And the regiment went off‚ leaving Villemain behind. An obliging soul by nature‚ he lent a hand here and there to the farmers‚ repaired bicycles‚ and set about scrounging from wherever he could food‚ wine‚ tobacco and‚ when reduced to rags‚ even clothes.
Locally he was known as ‘the freak’. But during his regular working hours – from six thirty am to five in the evening – he carried out his duties conscientiously‚ frowned over the documents of motor vehicles‚ allowing them to pass with a big wave and a patronizing smile. On the stroke of five from the nearest church bell‚ he would lay down his gun‚ close up his hut‚ and go foraging. His policing of the road made hundreds of people‚ including several generals‚ weep with laughter. And this went on until the exodus. Then there were just too many people: Villemain granted himself leave‚ and took a rest. Two days‚ two nights of silence‚ no other sound but that of aeroplanes in the distance‚ and above his head the crows …
And then a Panzer division turned up‚ in the most orderly fashion. It’s quite true that Villemain stopped the motorcycles riding ahead. Amazed by this apparition‚ they disarmed him‚ put him in a sidecar and took him with them ‘to show them the way’.
Arriving ahead of schedule‚ the division camped out to the north of Paris for two days. Alexandre was kitted with Kraut fatigues‚ rewarded with a pair of boots‚ and made officially responsible‚ at a Kantonsstandort Kommandantur‚ for the distribution of petrol to fugitive Belgians returning to their country.
This extraordinary adventure addled his already feeble wits‚ and ever since then poor harmless Alexandre has a way of buttonholing people. A gabardine in his eyes is a kind of uniform. Every time he sees someone wearing a raincoat‚ he sidles up to them‚ nudges them gently and says‚ very mysteriously‚ ‘I’m like you … I’m with the police …’
After Alexandre left‚ tight as a tick‚ the better off for a hearty snack‚ with a little money in his pocket‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ and Brizou joked light-heartedly. ‘Ah! isn’t he a laugh? If only all cops were like him!’ This clearly didn’t go down well with Tricksy-Pierrot‚ and Dolly had her say: ‘I don’t find him funny‚ that tramp of yours‚ no way. So what if he’s bonkers? Even if he’s got nothing to do with the fuzz‚ like this jerk who can’t even write his own name‚ any guy that imagines he’s a cop isn’t to be trusted. On principle. It’s in his blood. No need even to bribe him to grass. And‚ shall I tell you something‚ I wouldn’t be so sure this fellow wasn’t a bit of squealer.’
And Tricksy-Pierrot chimed in. ‘The poor sod must be deranged. Otherwise‚ being a local lad‚ he’d know that‚ here‚ there’s a price to be paid for everything‚ especially anything you say out of line. But it’s not me that’s got any reason to be scared of him‚ I’m lucky‚ he’s a problem for the big guys. Besides‚ you’ve got to have some fun from time to time. “You just keep on dancin’‚ I know what I’m doing …”’
Keep-on-Dancin’ wanted to take everyone to eat at some place run by a Chinaman he knew‚ when the Corsican turned up. It would have been better if we’d left five minutes earlier.
What a ugly mug! I’ve come across him two or three times before. He’s revolting. He calls himself Sacchi or Saqui or Saki. He says he’s from Calvi‚ but I’d swear he belonged to that rabble of the voluntarily stateless‚ reprobates from all over‚ those oily‚ greasy‚ creepy-crawly‚ stinking human cockroaches that infest some Mediterranean shores. They’re not features on his stupid face‚ but rather disfigurements. Along with loose bags under his eyes and great flapping lugholes. Sick-making.
They immediately got down to business. I vaguely understood that the deal involved selling off to some German purchasing agency a consignment of drills made of metal that was hard to come by‚ all of which had been rejected as faulty. They were to be sold at full price‚ and Sacchi was willing to take care of that. But in order to keep most of the profits for himself‚ he was claiming the unverifiable existence of countless middlemen who naturally had to be bribed. The guy’s deviousness was patently obvious. Keep-on-Dancin’ held himself in check. Finally‚ with deceptive calm‚ he went up to the cringing Sacchi and said‚ right in his face‚ ‘You frigging Corsican. I gave you a chance. You can forget the drills‚ I’ll flog them myself. But you screwed me over that deal with the vices‚ and the one with the copper wire. You’re going to bugger off and stay away from this neighbourhood‚ right now. But before you go‚ I’ve got something to settle. Not with you‚ with my patch. This here is my patch. I swore I’d twist your ears. I can’t go back on my word here.’
