Night Sky (81 page)

He went along the passage to the storeroom and, moving the table, dug down until he found the waterproof bag he was looking for. It contained the only cash he had: sixty thousand francs. He put it in his inside pocket. The money would keep him for a year if necessary.

There was another bag lying at the bottom of the hole. He pulled it out and, opening it, looked at the contents thoughtfully. It was an Enfield No 2 revolver which he’d obtained from one of the Meteor line. With it were twelve bullets.

He’d never used the gun – nor
any
gun for that matter. But he knew he could if he had to. Should he take it now? A picture of Kloffer flashed into his mind and, without another thought, he loaded the revolver and thrust it into his pocket with the spare bullets.

He smoothed back the earth and, leaving some money and a note for the old lady, locked up and left.

Next, the car. He drove to the river and parked on the embankment. He waited a moment, thinking hard. How long would it take Kloffer to realise? A day? Two days? Maybe even longer.

Or was the German already suspicious?

He got out of the car, locked the door, removed the cases from the boot and threw the keys in the river.

He carried the cases to the side of the main boulevard and waited. It was soothing, standing anonymously by the road and he didn’t mind having to wait. Finally, after half an hour, an empty taxi came along and he hailed it.

The
vélo
took him across the city to the Gare d’Orleans. He paid it off and, taking his cases, deposited them in the Left Luggage.

He looked at the station clock. Four. He might be lucky. He found a public telephone and, after referring to a slip of paper in his wallet, lifted the receiver and asked for a number.

His heart was hammering against his chest. He gripped the receiver more tightly and held his breath.

Someone answered. It was the person he wanted. He spoke haltingly. A time and place were agreed.

Vasson replaced the receiver. His hand was damp with sweat.

He had a quick pastis at the station bar, then walked to the Metro and took a train east. After changing trains he got off at the Place Gambetta and started walking through some of the unfashionable areas of the
vingtieme.

He looked at several rooming houses before finding the right one. It was the right one because the
concierge
was drunk and didn’t bother to take him up to the room herself. She didn’t even look into his face.

At one point he thought he was wrong and she was going to be nosy after all. When he came downstairs again she asked him what he did for a living. He replied ‘Doorman’ and she was satisfied. ‘Just don’t want anyone who’s going to be trouble, that’s all!’

‘No trouble.’

He paid for the room and left quickly.

Four hours until the meeting.

He went and had a meal. He ate very little but drank a great deal. He wanted to be very drunk by ten. He drank a bottle of wine and several glasses of rough cognac. The owner of the restaurant looked disapproving.

At half past nine he paid for the meal and went in search of a
vélo-taxi.
The driver dropped him near the Porte de Pantin and then Vasson walked.

The cool night air cleared his head a little. He swore quietly. He should have had more to drink. He wasn’t drunk enough by far. ‘Christ!’ he said out loud.

He followed the directions he’d been given. Past the cattle market, down to the canal, turn left and the warehouse was a few yards along on the left.

The area round the canal was very dark but there was a moon and eventually he found the warehouse. He didn’t know whether he was glad.

The other person hadn’t arrived.

He paced back and forth. He felt very light-headed.

For a while he tried to think seriously, about what he might have forgotten and what he might have left undone. Was there anything that would lead Kloffer to him?

He shook his head. No. No. He’d forgotten nothing. Kloffer would never find him, not in a million years.

Kloffer thought he was being so clever. Kloffer had been going to feed him to the wolves.

But not any more.

Not after tonight and
this
. The thought of what was to come made Vasson’s stomach turn and he closed his eyes.

There was a sound. Vasson jumped. A man stepped forward from the shadows. He was large, his head almost square on his massive shoulders. In the faint moonlight Vasson could just make out his features. His face was puffy and his nose broken: he looked like a former boxer, which was exactly what he was.

‘
Salut
.’

Vasson stared, mesmerised. ‘
Salut
.’

‘You’re sure about this?’

Vasson gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Of course!’

‘What exactly do you want?’

‘What are you offering?’ It was such a ludicrous question that Vasson giggled softly. It was nerves, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘How different do you want to look?’

Vasson made an expansive gesture. ‘Completely.’

‘The money?’

‘Here.’ Vasson reached in his pocket and threw some notes on the ground. ‘One thing—!’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t want to feel any pain. Please.’

‘All right.’ The man stepped forward. The fear leapt into Vasson’s throat and he felt his knees begin to buckle.

He made a conscious effort to close his eyes, thinking: Dear God, please let it be quick and not too painful.

He needn’t have worried on either count.

A fraction of a second later the boxer’s right fist smashed into his face.

After the first shock Vasson never felt a thing.

The big man put everything into his first blow. Backed by sixteen stone of still solid muscle, his fist sank deep into Vasson’s left cheek and shattered the bone. The force of the blow sent Vasson flying backwards against the side of the building. As he fell to the ground his head hit a stone and he lost consciousness.

The big man finished the job in his own time. He sat Vasson up and smashed the nose a couple of times, just to make sure it was broken properly. He smashed the right cheekbone to match the left, which had been flattened. Then he paused for a few minutes while he examined the results. He decided a smaller jaw might improve things, so he broke that too.

The eyes were difficult, of course. Not much one could do to make them look different. But he did his best, cutting the eyebrows deeply in a couple of places and, hopefully, thickening up the bones underneath.

Finally he was satisfied that he couldn’t do any more without risking internal bleeding. He left Vasson lying on his side so that he shouldn’t inhale his own blood, and walked away.

