Night Sky (90 page)

She said it over to herself. ‘And what was he? Where did he come from?’

‘He was the illegitimate son of a whore – a junkie whore at that. The authorities found him starving in a cupboard when he was about eight and handed him over to the Jesuits. The priests did what they could. They educated him well – Vasson was always a clever sod.’ He paused. ‘Later he became a small-time pimp with ambitions. He wanted to make the big time. He had expensive tastes …’

‘And?’

‘He disappeared in ’35. No-one’s seen him since. Not that we haven’t been looking.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘We would love to find the cheap bastard again, believe me!’

She was gripped with excitement. ‘But now we’ve got him, haven’t we!’

He regarded her patiently. ‘Got him? Listen, people have been looking for him for a long time … The police –
they
would like to find him. Me –
I’ve
had the word out for a long time now.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Oh, once someone said they’d seen him in Toulon. But we never found him there. Another time someone saw him in Paris …’ He shook his head. ‘But never a real lead.’

He held up the photograph. ‘Then I got hold of this. In about ’40, it was. One of my men flogged it round. Thought I’d got the swine then. He’d been seen all right, in Paris, round the
dix-huitième
. Working in clubs, that kind of thing. Thought I’d got him. I put the word out. Then …’

‘What happened?’

‘He disappeared again. Vanished. Never a trace.’

Julie was crestfallen. ‘Oh … I see.’

‘We’ve tried, believe me. But he’s a cunning little sod. He’s kept out of sight.’ He shrugged. ‘He’ll still be in a big city somewhere – Paris probably. With his liking for the big time he wouldn’t be caught dead in a provincial town. But apart from that …’

Julie sighed heavily. ‘Well … at least I know who he is, that Vasson was Fougères. That should be enough to free my cousin.’

‘You don’t seem very happy …’

She frowned and looked at her hands. ‘I can’t bear to think of Vasson not being caught.’

‘Well …’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps the
flics
will pick him up straight away …’

‘Yes, but … suppose they don’t?

There was a silence.

‘Where will you go now?’ he asked.

She considered. ‘To Rennes first to free my cousin, then – Paris.’ She seemed to make up her mind. ‘Yes. Paris.’

He watched her for a moment. ‘And what are you going to do there?’

‘See if I can help the police, identify him if necessary …

‘You’re going to look for him.’

She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do herself. Eventually she murmured, ‘If I have to.’

The
Patron
shook his head. ‘He’s a dangerous man – a lunatic!’ He sighed and leant forward. ‘Please, be very, very careful! Look – if you’re really determined, then you’ll need help. What about money?’

‘I’ve got enough for the moment.’

‘Well, if you need more, just phone this number in Paris.’ He wrote it on one of the restaurant’s cards. ‘I’ll tell them you’re coming. They’ll be able to help in other ways, too.’

‘Other ways?’

‘Manpower … That kind of thing.’

Julie nodded uncertainly.

The
Patron
tapped her hand. ‘Look, if you
should
happen to find him, keep clear, won’t you? And let my people know straight away – they’ll be
neater
than the
flics
, you understand. Whatever you do, don’t approach him yourself, will you? He’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Just let my people know – they’ll deal with him, eh?’

She had no doubt they would. She said, ‘Thanks for your help. May I take the photograph?’

‘I’d like it back when you’ve finished with it.’ She nodded and put it carefully in her bag along with the telephone number. He got up and helped her to her feet. As they walked to the door she asked, ‘What did he do? When he was in Marseilles, I mean?’

The
Patron
opened the door and the sounds of the street flooded in. He said quietly, ‘He bought me three years inside, that’s what he did.’

‘Oh!’ She didn’t know what to say.

He looked thoughtfully out into the street. ‘And …’ His face clouded. ‘… he killed a woman.’ There was a pause. ‘My woman.’

Julie stared, aghast. Eventually she stammered, ‘I’m sorry …’

He shrugged and said briskly, ‘Now remember, if you
do
come across the bastard, whatever you do don’t go anywhere near him. Just call that number and mention my name.’

She stretched out her hand. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Jojo. Just say Jojo sent you.’

There was a midnight train to Paris. Julie packed her case, paid the outstanding money on the room, and, with plenty of time to spare, went to the bar to say goodbye to Henri.

He welcomed her effusively and pressed a drink on her. It was a cognac. She rather liked it. She liked it even more a few moments later when the alcohol sent a warm glow round her body. Suddenly she felt tremendously optimistic.

She knew almost everything about him, his name and his background. And most important of all, she had the photograph. What a bit of luck that was! Somebody somewhere must have seen him. Somebody somewhere would know where he was. The photograph
must
find him in the end. It would just be a question of looking hard enough and for long enough in the right places …

The telephone at the end of the bar rang. Henri answered it, put it down on the counter and came over to her. He indicated with his head. ‘Telephone.’

‘For me?’

He nodded. She went to the end of the bar and lifted the receiver cautiously. ‘Yes?’

‘Madame? It’s me.’ She recognised the
Patron
’s voice. ‘I remembered something …’

Julie gripped the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s not very much, but it might help?’

‘Yes?’

‘You remember I said he had expensive tastes? Well, he always longed for a fancy car. He was quite mad about it. Always had pictures of it in his room, even in his wallet … A Delage. He always wanted a Delage. Nothing else would do. You know the car I mean?’

Julie tried to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh yes, I know.’

‘Well, it’s not much … But he really was mad about that car.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A Delage. Nothing else would do.’

‘Thank you again.’

‘Good luck.’

Julie put the receiver down.

A
car
… A Delage …

She shook her head. A long time had passed. Vasson had probably forgotten he had ever wanted a Delage – dreams didn’t last. At sixteen she herself had wanted – what was it? – a fur coat. She never thought of having one now.

