Night Sky (22 page)

‘I mean that you could get any rat to do a mediocre job on those terms. But me? If I am paid a decent rate for the job, I will do it well. And
quickly
. If not …’ he shrugged. ‘If not, well, it would take you a lot longer to find your man, wouldn’t it? Bust me if you wish – it really makes no difference.’ Vasson stared him straight in the eye and thought how it would, of course, make a hell of a difference: it would put him right back in shit street without any money.

Kloffer put his fingertips together and touched his lips thoughtfully. ‘How much would you require, Monsieur Biolet?’

‘Fifty thousand francs.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘How much are you offering?’

‘Ten.’

They settled on ten. Vasson didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want Kloffer to lose too much face, otherwise he’d bear a grudge. Anyway, Vasson thought, I’m bloody lucky to get anything at all. It would be silly to push his luck.

He could always ask for more next time.

He knew there
would
be a next time. The job was right up his street. He liked everything about it except the idea of getting caught:
that
terrified him. But the rest? Yes, very nice.

He liked the idea of a new identity, a new personality which, after the job, would disappear without trace. It was neat. A clean
out
, with no come-back. It was a challenge, too, something to get to grips with. It would give him a chance to show what he could do. He liked that.

And then there was the money, the lovely money.

The next day Vasson went back to the Avenue Foch, to an anonymous office on the ground floor, and collected a complete set of cards covering identity, student status, food ration, tobacco ration and military service, all of them in the name of Legrand. When Vasson saw the cards he went white with anger: the cards were hard, clean and unscuffed. They looked brand new, which was exactly what they were. He wondered if Kloffer was trying to nail him, or just being stupid. It was probably stupidity fuelled by the German passion for efficiency.

Another thing: there was no student enrolment card, which was necessary for the Sorbonne. Furthermore the card would be inspected frequently, so it would have to be genuine.

He went up to the third floor and told Kloffer what he wanted.

Kloffer was not pleased. ‘What you ask is very difficult as well as unnecessary.’

‘It’s essential.’

Kloffer nodded curtly. It was agreed.

Vasson returned to the ground floor and settled down to wait because he didn’t want to be seen going in and out of the building too often. Eventually, late in the afternoon, a sergeant called him into the ground floor office and passed him a new set of cards. The name was now Philippe Roche, and the student enrolment card was obviously genuine. Vasson guessed the other cards were genuine too: they were soiled and scuffed. He was uneasy again: suppose this Philippe Roche had been at the Sorbonne? Suppose Vasson bumped into someone who knew him?

Vasson looked up. ‘Is this person known at the university?’

The sergeant smiled. ‘No.’

‘Did he ever go there?’

The sergeant eyed him lazily. ‘No he never went there. He never started his course.’

Vasson nodded. He didn’t want to know any more.

On the way back to Montmartre Vasson bought some slacks, two casual shirts, two sweaters and a donkey jacket from a cheap shop. Back in his room he crumpled and dirtied them a little, then changed, leaving all his own clothes behind. He packed a small bag containing his washing things and some pyjamas, then left. He went straight to the Left Bank and wandered around the bookstalls beside the river until he found some old textbooks on French history. At a stationery shop nearby he bought a couple of blank pads, some pencils and a pen. Finally he wandered into Montparnasse and found a room to rent.

Then he was ready.

He would start with the girl, the girl who was meant to be a special friend of Cohen’s.

But first he spent a morning just walking round the Sorbonne and the Left Bank cafés, watching the students, listening to their conversation. It was fairly easy to gauge their mood: most of them were angry, either about the Armistice Parade arrests, or the disappearance of university staff, or the curbs on student activities. Some even spoke of countermeasures, of demonstrations and open defiance.

They were incredibly naive, Vasson decided. They talked openly, in public places, without realising the need for discretion. Beyond lowering their voices they had no sense of secrecy, no idea that informers might be listening. Vasson thought: This could be easier than I imagined.

In the afternoon he went to 56, Rue Brezin, the last known address of the girlfriend, Marie Boulevont. Now that Kloffer’s watchers had gone, she might have returned. But she hadn’t. The
concierge
hadn’t seen her for weeks and didn’t know where she’d moved to. Vasson wasn’t surprised. The girl would have been stupid to return.