When he arrived at the nightclub where he worked he phoned a priest he knew and, disguising his voice, told him there was a seriously injured man down by the canal who couldn’t, for political reasons, go to a hospital.

It wasn’t kindness. He just didn’t want the customer to bleed to death by mistake. He’d never killed anyone in his life.

He promptly forgot all about the incident. Which was a mistake.

Vasson never forgave him for calling the priest.

Three weeks later the big man was found dead in an alley, a neat nine-millimetre bullet hole in his back.

S
T
M
ARY’S POST
office was crowded, the people waiting patiently in a long line. The woman behind the counter seemed slower than ever. Finally it was Julie’s turn. She stepped forward. ‘Good afternoon. Do you have anything for me?’

‘Name?’

The woman always asked her that. You’d think she’d know by now. Julie suppressed her irritation and said calmly, ‘Lescaux. Madame Lescaux.’ It was the way the major from MI9 had addressed her in the first letter.

The woman searched the rack but Julie knew, even before she turned round, that there would be no letter.

‘Sorry, Mrs er – Lascoo.’

Julie managed a slight smile. ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed past the waiting people out into the main street, pausing to take a deep breath of the fresh May air. She crossed to the opposite pavement and began to walk, her eyes down, her face grim.

Every day it was the same: no letter. More doubts. Less hope. Every day it was more of an effort to be cheerful, to cope with life.

Some days it didn’t seem worth bothering at all.

A voice said, ‘Afternoon!’

Julie started slightly and looked up. It was a boatman, one of the men who ran ferries between St Mary’s and the outlying islands.

She nodded and forced a smile.

The man shuffled his feet and asked kindly, ‘Boy all right, is ’e then?’

‘Yes, thank you. He’s fine.’

‘Amazin’ ’ow they get over these things, these young people.’

‘Yes.’ Except, Julie thought, that he’ll never get over it. He had seemed all right after the sinking, even when she’d told him about David. But later, when the letter had arrived, and she’d told him about Jean and the others, then he’d changed. He’d become quieter, more troubled. Not the Peter she used to know.

‘You be stayin’ with us awhile?’

She hesitated. ‘Er – Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, you always be welcome ’ere.’ The boatman looked down, embarrassed.

‘Thank you.’

‘Bye for now, then!’

‘Bye.’ Julie smiled. ‘And thank you again.’

She turned away with relief. They had all been very kind, the islanders, and they must think her ungrateful, the way she kept to herself and avoided their company. But she hated making conversation, particularly about the war. She just wanted to be left alone.

She walked briskly up the hill until she came to a place high above Hugh Town. She sat on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, and looked out at the view. She often came here in the afternoons when she was waiting for Peter to come out of school. The scene was wonderful: you could see St Mary’s Pool below and, away to the west, the glittering rock-strewn wastes that led to the open sea. To the north lay the Mediterranean-blue waters of St Mary’s Road and the vivid green, yellow-fringed island of Tresco and, beyond, the starker, less brilliant Bryher.

There were rumours about these northern islands. It was said that fishing boats painted in French colours sometimes appeared from the open sea, crossed the sound, and disappeared between Tresco and Bryher towards New Grimsby Harbour. The craft were known locally as ‘the mystery boats’.

Richard. He’d hinted at secret operations here in the islands. It would be just the sort of thing he’d have got involved with.

She thought of him all the time.

She thought of where he might be – in some hidden, secret place, perhaps. Or in a POW camp – it
was
just possible – or, when she was really depressed, she imagined him being cold and dead.

She thought of Jean, too. And Maurice. And the others.

She tried not to imagine what they had been through before they died.

That –
everything
– was a terrible torment.

But the thing that really hurt, now, was the suspicion that they – and she – had been forgotten.

Why, otherwise, had she had no more news?

She took the letter from her bag and looked at it for the hundredth time. She hated the very sight of it now: so efficient, so emotionless, so British: Dear Madame Lescaux … Thank you for letting me talk to you for so long … most useful … help prevent the loss of others … However I regret to inform you that news has now reached me from the other side … Your uncle, Jean Cornou, died in Rennes prison during the first week of April. So too did the agent known as Maurice, and at least ten others. Of your aunt I fear we have no news at present. If I receive any I will, of course, let you know … Deep regrets … You also enquired about Lieutenant Ashley. He has been posted missing. There is no record of him having entered a POW camp, nor of him being held by the German Security Forces. Indeed, there is no information about him at all. Enquiries have been instigated through the normal channels … Again, so sorry … If there is any news I will, of course, let you know. Some good news, however. The special parcel you delivered to me has been passed straight to the appropriate department and is receiving their immediate attention.

It was signed A. E. Smithe-Webb (Major).

She folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. She got up and paced along a narrow path that led to an old fort on the hill.

He’d said he would let her know … That had been four weeks ago. Since then, nothing. It was driving her mad. She couldn’t believe there was no news at all.
Something
must have filtered through from the other side. If not about Tante Marie, then about the survivors of the
réseau.

And about the traitor.

It must have been a traitor. It
had
to be.

And she knew who that traitor was.

There was no proof, of course, but she
knew.

The cool, calm Major hadn’t believed her. He had listened patiently but he had been doubting, politely but firmly
doubting.
He had pointed out that ‘Roger’ – whose real name was Paul Fougères – had been vouched for and checked. Maurice had even had him personally identified. Perhaps, the major had suggested quietly, it had been someone else?