And my giant friend grabs the other by his lugholes and sends him flying through the air over a rattan chair. It was a terrific stunt! The Corsican flailed about‚ whimpering cravenly. Quarteron did well to intervene. Sacchi was bleeding‚ both ears practically torn off.
He made a dash for the door‚ and pointing an angry finger at his torturer said‚ ‘This time I’m levelling with you: my ears will bring you bad luck. Do you hear? Bad luck they’ll bring you!’
Keep-on-Dancin’ spat in his direction. ‘Come here and say that‚ I’ll cut them right off‚’ he said‚ drawing his knife.
But the treacherous Corsican was gone.
‘Let’s make a move‚’ said Dolly. ‘We shouldn’t hang about here. That guy’s evil‚ now you’ve given him a beating he’s capable of anything.’
We went off to the Chink’s place‚ and of course didn’t get back until dawn. Clearly obsessed with what Sacchi had said‚ three times that night Keep-on-Dancin’ swore he would slice off his ears and dry them out to keep as lucky charms.
He wasn’t at all drunk.
Yesterday I was at Brétigny with Watsek‚ the Polish radio operator. Everything went extremely well. Very clear weather‚ almost no cloud. The two Wellingtons‚ after circling above for a few minutes‚ dived twice‚ braving the flak. The Jerries in a panic ran for shelter. Unfazed‚ Watsek transmitted his messages. I can breathe freely now. But tomorrow’s going to be difficult: we have to radio from Paris and our transmission centre‚ near the Gare de Lyon‚ has fallen into the hands of the Germans. Fortunately without causing us too much pain.
At lunchtime I heard that ten minutes after we left Quarteron’s the other evening four police inspectors‚ tipped off by a phone call‚ came to nab Keep-on-Dancin’. In charge of the operation was my friend Fernand. I wish he’d turn his attention to something else.
I said nothing of this to the Corsican who‚ to my great surprise‚ was waiting for me at the Trois-Mailletz. Ingratiating‚ smarmy‚ devious as ever‚ he tried to pump me for information. He wanted me to arrange one last meeting between him and Keep-on-Dancin’. He said everything could be straightened out and there was a lot to gain. Of course I refused‚ with the excuse that I didn’t know where to contact any of the gang‚ and that their affairs were of no interest to me. At which point the guy showed his hand. He bears a terrible grudge against Keep-on-Dancin’. That punishment session the other night has made a mortal enemy of him. With me‚ giving the impression as I do of being absolutely neutral‚ he feels the need to boast. Even though he hardly knows me‚ he wants to regain some sort of credit in my eyes. He inflicts stories on me‚ with no truth in them for sure‚ of cruel revenge in which he’s always cast as the leading light‚ and to which he adds crudely sadistic details as he goes along.
I let him talk because he twice said to me‚ ‘My ears’‚ (they’re both covered with dressings held in place with sticking plaster)‚ ‘my ears will bring him bad luck.’
‘But why your ears rather than anything else – your entire self‚ for instance?’
‘Just my ears. Then I won’t need to do anything else.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘Damn it! I’ll have them magicked. You don’t know about that?’
‘No‚ I’m afraid I don’t. And I’d be very interested to hear about it.’
‘I can give you the low-down‚ but no
thing’s free. Fair’s fair‚ eh? A thousand francs.’
The little shit. I paid him half in advance. We arranged to meet on Friday morning‚ at the Gobelins intersection.