He would have to start from scratch then. In a strange way he didn’t mind. It was more of a challenge that way.

The next morning he examined the mass of notice boards in the history department at the Sorbonne and decided to go to the lecture on Enlightened Despotism in the Eighteenth Century. It was well attended and he had a job getting in. The lecture was long and tedious. Vasson spent his time looking at the hundreds of faces around the hall. They all looked the same: like communists. Finally, when the lecture was over and everyone was crowding through the exits, he chose a group of five students who were talking heatedly. They looked as if they might be political types. He followed them to a café on the Boulevard St Germain.

He sat at an adjoining table and listened. They were still talking heatedly – about lectures clashing because of the appalling new timetable. Vasson waited impatiently. This group was a dead end, he could sense it. Damn. He would have to think of a surer way.

Then Vasson realised that their voices had dropped and only the occasional word was reaching him. One of them was saying how terrible something was and the others were agreeing. Vasson strained to hear.

‘… he was arrested … that is certain …’

The voices dropped again and Vasson lost the reply. Then a third voice said, ‘But it’s terrible to sit and do nothing!’

How right you are, Vasson thought.

Impulsively he got up and stepped over to the students’ table. ‘I …’ He hovered nervously. ‘I saw you in the lecture … I’m a new student. May I …?’ He indicated his chair and looked suitably uncertain.

One of the students nodded. Vasson stuttered ‘Thanks’ and drew up his chair. They made room for him and he sat down.

They stared at him expectantly. Vasson laughed nervously and said, ‘It’s hard to find your way around!’

They nodded and one, a boy with thick pebble glasses, said, ‘We’ve been here a year and we still can’t find our way round!’

Vasson smiled anxiously and said, ‘Is there—’ he searched for the words ‘– is there a lot of trouble in the university? I mean, what should one
know
about?’ He peered round the table earnestly.

‘Oh, just don’t get involved in – well, anything political.’

Vasson nodded violently.

There was a silence. Vasson looked pensive. ‘And … have there been many arrests?’

The boy with the pebble glasses sighed. ‘Yes, students and staff. Efforts are made to discover what has happened to them but …’ He trailed off and shrugged.

Vasson looked grave. ‘I was assigned to Professor Cohen, but now I am to be in another group. Did he—? Was he … taken?’

Pebble-glasses shrugged. ‘Nobody’s sure what happened to him. It’s thought he’s in hiding, but I wouldn’t know.’

Vasson stared at him and realised with disappointment that he was telling the truth.

It was worth one more shot. He said, ‘Also I was given the name of a friend of his, by a friend of my family. But – well, it’s very upsetting, because she too has been taken or—’ He shook his head bitterly ‘– or disappeared. And I don’t know what to tell this friend. It’s all very tragic, very tragic.’

‘Who’s Cohen’s friend?’

‘Ah!’ Vasson made a show of looking through his pockets as if for a scrap of paper which he couldn’t find. By an effort of concentration he suddenly remembered the name. ‘Er. Oh yes, Yes, it was Marie, Marie Boulevont. That was it!’

One asked, ‘Marie Boulevont?’

Vasson stared vacantly into the distance and nodded slowly.

They were shaking their heads. Vasson stood up, still saying, ‘Very sad, very sad.’ He added brightly, ‘Well, thank you for telling me the form. See you again soon!’

Damn.

He would have to find a better way. There was only one problem: he couldn’t think of one.

Damn.

The next day he looked more carefully round the lecture room and chose a serious-looking student of about twenty-seven. He looked much more the type: thoughtful and politically committed. But the student went back to his rooms and stayed there all day. It was another dead end.

The following day was Friday. There was no major history lecture that day but a series of smaller seminars on specialist subjects. Vasson thought: What would a communist be studying? He decided on European History from 1860 to 1930, the period covering the Russian Revolution.

There were only thirty students in the seminar. Vasson looked casually round the room a couple of times, taking a careful look at each student. One, he noticed, was staring at him. He was about twenty-two, with short curly hair and glasses. His stare was intense and hard; he was summing Vasson up. When their eyes met the student looked away and a few seconds later Vasson saw him exchange an almost imperceptible glance with another student across the room. Vasson felt a quickening of the pulse. This one was clever and sophisticated enough, that was certain.

