deal with someone who owned one. He collared his black marketeer at Madame Gloria’s the next day. Could he find someone who would supply him with a generator? Napoleon shook his massive head sadly.

  ‘Non, Monsieur, it is impossible. Even I cannot find a generator. They have all been requisitioned by the Germans or stolen by the resistance, know what I mean?’ Maurice heaved a hefty sigh as Napoleon then broached the delicate question of the crucial supplies of alcohol and coal that had funded his black market dealings over the past four years.

  ‘Monsieur, I have a small piece of advice for you.’ Maurice was suddenly attentive. Advice from someone as canny as Napoleon was not to be ignored. ‘You must ask the Germans for extra supplies of liquor and coal. Not because you need them,’ he added hastily as he saw Maurice begin to protest, ‘but to make sure that they know you do not have them.’ Maurice began to smile. ‘Ah ha, you see?’ Napoleon grinned, tapped his nose and winked. ‘You have seen them loading the trucks with everything they can find. They are raiding the hotels, restaurants and cabarets for supplies to take with them to Germany. You need to make them think that you have nothing or they will be here. They will take all you have and more, know what I mean?’ Maurice nodded. It was good advice. He would spread the word and he would also move all his remaining stock, distribute the boxes in unlikely places all over the theatre and ensure that they did not fall victim to a raid. If he lost his precious supplies, they were all doomed.

  But the question of the generator remained and Maurice searched his frazzled brain. The search was not stunningly successful, but it did produce one name — Bobby Metzinger. The natty manager set out to find Lily, eventually tracking her to the practice room where Madame Claudette was maintaining her strict routine despite the fact that the theatre was closed. He watched the long legs kick in time to her strident count and the staccato tap of her stick. She demanded more — higher kicks, sharper timing, broader smiles. Again and again she worked her dancers until Maurice began to wonder how much more the exhausted girls could take. At last the exacting dance mistress called time and the girls collapsed in untidy heaps, left breathless by their exertions. Maurice found the red-faced Lily and explained his problem. Could she contact Monsieur Metzinger and ask him to locate a generator for Le Prix?

  ‘Of course, Monsieur Maurice,’ she panted, taking great gulps of air, ‘I’m sure he will do all he can to help.’ She smiled at the relieved look that now dispelled the lines of worry on her manager’s face, hoping that Bobby could, in fact, help them in their hour of need. In the current climate, nothing was assured.

  Lily thought hard. With Le Prix closed, she had no idea where to find Bobby. She pulled out the card he had once given her and telephoned the number. No answer. She could only think that Bobby had left too. She had one last card to play: Lena.

  It took Lily two days to find the elusive Lena and even then it was only by accident that she stumbled across her. Lily happened to be foraging in Madame Gloria’s garden for something vaguely edible that did not require much cooking as, without electricity, most meals were now prepared over an open fire in the landlady’s kitchen. She glanced up from the garden bed closest to the window to catch the me
rest glimpse of a sylph-like figure slipping through Madame Gloria’s front door. Lily bolted, dashing helter-skelter into the kitchen before Lena could perform her usual vanishing act. The elfin figure shrank back as Lily fell through the door, grateful to catch her chatting to Madame Gloria after two days of unsuccessful tracking. Lena still presented a childlike version of womanhood, her tiny face dominated by her enormous eyes. But she had lost her sickening pallor and the hunted look that had caught Lily’s attention when she had first arrived. Under Madame Gloria’s careful ministrations she had acquired an almost rosy complexion and had even begun to put on weight. Lily half expected to see her smile, something she had never witnessed in all the years Lena had been living with Madame Gloria. Now she quizzed Lena gently over the whereabouts of Monsieur Metzinger. Had he left? No, Lena shook her head slowly, but he was engaged in some important work and could not be reached. Lily’s hopes for Monsieur Maurice’s generator faded and died. She heaved a sigh and went in search of the ginger-haired manager, all too aware that she was about to dash his last remaining vestiges of hope.

  So Le Prix remained closed and battened its hatches for the coming storm. As rumours of the approach of the Allies increased, Monsieur Maurice became more alarmed and anxious for the safety of his company. He warned them to remain in the area around the theatre and its adjoining apartment blocks and to venture no further than the other side of the Boulevard de Clichy that ran past the front of the theatre. The Germans were becoming increasingly panicked and fractious and were firing on passers-by and ordinary Parisians for no apparent reason. In turn, the resistance was becoming ever more daring, its members now emerging from the shadows to take the fight to the invaders. The French resistance-hunting Milice was likewise responding in kind. It was a deadly mix and no place for a wandering artiste or showgirl. He was particularly concerned that the increased frequency of street parties, in which groups of dishevelled young men wandered through suburban streets singing the French national anthem, the ‘Marseillaise’ — banned by the Germans since the beginning of the occupation — would entice his more adventurous employees to join in.