Géga is the most unbelievable guy. These days he’s always broke‚ yet he always manages to do the most unexpected favours for the wanted men that happen to end up in my care. He finds us shoes‚ decent clothes‚ food‚ places where they can sleep easy – it’s as well not to be too particular on this score – and even bicycles that he buys piecemeal‚ as the parts turn up. Now he’s the owner – or manager‚ no one knows for sure – of a little café he’s just opened in Rue de Bièvre‚ next to the vacant lot where old Hubert’s house used to stand. As Géga is completely skint – being the person we know him to be‚ this won’t last – and he has almost no supplies in stock‚ his customers pay in advance when they come to him for a drink. Then he goes and gets the glasses filled at the bar across the street. He doesn’t make anything out of this‚ which everyone finds killingly funny‚ he most of all. This afternoon we held a council of war at the Eye – the name of Géga’s new bistrot – with two radio operators from the wireless group Hunter‚ and Watsek the Pole. We have a problem. The messages that are supposed to be transmitted in twenty-four hours are so important that we must at all costs‚ whatever the risks‚ immediately find some place to send them from. Until the last few days there were two rooftops we could use to set up the aerial. The motorcycle direction finders located them. So that’s that. Transmit from the outskirts? We’d run the risk of interfering with transmissions from a friendly network based locally‚ and jamming everything‚ their messages and our own. Reluctantly‚ Cap’n Brochard‚ head of the group‚ had to come to a decision.
‘Too bad. We’ll transmit from the wine market‚ where the guy who lends me his shed has no idea what we’re going to do there. It’s almost certain there’ll be trouble. All we can do is ask for our cover to be increased. It can’t be helped‚ we have to go through with it.’
He’s right. Maybe several hundred lives depend on just one of our messages getting through: what must be averted is the bombing in the station‚ in a very densely populated area‚ of a train carrying a much greater quantity of explosives than London has been led to believe. The convoy is travelling south. A ground attack would destroy it in open countryside. That’s where I come in.
The guys looked at each other. They know what lies ahead. They nodded: OK. Watsek didn’t turn a hair.
Keep-on-Dancin’ is really playing with fire. He only has to be seen by some nark and he’s done for‚ simple as that. Well‚ there’s no reasoning with him: he insists on making his appearance in the neighbourhood.
Quite by chance he came into the Eye and on seeing me he said‚ ‘It seems I’ve sniffed you out.’
This didn’t amuse me‚ but there was nothing I could do but introduce him to Géga and the boys. They talked for quite a while. About what‚ whom‚ I ask you? About François Villon. Keep-on-Dancin’‚ who’s practically illiterate‚ almost hero- worships him. Géga‚ a well-read fan‚ was in seventh heaven. I was watching the door. You never know.
It was in 1940‚ in a cat-house in Lorraine. Some guys from another company were with me. Being responsible for the ‘good behaviour’ of the detachment‚ I had to look out for them like a mother hen.
The colonel had told me: ‘The 10th goes into attack at four in the morning. There’s no telling what they’re going to have to face.’ (He dared not come right out and say that in his view it was completely futile‚ but you could work it out for yourself.) ‘These guys deserve a bit of a good time. Just make sure they don’t get drunk. Try to get them to write home. And bring them back before midnight.’
And then the old boy turned his back to me and let drop the words‚ ‘Poor kids!’
I shall remember for the rest of my life those hours spent with four jaded tarts‚ so worn out and disenchanted they didn’t even bother with make-up any more. They were expecting to have to evacuate the area at any moment. They were much more interested in getting some sleep than in turning a trick‚ and none of my guys was in the mood for any fun and games.
They sat there quietly drinking Moselle wine. There was a general air of melancholy‚ which even affected the madam‚ who out of despair stood her round. Everyone was isolated with his or her own memories. And it was at that moment‚ as though through a mist‚ a greenish cloud which does not deceive‚ that I saw four of the ten faces turn a pearly grey‚ become attenuated‚ spare‚ translucent‚ then blurred. I even scribbled on the tablecloth some fragments of a poem:
‘Yes‚ I see you marked out beforehand
My brothers on this last morning …’
The following evening was soon enough to find out I’d not been mistaken in my forebodings.
But what happened just now‚ in the presence of Keep-on- Dancin’ and the radio operators‚ was quite different. My sixth sense‚ more edgy than ever before‚ authorizes me – no‚ compels me – to assert there are two prospective dead men among us. Two imminent deaths. Which two? I don’t yet know. It’s almost as if it were up to me to decide. An inexplicable sense of responsibility oppresses me. With all my might I project onto Watsek my will to see him survive this.
Keep-on-Dancin’ went off once darkness had fallen. Before leaving‚ he took me aside.