The seminar was about the decline of nineteenth-century liberalism and was interminable. At one point the professor asked each student for a definition of liberalism. Vasson felt a moment of panic. He hadn’t reckoned on that. But in the end it was easy, he just gave a garbled version of two earlier replies, defining it as freedom of the individual from excessive central control. As he spoke he was aware that Curly Head was watching him. When it came to Curly Head’s turn his reply was clipped and informed; he was obviously a thinker. There was also a hint of intolerance and dogma in his speech. He even dared to differ with the professor on a point concerning ‘old’ liberalism versus ‘new’.

Vasson stiffened: this one was a political animal.

At the end of the seminar, when they all got up, Vasson stood aside to let Curly Head pass. The student went by with his head averted. But Vasson thought: He knows I’m here, he knows it very well.

Vasson let Curly Head disappear down the corridor, then asked a student next to him, ‘Who was the one going on about new liberalism?’

The student was in a hurry. He was irritated at being detained but answered, ‘Eh? Oh, Laval.’

Vasson picked up Laval-Curly Head as he left the building. It was four, almost dusk. The student was heading south down the broad pavement of the Boulevard St Michel. He was walking fast, his thick woollen coat flapping out behind him, his head thrust forward. Vasson followed at a safe distance, his pace settling into a steady rhythm.

Quite suddenly Curly Head glanced over his shoulder and looked straight at Vasson. Vasson thought: He’s on to me.

Curly Head hurried on. Vasson slowed his pace, walking more casually, and made a point of keeping his head down and his eyes on the pavement. At the next corner he turned down a side street, away from the main boulevard. When he guessed he was out of Curly Head’s view he crossed the street and doubled back at a run. At the corner he stopped and looked carefully round until he could see up the length of the boulevard. Curly Head was some way away, still walking fast. Vasson pulled his coat up round his ears and followed. After a few moments Curly Head looked back again, but Vasson stepped quickly behind another pedestrian. This time he was not seen.

Curly Head walked across the south side of the Jardin du Luxembourg and into the streets of Montparnasse. He looked behind him only once more, just before he turned into a small rooming house. Again, Vasson was certain he hadn’t been seen. He took up station near the house, but on the same side of the street so that he couldn’t be spotted from the windows. It was bitterly cold and after an hour it began to rain.

Vasson sheltered in a doorway and thought of going back to his own room. But he decided not: the wait wouldn’t do him any harm.

By seven the feeling had gone in his feet. All he could think about was drinking hot soup and red wine in a warm bistro.

At almost eight Curly Head came out. It was so dark Vasson almost missed him. Curly Head seemed more relaxed than before and strolled along quite casually. He didn’t go far; just to a café in the next street. Vasson peered through the window. The black-out curtains were too effective and he couldn’t see anything. He went to the door. Here there was a slight crack between the frame and the black cardboard stuck to the inside of the window. Vasson put his eye to the crack and saw that Curly Head had joined a group of people at a table. Vasson thought he recognised two of them; one was the student who had exchanged the glance with Curly Head at the seminar; and the other, a girl, had been there too, sitting at the back.

Vasson walked away and looked for another café where he might get something to eat and warm up. But there was nowhere. In disgust he settled down to wait in a doorway opposite Curly Head’s café.

It was a quarter to ten and very cold when they drifted out. It was too risky to follow Curly Head again and anyway there wasn’t much point: he was probably going straight back to his rooms. Vasson decided on the girl instead; she might be an easier nut to crack. She didn’t live far away. She went straight to a cheap rooming house, rather like the one Curly Head lived in. Nothing was likely to happen that night, Vasson decided. He noted the address and went back to his room to sleep.

He returned to the girl’s place early, at seven. The girl wouldn’t have gone out yet. He was right: she didn’t emerge until midday. He followed her to the Boulevard St Germain. She went shopping. Vasson began to wonder if this was going to be another dead end, but then she went into a glass-enclosed pavement café and sat at a table on her own. She started to read a book, looking up only to ask for a coffee. She did not look into the street. She obviously wasn’t expecting anyone.