No, the car wouldn’t lead her to Vasson.

But the photograph would. That was the key.

‘A
RE THERE ANY
further charges against Le Goff?’ The examining magistrate peered at the commissaire.

‘Not at the present time.’

‘I order, then, that Le Goff be released forthwith.’ The magistrate stood up and walked out. Julie got to her feet and stared blankly at the high ornate chair where the magistrate had been sitting. She should feel triumphant, or at least relieved. Instead she felt dissatisfied, almost cheated.

The commissaire was standing in the aisle, waiting for her. She made her way between the seats towards him. They walked towards the courtroom door.

‘You were very certain in your identification of Vasson,’ the commissaire said.

‘Oh yes.’

‘I wish all witnesses were as definite.’

They came out onto the front steps of the law-courts.

‘You are a very determined woman, madame.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Julie demanded.

‘Nothing – please don’t misunderstand me!’

They began to walk down the steps. Julie asked. ‘When will Michel be released?’

‘Within the hour. One of my men can take you over there, if you like.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.’

The commissaire looked surprised. ‘You’re not going to see him?’

She shook her head briefly.

‘I thought—’

‘You thought wrong, monsieur. I told you that before.’

‘Ah. I stand corrected.’

They reached the pavement and paused. The commissaire said, ‘We believe Vasson was involved in other crimes. We think he may have betrayed the Meteor line.’

Julie looked at him sharply. ‘He was Lebrun?’

‘Possibly. But it is difficult to find anyone who might identify him. They all died or got sent to Germany.’ He added, ‘Where can I contact you, madame – in case we have news?’

‘England. I gave my address to your inspector. I’m going to Paris today, then on from there.’ It was almost the truth. ‘But – will there be any news?’

‘In due course. His description will be everywhere by now. And his photograph. We’ll find him.’

‘But it’s been two weeks.’

The commissaire threw up his hands. ‘Two weeks. That’s nothing, madame! He could be anywhere, hiding under an assumed name … It’ll take time.’

‘Yes.’

‘We can only do our best.’

She stared thoughtfully at the sky, then said abruptly. ‘Goodbye then, monsieur.’

‘Goodbye, madame.’

The commissaire watched her slim figure walking briskly away and thought how deceptive appearances were. She may have soft, gentle looks, but she was like steel inside.

Julie sat in the train and read the letter again. It was from Peter, in his best rounded handwriting. He was very well, he said. He went to tea every day with John (his best friend) and on Saturday they had been fishing all day (this last part was underlined). He was glad about Michel. He sent her lots of love.

She put the letter away. He sounded happy enough. Julie had been away almost a month now. It was a long time to leave a child. But he was eight; quite old enough to look after himself.

She got out her purse and counted the money in it. Five hundred francs or thereabouts. A hundred of her own and four hundred which she had taken out of Michel’s money. She had put the remainder of Michel’s money in an envelope with a letter and left it with his
concierge
. In the letter she had explained how the money had been spent, wished him well and excused herself for not seeing him on his release.

She hadn’t seen him, either, during the two weeks the police had been unravelling the Fougères identity. Instead she had gone to Tregasnou and arranged for the sale of the farm to provide money for the proper care of Tante Marie.

It was the end of her life at Tregasnou. Perhaps of her life in Brittany, too. Her debt to Michel had been repaid; she didn’t want the embarrassment of his gratitude.

Five hundred francs …

She already had her train ticket back to England, so the cash should last three weeks. No, perhaps that was optimistic for Paris. Perhaps only two.

Two weeks, then. She would give herself two weeks.

She became a good walker. For eight days she walked all day – and a lot of the night, too. She tried a hundred places – cafés, restaurants, shops – in half a dozen different areas.

No-one had ever seen Vasson.

After the cafés, restaurants and shops she drew in her breath and tried the clubs. It took a lot to walk into a club, a woman alone, and ask for information. Sometimes she had to wait, standing conspicuously in a corner, while someone was fetched. Then people stared, wondering what a woman like her was doing in such a place. Even though she wore the darker and plainer of her two staid suits, she had to learn how to look unobtrusive and to turn down all kinds of propositions, some blunt and exotic. Once, a man actually stuffed a thousand francs into the neck of her blouse and started pulling her towards the door.

She hated everything about the clubs, the darkness, the stink of tobacco, the leering men. To keep sane, she forced herself to see the light side of it. It was there – if you looked hard enough.

But she didn’t smile for long – the time was slipping away. Suddenly twelve days had passed, and no Vasson. No-one had seen him. No-one remembered him. It was as if he’d never been to Paris …

The clubs didn’t open until nine-thirty or ten, so she spent the earlier part of the evening asking in restaurants and cafés. Then, once the doors of the clubs opened, she went in quickly, anxious to be away before too many customers arrived.

She completed the narrow streets of Montmartre, then started on the area around Pigalle.

One evening she managed three clubs before eleven. She came to a fourth club and, without bothering to examine the name on the neon light, went straight down the red-lit stairs. It was better going straight in – there wasn’t so much time to hesitate.

There was no-one at the desk so, without slowing down, she walked across to the bar where a barman was polishing glasses. She pulled out the photograph, which she had masked with black paper to hide the other figures, and thrust it across the counter.

The barman looked at it then asked, ‘So who’s looking for him?’ That was what they always asked. That, or, ‘In trouble, is he?’

She replied, ‘I’m looking for him. It’s a personal matter.’ It was the answer she always gave. It usually brought a knowing smile and a comment about all poor sods being on the run from some woman or another, and she wasn’t going to give him a hard time when she found him, was she?