‘You know that bastard Sacchi? He tried to shop me. Now‚ he’s finished for sure.’ And he made three slashing gestures – two at his ears and one across his throat.
Friday evening
As was only to be expected‚ it was not plain sailing. At five to five everything was in place. At five-o-four they linked up with the relay transmitter flying over Normandy‚ halfway from the English coast. Five nineteen: tranmission completed. Five twenty-three: raid by roaring motorcycle radio-detectors‚ immediately followed by Feldgendarmes‚ and straight after by a truck-load of SS.
The equipment was left behind. Brochard‚ in his shirt- sleeves‚ rolled an empty barrel down to Rue St-Bernard‚ managed to reach the embankment and hide on a barge. He’s safe‚ as well as Watsek: but there’s one dead‚ a guy from the protection group – and two slightly wounded who’ve fallen into the hands of the Jerries. Even if they tell all they know‚ we won’t have anything more to worry about: once again the warning system has worked. One dead. Just one. I know that’s not the full score. I’m relieved about Watsek‚ but can’t help thinking of Keep-on-Dancin’. It’s no good telling myself that whatever happens doesn’t depend on me‚ I can’t shake off this awful anxiety.
This morning Sacchi was waiting for me as arranged. First of all he hit the bottle‚ and demanded his five hundred francs‚ swearing me to silence with regard to what I was going to see and hear.
I thought this district‚ essentially bounded by Boulevard Arago‚ Avenue des Gobelins and Rue Croulebarbe‚ was one that I really knew like the back of my hand. Why did it have to be this unspeakable creature‚ reviled by his fellow men and the very buildings themselves‚ who revealed to me the secret of this happy hunting ground?
Away over there‚ the Gobelins Factory‚ Collège Estienne‚ the metro shunting yards. A little closer to hand‚ the furniture warehouse. And here‚ the streets lined with low buildings‚ with their reassuring names: Rue des Cordelières‚ Rue des Marmousets‚ Passage Moret. The stones are light-coloured‚ the courtyards deep and spacious‚ from which outside staircases of mahogany wood give access to the first floors. Many artisans seem to have inherited – and continue to practise – skills of bygone days: skinners‚ bookbinders‚ illuminators‚ lithographers. The pace is slower here than elsewhere.
The faces of the people express a quiet and industrious patience. Now what have we here? That’s curious: this wall overlaps its neighbouring wall by some fifty centimetres‚ with at most a foot between them. For the locals‚ who are more of a late-to-bed than up-all-night crowd‚ this is a perfect ‘natural’ urinal. A thin man has to edge his way along the n
arrow space‚ which I manage to do without difficulty in the wake of Sacchi‚ to find himself at the end of a long curving passageway‚ unknown even to the kids from round here who would have used it without shame as a buen retiro. Forty‚ maybe fifty metres long‚ running between two blind-deaf-mute walls‚ one of hollow brick‚ the other of unrendered limestone. We veer right: and suddenly there’s an indentation on the horizon‚ revealing a patch of miserly sky‚ above a miniature Venice of the North. I was unaware there was a stretch of the Bièvre‚ in Paris‚ that flowed above ground. It’s cold. The windows over these black waters are closed. With your right arm you have to grab hold of a rope hanging from the wall and haul yourself on to a narrow suspended walkway that comes halfway up your thigh. Having negotiated this feat with difficulty – it’s a standing jump – you edge your way along the wall‚ until you reach a Lyon-style wooden blind: and you’re there. Jump inside‚ on to not very solid ground‚ a floor still softened by a layer of sawdust. You’re in the home of Monsieur Klager‚ right in the heart of a sorcerer’s lair. I recognized him straightaway: it was the bearded man engaged in ‘unholy prayer’ at the Quatre-Sergents on Sunday. He gave me a pleasant unassuming smile‚ but his expression froze when his eyes fell on the Corsican. He spoke to him harshly‚ treated him brusquely‚ unceremoniously. So much the better.
‘Did you bring what I told you?’
Cowed‚ cringing‚ sheepish‚ Sacchi said‚ ‘Yes. Here you are. It wasn’t easy to come by. And it cost me.’
Paris Noir Page 11